Pickup

I’m not what one would call a huge “fan” of the current take on quality television programming: Unrealistic reality be damned. So, it was with much apprehension that I took the advice of two young women and watched The Pickup Artist. I’ve tried the advice of the three gentlemen who lay everyone, but I must say that after all the ego-crushing, heart-breaking razzmatazz I danced, I much prefer the old way of courtship—Manning up, getting some balls, and walking right up to a cute girl so you can stutter and stammer at her until she delivers the polite, “No thanks.”

Anna Lisa is a beautiful fine-arts school graduate, and it just so happened that she was waiting my table. Technically, the table was property of the Bonefish Grill restaurant my parents and I were dining at, but for the time being, we were the only ones using it. She walked up and introduced the specials of the night, and as she walked off, my dad gave me a look that told me I should consider dating a girl like that. For once, I agreed wholeheartedly.

As she gave the history of the new restaurant and explained some of the dishes, I made pleasant conversation and generally felt confidant about my choice of words. She suggested the Pan Asian sauce atop the sea scallops and shrimp. I decided to go with her choice, but I opted to top it with crushed cilantro to show her I was something of a connoisseur and a free spirit. I doubt she got that from the order.

The dinner (other than the massive amount of cilantro the chef chose to throw at my light shellfish) was wonderful, and I had a nice conversation with my parents about the ins and outs of meeting and picking up a nice young lady (no double entendre intended). My father then proceeded to show me how to engage someone in conversation, and I learned a lot of things about Anna Lisa that I found both genuine and engaging—apparently, she has a penchant for the beauty of the fall in the north-eastern United States, and I find it hard to disagree—but in the end, I had no idea how to enter the conversation and make myself known. So I didn’t, choosing instead to enunciate numerous niceties as she refilled my glass and took my cleaned china.

After we left, I talked again with my parents, and they gave me the confidence I needed to go back in there and chat it up with the cute waitress, and after a few hugs goodbye, they drove off and I headed back in.

I was originally going to abandon the whole idea, but I had to use the restroom, and it gave me just enough of an excuse to make sense of the whole nonsensical situation. I approached her, asked her if I had her name correct, and introduced myself: “Zachary.” I stuttered out a few queries, asking her where she lived before here, picked up on her military background and complemented her story with that of my own, and finally got around to stammering the fact that I was finishing my last year of school, I come home often, and was wondering if she’d like to go to dinner with me one night I’m in town.

The whole situation reminded me of the movies where the geek finally gets the guts to ask the head cheerleader to prom, and the audience responds in kind with a single, collective, “Aww…”. Everything was there, but it was she who provided the “Aww…”, looking at me and feeling a wholesome regret. She told me she had a boyfriend, so I thanked her kindly, shook her hand a second, feebler time, and walked out the door.

An encounter like that can make a woman feel two ways—creeped out that she attracts guys like me, or a giddy happysad, knowing that she has enough grace to make a young man throw his lack of self-confidence out the window and approach her, filling the rest of her night with a small, warm feeling in her heart.

Anna Lisa, I hope I warmed your heart tonight. Good luck in New York.