The following morning, I sat on the edge of my bed, seething.

350 dollars, I thought.

350 fucking dollars on fucking jeans.

Fuck.

To put it mildly, I was livid.

“They’re not just pants,” DJ StrangeLove had insisted, “they’re an investment in your future.”

Around 3:15, the phone rang.

“Dude. Where the fuck you been?”

It was Leon, and he sounded unhappy.

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t seen you since Century, man. And that was a week and a half ago.”

I was shocked. Had it only been ten days? It felt like months since the night I’d met DJ StrangeLove.

“We’re drinking beers tonight,” he insisted, “non-negotiable.”

As I worked to come up with an excuse to stay home, it dawned on me: if it had been ten days since Century, that meant it had been exactly one week since The Media Club. One week since I’d surrendered $200 in twenties, and been charged with the task of meeting ten strangers. Which meant I had less than 8 hours left to win back that last $20.

“All right, fine,” I conceded, “meet me at The Whip.”

Five hours later, I arrived outside.

Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the front windows, I felt completely ridiculous. I was wearing DJ StrangeLove’s outfit. All of it, from head to heels. I’d even, after much deliberation, put on the hated jeans (making sure, of course, to tuck the price-tag into the waistband so that I could return them after their one and only night on the town). It had, for one insane second, seemed like a good idea. But now, as I stood in the doorway, I felt so conspicuous I might as well have been naked. I wanted nothing more than to turn around and go home, retreat, and change into something that made me feel a little less like a raging fraud.

“They’re an investment in your future. And trust me, they’ll pay off.”

I took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

“What the hell is this?” Leon scoffed, as I approached the table.

“New pants,” I shrugged, trying to play it coy, “how do you think my ass looks?”

“What ass?” Leon laughed.

I grimaced.

Some investment.

An hour later, we were at least four beers deep. And it was then, as Leon was in the midst of some endless, rambling, drunken story about misplacing his contact solution, that I saw her: daintily sipping a beer with two friends, a tall girl, with a punk sensibility, and a head crowned by a set of magnificent dreadlocks. Even as I watched, I knew she was destined to be my final approach.

I remembered what DJ StrangeLove had said: before you can sleep with a woman, before you can kiss her, before you can get to know her, you have to meet her. But how the hell was I supposed to meet her? Even though she was less than a meter away, she might as well have been on the goddamn moon. Sometimes, the greatest distance in the world is between two strangers.

Especially when they have different sets of gonads.

If you want a woman to think you’re interesting, DJ StrangeLove had said, you need to be talking about something interesting.

Well, no shit.

And still, Leon continued his story. I didn’t even know what he was talking about anymore. His lips were flapping and sound was coming out, but they were just random vowels and consonants.

Meaningless words strung together into run-on sentences.

You inconsiderate bastard, I thought.

It’s obvious that I haven’t been paying attention to you for close to ten minutes. I’ve been sidelong-glancing these people for more than twice as long, and you’re still not taking the hint.

Then, abruptly, they got up to leave.

I dug my fingernails into the edge of the table.

It was too late.

She was pushing back her chair, shouldering into her coat.

I was about to lose my chance with an amazing-looking woman because, when my idiot best-friend starts drinking beer, he turns into James fucking Joyce.

Before you can sleep with a woman, before you can kiss her, before you can get to know her, you have to meet her. So suddenly, desperately, I jumped to my feet, went into a deep lunge, and blurted, “how does my ass look in these pants?”
Leon stared at me, stunned.

I had angled my body toward the girl with the dreadlocks, and, even though I was still addressing Leon, I could see that her interest was piqued. So, heart pounding in my chest, I turned to face her. “What do you think?” I asked, “because, a buddy of mine was just raving that my ass looked fantastic, but, honestly, I’m on the fence, and I feel like a woman’s opinion is important.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Not bad,” she said, “I think it works for you.”

Then she dropped her eyes and smiled nervously, and I wished to God I could think of something witty to say.

“Who are you?” one of her friends, a blonde with badly-crimped hair, asked.

“Uh, I’m Ian,” I replied, then added, with a wince, “pound it.”

To my surprise, all three of them agreed.

“I’m Steph,” the girl with the dreadlocks said. “How’s your night going?”

“Uh, not too bad at all,” I replied, “I’d say — one-and-a-half thumbs up, out of two.”

She laughed.

“That’s great! Mine might even be at one-and-three-quarters, right now.”

“Oooh,” I replied, “that’s not bad at all.”

Her eyes lingered on mine a half-second longer than I expected, and I fought the urge to turn red.
The three of us talked for a few more minutes, though about what, I haven’t the faintest idea. I was far too focused on staying vertical. I wished I could make her laugh again. I wished I could get her phone-number. But, a few minutes later, when the conversation petered out, all I could do was exchange a final knuckle-pound, and wander away feeling like a colossal idiot. I returned to the table, cursing myself. After all that trouble, I’d choked. I’d choked, and now I’d never see her again.

Suddenly, there was a tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me?”

It was the blonde.

“Uh, yes?”

“Steph really likes you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Could I maybe get your number for her?”

In that moment, I nearly lost bowel control.

“What?”

“Yeah. Can I get your number, so she can call you sometime?”

I did my best to appear nonchalant. But, suddenly, I heard DJ StrangeLove’s voice in my head, and I made a decision.

“Uh, where is she?” I asked.

“Outside.”

And then, I turned and walked out the door.

“Where are you going?” the blonde asked.

“To give it to her myself.”

My mind was calm as I set foot on the patio.

I had nothing to fear.

After all, I was a strong, confident man.

A moment later, I smoothly collected her digits (and, by “collected her digits”, I mean “stood awkwardly beside her for a moment before blurting ‘hey, so can I get your number?’”), and then returned to my table.

“What the hell was that?” Leon asked, as I sat down.

“What was what?”

“That. Did you plan that shit or something?”

“Uh, no.”

“Fuck you. Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. I swear to you. That was pure DJ StrangeLove.”

Leon’s eyes went wide.

“What?”

I leaned forward and smiled. “I’ve had an interesting week.”

When I rode home that night, I was exuberant. I couldn’t believe it. My first phone number.

It worked.

His bullshit actually worked.

As I pedaled a drunken line down the side streets, I literally had a song on my lips, and, when I arrived home that night, I flopped onto my bed, and lay there staring at the ceiling, grinning for close to an hour. Then I pulled the price-tag from the waistband of my jeans, tore it into five pieces, tossed them in the air, and lay back with a contented smile on my face as they all rained down upon me.

Suddenly, $350 didn’t seem like such a big investment after all.