What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Friday, July 22, 2011

Closer

What’s more attractive than a recently jilted woman? When the boyfriend becomes the ex, my glee becomes apparent. I have nothing against the poor lad, other than my desire to take over his duties for the time being. In the rare case where I get the call to the bullpen and enter her game, I can blow it just as easily as I can save her. I admit a number of my efforts have resulted in a sprint back to the ex.

Still, it's my role—closer—so I must go for the save.

"We broke up last weekend."
"Aw, you poor thing. Are you OK?"
"I'm bumming, but I'll get over it."
"Well, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Rebound. Maybe I can help."
"You're silly."
"Can't blame a man for trying."

I keep forgetting women need time to heal. Unless there's some major jilt-age (he slept with another), she's not anxious to take on new suitors. Her pride is damaged and she needs a few weeks of sedation (chardonnay) and therapy (shopping) with her best friends who insisted the ex was a shit. Afterward, she'll emerge from her cocoon with a new attitude, an arch in her back, and a hop in her step. I’ll be right there to help her along.

"So, did you get back together with Arnold yet?"
"Andre ... and, no."
"You mean he hasn't apologized with fragrant bouquets and tiny blue boxes?"
"No, he won't either. We're both moving on."
"I'm sorry. How are you holding up."
"Fine."
"You know, I can help get your mind off him."
"Right. I think I know where this is heading."
"No, silly, not the bedroom. I'm not that type of man."
"Fine. What did you have in mind?"
"A weekend in Napa?"
"Separate rooms and I get to bring two friends."
"Hm. Female friends?"
"Of course."
"Similar caliber to you?"
"I'd say so."
"We could get a limo with the money we'd save by sharing a room."
"You'll totally try to have sex with me."
"What? I'd never. And, frankly, I'm a little disappointed in you, Missy. I thought you knew me better."
"I know you quite well and you will definitely try to have sex with me."
"OK, but if I did, it would only be in an effort to reassure you of your desirability."
"How sweet."
"That's what I do."
"Two rooms."
"Fuck."

My pitches are missing the target. Perhaps something more subtle is in order—a changeup of sorts. As I age, my pitches lose their effectiveness. I need fresh angles. The usual attempts using ego boosting, dirty martinis, and timing (closer to 2am) fall short. I’m going after heavy hitters whereas I should be going after heavy drinkers, eaters, and swingers.

"Come on, Sweetness, let me cheer you up."
"Can you do that without using your lap puppet?"
"Well, I can't juggle or flip."
"No puppets."
"Do you like music?"
"Of course."
"Want to play my organ?"
"Now, that's funny. See? You've cheered me up. Bravo!"
"Great … still not getting any, am I?"
“Nope.”

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