The Game

British television program. But Courtney was nowhere to be found, and Sam and Lisa were fuming. I sat down to pacify her bandmates. I felt so small next to them.
    I picked up a CD case that belonged to Lisa and thumbed through the discs. I was impressed. She had music by Cesaria Evora, a diva from the Cape Verde islands. Her mournful songs, backed by a lilting Latin rhythm, are perhaps the best make-out music on the planet. As soon as I saw that CD, I knew I’d met someone I wanted to get to know better.
    Somewhere in the back of my mind, I dimly recalled what enabled me to meet and interact with women before I’d discovered the seduction industry: commonalities. Simply finding out that you have a passion for something another person also likes and respects is enough to fire that strange emotion we like to call chemistry. Scientists studying pheromones claim that when two people discover they have things in common, pheromones are released and attraction begins.
    Moments later, Mystery joined us. He dropped into a chair and sat there for a moment, a vortex of neediness sucking up any stray pheromones Lisa and I had managed to release. “I called Katya today,” he said. “And we talked for a while. I still love that girl.”
    He looked at Sam and Lisa, as if trying to select a target. “Do they know about the drama with Katya?” he asked.
    The girls rolled their eyes. They had their own drama to deal with.
    “Well,” I excused myself. “I’m going to grab a burrito at Poquito Mas. Nice meeting you—again.”
    I had to get away from there. I didn’t want to be associated with the madness—even if I was part of it.
    I walked down the hill to Poquito Mas, where I found Extramask sitting at a table outside, reading a book as thick as his skull. He was wearing shorts, a headband, and a torn white T-shirt with a fresh sweat stain from the gym.
    It was the first time I’d seen him out of the house alone in months. Ever since meeting him at Mystery’s first workshop, I’d felt like he was my younger brother in this whole endeavor—though, since joining the Real Social Dynamics crew, he’d been more like an estranged sibling. I decided to make an effort to reconnect with him.
    “What are you reading?” I asked.
    “ I Am That by Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj,” he said. “I like him better than Sri Ramana Maharshi. His teachings are more modern and easier to read.”
    “Wow—impressive.” I didn’t know what else to say; I wasn’t particularly familiar with Indian Vedanta writing.
    “Yeah, I’m starting to realize there’s more to life than just girls. All of this stuff”—he gestured up the hill to Project Hollywood—“means nothing. Everything means nothing.”
    I half-expected him to burst out in laughter at any moment and start talking about his penis, like the old days. “So you’re over sarging then?” I asked.
    “Yeah, I was obsessed with it, but when I read your post about social robots, I realized I was becoming one. So I’m moving out.”
    “Are you heading back to your parents’ house or getting your own place?”
    “Neither,” he said. “I’m going to India.”
    “That’s amazing. For what?” When Extramask had come into the community, he was one of the most sheltered people I’d ever met. He’d never even been on a plane before.
    “I want to figure out who I am. There’s an ashram near Chennai called Sri Ramanasramam, and I want to stay there.”
    “For how long?”
    “Six months or a year, or possibly forever. I really don’t know. I’m just kind of rolling with it.”
    I was surprised but not shocked. Extramask’s sudden transformationfrom pickup artist to spiritual seeker reminded me of Dustin. Some people spend their lives trying to fill a hole in their soul. When women don’t absorb that emptiness, they look to something bigger: God. I wondered where Dustin and Extramask would turn afterward, when they discovered that even God wasn’t big enough to plug the hole inside.
    “Well, man, good luck on your journey. I wish I could say that I was going to miss you, but we’ve hardly even talked to each other for half a year now. It’s been a little strange.”
    “Yeah,” he said. “That’s my fault.” He paused, and his lips forced themselves into a curvy smile. For a moment, the old Extramask was back. “I used to be an insecure bitch,” he said.
    “So was I,” I told him.
    By the time I got back to the house, the TV producers from Britain had