THE
WINGMAN
YOU
DO WHAT IT TAKES.
by
Mark Frisbee
As the stray hand from an angry redhead connected
with my cheek, I thought, for the millionth time that night, 'Why
in the hell did I agree to be Harry's wingman? Why?' See, as the wingman,
I've taken quite a few for the team. But this was bringing that concept
to a whole new level.
The wingman is the set up man, the guy who tests the
waters, the guy who takes the bumps and bruises. In my case, as wingman,
I'm the one who sets up my best friend Harry so he can get some booty.
I am like Goose was for Maverick, Jon Baker for Frank Poncherello,
#2 for Dr. Evil and Igor for Dr. Frankenstein.
The mission set before me was straightforward, yet
extremely challenging. My good friend needed to get laid. Not a relationship,
not a date, just a good, old-fashioned one night stand. But Harry
isn't the best looking dude (picture a tall version of Yoda), well
mannered (nose picking, scratching his bathing suit places and belching
are common), or real up to date with fashion trends (remember acid
washed jeans and high top Reeboks?).
But he does have one redeeming quality some women
are drawn to. It's hard to put your finger on it, but there is something
contagious about his personality. The more he drinks, the more fun
he is to be around. And if I could just find the right girl and get
her to actually talk to him, I knew I could pull this off.
I was the set-up guy, the used car salesman. I needed to take this
run-down lemon of a car and find someone to give it a test drive.
About 9 pm on a Thursday night we met up at Jameson's,
a new bar downtown. I had picked a quiet, laid back place where we
could talk — I needed to go through a laundry list of pre-party
prep with Harry. And we needed a few stiff drinks.
"First of all, Harry, don't scratch at your bathing
suit places," I said bluntly. Harry frowned. "Yeah, but I can't help
it, especially when I am nervous," he responded. "See I sweat a lot
and I get this rash … "
"Whoa! OK, too much information, Harry," I said quickly.
"Secondly, we have to pull your ass out of the '80s butt rock era
and get you into some newer clothes." I opened my bag and pulled out
the outfit I had picked up for him at Buffalo Exchange. Nothing too
lavish, just a nice (non-acid washed) pair of jeans, a black Kenneth
Cole button up shirt and a pair of black leather lug sole shoes.
When Harry returned from the bathroom in his new duds,
it was a marked improvement. But there was one final thing we had
to go over. "Now for the love of God, Harry, you have to remember
to be outgoing," I pleaded. "We're working with a few strikes against
us here so we need to bring out your A-game personality and we need
it sooner rather than later."
I slid him a generously filled tumbler of single malt
scotch. After downing a few, Harry and I headed out into the cool
February night and across the way to John Henry's. Since it was '80s
Night, Harry almost could have gotten away with wearing his own clothes.
But he looked almost attractive in his new outfit and in the
loud, dark room, he blended right in.
I will spare you all the gory details of the crash
and burn attempts at John Henry's. They're too painful to recount
and too numerous to tally. At one point, I thought he had hit pay
dirt. I approached a tall, leggy brunette that I thought was about
Harry's speed. She had just sat down at the bar and was drinking something
pink and icy cold. As the first bit hit her mouth, her eyes seemed
to cross and she grabbed the side of her head (brain freeze), spilling
just a bit on the front of her skirt.
"Bet you could use one of these," I said, handing
her a bar napkin. She thanked me politely and we continued to talk.
As I had already done repeatedly that night, I pointed Harry out at
the other end of the bar and told her I had a friend that I thought
she should get to know.
"Who? Yoda?" she said, laughing a bit too loudly.
"Yeah, he is kinda goofy looking, but once you talk to him you'll
see what a great guy he is," I said convincingly. I'm not exactly
sure what went wrong, but a long middle finger 2 inches from Harry's
nose was not a sign of a one night stand in the making.
Not ready to admit defeat, I told Harry it was time
to pull out all the stops — we were going to go to Diablo's,
the Mecca of the singles scene in Eugene. It was almost 1:30 am and
the dance floor at Diablo's was packed. We had both had our share
of drinks and as I watched Harry, I could tell his standards had dropped
a few notches. Not that his standards were very high to begin with,
but we were getting to a level that was a bit more attainable for
him.
In the final minutes after last call, Harry, drink
in hand, approached a woman who had made eye contact with him earlier.
Slurred speech and clumsy dancing aside, he seemed like he was doing
OK. I on the other hand was getting the spins and that freakin' disco
ball was about one sparkle away from making me blow chunks.
It was then that I made the decision to leave Harry
to his own devices. I had done all that a wingman is expected to do.
I prepped him as best I could, dressed him up, got some booze in him
and talked him up to more women than I can remember. I stumbled my
way across the dance floor toward the stairs leading out of the club
giving him the nod. As I passed him on my way out, I whispered, "Good
luck Mav!"
