Part 1 (2/2)

I noticed this one older couple, clearly nonpro and therefore fully marginalized, completely ill at ease in their homemade Raggedy Ann and Andy drag. Hopelessly adrift on this surging sea of ego, they had eddied to a corner of the living room and stood isolated in their own private backwater. I had it in mind to join them there, pitching myself as a socially awkward inventor of medical devices-in search of investors, of course-as out of place as they in this clove-cigarettes-and-appletinis crowd. First, though, a quick spin to the bar to collect some sparkling water, for we socially awkward inventor types are notoriously teetotal.

As I waited at the bar, the woman beside me said, ”Couldn't find a costume?” I looked left and absorbed at a glance the parts of the whole: Nordic nose, slightly seventies cinnamon s.h.a.g, big silver hoop earrings, bas relief collarbones, and the rounded curve of breast beneath a creamy satin vest that missed exactly matching her teal blue eyes by about 5 percent of spectrum tilt toward true green.

”You either, it seems.”

”No,” she said, looking herself down and up. ”I misunderstood. I thought it was come as you are.”

”On Halloween?”

”Like I said, I misunderstood. What are you drinking?”

A good grifter adapts quickly to changing circ.u.mstances, so ... good-bye, socially awkward inventor, h.e.l.lo, bourbon connoisseur.

”Fighting c.o.c.k,” I said, fully expecting a nervous, entendre-engendered laugh.

Instead I got a haughty, ”Here? You're lucky if they pour Four Roses.”

”Four Roses, then,” I said with a shrug. ”You?”

”GMDQ,” she said.

”Not familiar with that libation,” I said.

”Libation.” She snorted a laugh. ”Like, 'Let's all get libated tonight?'”

”I'm not sure libated libated is a word.” is a word.”

”Oh, it's a word,” she said. ”Not that you care.”

”What's that supposed to mean?”

”Nothing,” she said. ”You just don't strike me as a slave to orthodoxy.”

”I admit I've never been accused of that,” I said. ”And GMDQ?”

”Get Me Drunk Quick. Two parts vodka, one part att.i.tude.”

”Might want to cut back on the att.i.tude,” I said. ”I think you've had a little too much already.”

This also created a hole where a laugh should have been. Nevertheless, she extended her hand, offered her name-”Allie Quinn”-and waited for me to offer mine back. This was not as simple a matter as you might think, for I had many to choose from, and your name, let's face it, defines you. Kent Winston makes you a bowling buddy; Raleigh Newport is an investment counselor. Who did I want to be?

It was Halloween. I chose to be me. ”Radar Hoverlander,” I said.

”Radar?” she asked. ”Like that guy in M*A*S*H M*A*S*H?”

”No, but I get that a lot.”

By now the bartender was waiting to serve us. Allie pointed to two bottles and said, ”That and that.” We got our drinks and moved away from the bar. ”Now,” she said, ”what's up with the mufti?”

”I a.s.sume you mean the word in the sense of civilian clothing, not interpreter of Muslim law.”

”Now you're just showing off,” she said. I shrugged. ”So. The costume?”

”I'm a party crasher.”

She gave me a long, blank look before saying, ”Oh, I get it.”

You ever get that feeling like you just farted in church?

With four simple words-”Oh, I get it”-Allie ruled my noncostume not charming and not conceptual but merely self-conscious and lame. This would have bothered me were it not for the known true truth that women seduce men precisely by making them feel self-conscious and lame. It's the first move of an elegant and time-tested three-act play.

Act one: Steal status. Like it or not, in the world of women and men, men hold the high ground. True, women man the s.e.x valve and can shut it off at will, but as long as man has hand, this problem is not irresolvable. Meantime, whether in negotiation, sales, or seduction, it's difficult to win uphill battles against status, so job one is to level the playing field. Women can do this to a man just by judging. Mock his haircut. Laugh at his ignorance. Look down your nose at his nose. Dis his supposedly clever costume concept.

Belittle a man and he will be little. This is a known true truth.

Once he's weak and vulnerable, it's time for act two: Initiate intimacy. To make a man covet your opinion (and therefore covet you), you need to create a bond, and the best way to do this is to touch. Brush a hand along a shoulder. Stand too close. Push a random strand of hair out of his eyes. Pluck lint, even. Your tender touch renders him like a dog in submission position.

Now comes the third act in this little pa.s.sion play: Extend validation.

Validation (and this is an absolutely historically verified known true truth) is a mighty aphrodisiac. Let a man feel good about himself, and he will adore you out of grat.i.tude. Tell me I'm wrong, guys. Tell me you haven't ever thought, ”I like her because she likes me.” You can't help it. It's human nature.

This is why hospitalized soldiers fall in love with their nurses, and not just in movies but in real life. First they experience this steep status drop from warrior warrior to to patient patient, and they're forced to surrender control, which they hate. Next, it's meet the new boss-this nurse who initiates intimacy in all sorts of sponge-bath and bedpanny ways. Finally, the intravenous validation drip: You're a good man, soldier, and a good patient; you're going to be okay You're a good man, soldier, and a good patient; you're going to be okay.

So there you have it. Steal status with a mock or a smugly held opinion. Slice through defenses with the stiletto of intimacy. Then make 'im feel good. After that, you can write your own ticket.

So when Allie absently reached behind my neck to flip down the label on my s.h.i.+rt, I had to believe she was on script.

And when she suddenly started liking my jokes, I knew I was being played.

* Or even ever. The day I'm sniffing through panty drawers for loose change is the day my big toe starts itching for the trigger.

dilated in.

W hen you lie for a living like I do, you become pretty sensitive to the lies of others. This isn't telepathy, telemetry, or tele-anything else. It's just looking for the bedrock rationale. It didn't take a particularly large leap of insight for me to realize that by plan and design, Allie had laid siege to my company. I couldn't help wondering why. You might think she just liked the cut of my jib, but I've seen my jib and I'm here to tell you it's not cut that cute. hen you lie for a living like I do, you become pretty sensitive to the lies of others. This isn't telepathy, telemetry, or tele-anything else. It's just looking for the bedrock rationale. It didn't take a particularly large leap of insight for me to realize that by plan and design, Allie had laid siege to my company. I couldn't help wondering why. You might think she just liked the cut of my jib, but I've seen my jib and I'm here to tell you it's not cut that cute.

So I decided to do a drunk check, because drunks will make choices that only make sense by way of drunk logic. This is useful to men, who often have no card of seduction to play, save a woman's impaired judgment. What you do is, you hold up your hand, fingers spread, really close to her face, and ask how many hands you're holding up. If she says one, she's sober. If she says five, she's drunk. If she says, ”Five ... wait ... one,” and then falls out laughing, the pump is, shall we say, primed. The element of surprise is critical for a fair reading, so I sprang it on Allie without warning.

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