Any Given Saturday Night

Emmitt was a shy and superstitious young man. So before he went out that Saturday night he had done two things to prepare. First, he had been to a palm reader named Demi who worked next to a dollar store that was on his route home from work. Visiting Demi had become a weekly habit. He explained it to his friends and acquaintances as a kind of joke, a lark. Sometimes Emmitt could think of it that way himself. But week after week he went back for the embarrassing comfort it gave him. He never admitted to anyone how much stock he actually put in the practice. He expected ridicule. He ridiculed himself for it. When he paid the little fee and had his fifteen minutes why did it carry any more weight than the message out of a fortune cookie? But the mystical consequences haunted him. It was clear now that Demi had been referring to the Spaniel that nipped him viciously at a housewarming party the month before when the Moon aspected Pluto and his sign was waning and she told him, “Beware, the best friend of your friend means you harm.” Before that Demi had been more obvious when she told him he’d catch a break and he’d fractured his wrist when his bike slipped going over a manhole cover in the rain downtown on Parsons Ave. He had neglected those messages. Now his eyes were always open to the signs because he knew the language of fortune is in code.

Second, he’d hired his wingman. Channing O’Neil advertised on the internet, offering his time and mentorship in the art of meeting new people. It turns out that was a reasonable living in a booming city. Channing O’Neil was well-dressed and young and unflappably confident. Emmitt wanted to embody all those things because Emmitt wanted women. He wanted women to swarm on him like locusts in a biblical plague. That was how Emmitt had put it at their first meeting. He dutifully adopted all the advice he was given. He bought slick, shiny shirts and meticulously casual jeans and very expensive shoes. But he wasn’t settling into the role the way he had expected to. He was still uncertain all the time, felt like an imposter. And he was getting restless and a little doubtful of Channing O’Neil’s authority.

So when they landed at a bar called Whiskey Haven Emmitt bucked when his adviser singled out a pair of women with a nod and told him, “Go break up that two set.”

“I don’t want to.”

Channing was used to this sort of thing but he never let go of an opportunity. “Are you worried about the approach?”

“No.”

“Do what I’ve told you. Open with a little insult. Put her on the defensive.”

“No.” Emmitt wanted to abandon formulas and techniques. It made him tired to think he was in a game all the time and he felt silly. But he made a different excuse. “Those girls aren’t in my future.” He tried to sound flippant. “I’m supposed to meet a nerdy girl with a cold stare.” Emmitt was paraphrasing, but he remembered Demi’s words exactly: Soon an important person will come into your life with glasses and an icy face.

Channing O’Neil never swallowed the hokum he heard from Emmitt every week. And he didn’t like Emmitt’s chances with anyone who would have a cold stare. “You’re stopping yourself Emmitt.”

“I’m not.”

“I’ve shown you the tools. Use them. Visualize it. Believe it.”

“I do.”

“You wanted me here to push you this way. Be confident. Be a winner.”

“I know.” He’d heard these mantras so many times they were meaningless.

“Then go over there.”

“I want a drink first.” Emmitt left Channing O’Neil alone and went quickly to the bar.

Why was this difficult for him? Emmitt resented the performance. He looked around the bar. At the counter couples were mingling so easily. They were through the exhausting first phases of meeting. They could be comfortable. What does it take to just be comfortable with strangers? He was separated by one empty stool from two people talking with an intimacy that had to be admired. She spoke glittering with enthusiasm. Her companion looked fascinated. He leaned toward her. She placed her hand at his elbow then let it fall. Then she sat up straight. Her phone was buzzing on the counter. She had to go. She stood up. He said something clever that Emmitt couldn’t hear and she smiled. She let him kiss her cheek and they both laughed. She waved sweetly before going out.

How is it done? And since Emmitt was already paying for advice he didn’t mind soliciting it free. “How did you two meet?”

The man turned, saw that Emmitt was talking to him and shrugged. “We just met tonight.”

My God, Emmitt thought. The dream. “I thought you were together.”

“She was very nice.”

“How do you do that?”

The man blushed slightly. “Do what?”

“How do you seem so interested in someone you just met?”

“Well, I really am interested…in them.”

The idea was so simple and pure it put all of the machinations Emmitt had been trying to learn to shame. Here was something organic, something totally different from Channing O’Neil’s playbook. It was just crazy enough it might work.

Emmitt had a closer look at the man beside him. He was thin, with a narrow neck and shoulders that looked sharp under his shirt. But he had strong, even features, a very personable face. Emmitt was puzzling over the man’s ethnicity. His hair was very dark and thick. His skin was dusky but the color was deeper than a mere suntan. He had a patch of beard on his chin.

Emmitt put his hand out “My name’s Emmitt Doughtrey.”

The man shook hands politely. “I’m Raj.”

Emmitt froze when he saw the watch on the man’s wrist. It had a blue face. He recognized the sign immediately, but he hesitated. Where were the glasses? “Do you wear contacts?”

Raj was puzzled. “Uh, no.”

“Oh.” What did half a sign mean? Emmitt’s mind raced. He was being too eager. It was a mistake.

The bartender appeared, speaking to Raj first. “Jackson isn’t here. Drink while you wait?”

“No, I’ll just drop these off with you.” He reached down below the bar and brought up a box that had been at his feet. “But if Jackson likes them and wants more I know the guy who makes them in Steel City. Just let me know.” Raj stood up, nodded at Emmitt and walked away.

The box was deep and about twelve inches square. The bartender pulled it toward him. The contents rattled. The bartender looked down into it, reached in, and pulled out a clear, hefty cup. Emmitt’s eyes went wide. My God! The box was full of glassware. Emmitt scrambled off his stool and hurried out of the bar. Without a second thought, without even bothering to thank and release Channing O’Neil from his services, Emmitt was out of the bar, down the street, determined to get his new acquaintance to teach him everything.