The Game

Grimble.
    “I was showing her a self-improvement exercise called synesthesia.”
    “Well, that’s my wife.”
    I had forgotten to check for a wedding ring, though I doubted minor inconveniences like marriage mattered to Grimble.
    “Go disarm the guy,” Grimble turned to me and hissed, “while I work on the girl.”
    I had no idea how to disarm him. He didn’t seem quite as laid-back as Scott Baio. “He can show you the exercise, too,” I said wanly. “It’s really cool.”
    “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” the guy said. “What is this thing supposed to do to me?” He took a step closer and leaned his face into mine. He smelled like whiskey and onion rings.
    “It tells you whether…whether…” I stammered. “Never mind.”
    The guy lifted his hands and pushed me backward. Though I tell girls I’m five feet and eight inches, I’m actually five foot six. The top of my head just reached his shoulders.
    “Stop it,” his wife, our former sarge, said. She turned to us. “He’s drunk. He gets like this.”
    “Like what?” I asked. “Violent?”
    She smiled sadly.
    “You seem like a great couple,” I said. My attempt to disarm him had clearly failed, because he was about to disarm me. His red drunken face was two inches from mine and yelling about ripping something.
    “Pleasure meeting you both,” I squeaked, slowly backing away.
    “Remind me,” Grimble said as we retreated to the car, “to teach you how to handle the AMOG.”
    “The AMOG?”
    “Yes, the alpha male of the group.”
    Oh, I see.

Four days later, as I sat at home alone on a Saturday afternoon watching the videos Grimble had given me, he called with good news. He and his wing, Twotimer, were going to meet Ross Jeffries at California Pizza Kitchen for an expedition to the Getty Museum, and I was invited.
    I arrived fifteen minutes early, selected a booth, and read through printouts of seduction board posts until Ross, Grimble, and Twotimer arrived. Twotimer had black hair gelled to the texture of a licorice vine, a matching leather jacket, and a snake-like quality. With his round, babyish face, he looked like a Grimble clone who’d been inflated by a bicycle pump.
    As I stood up to introduce myself, Ross cut me off. He was not the most polite person I’d ever met. He wore a long wool overcoat, which flowed loosely around his legs when he walked. He was thin and gawky with gray stubble and greasy skin. His hairline was a receding mop of short, unkempt, ash-colored curls, and the hook in his nose was so pronounced he could have hung his overcoat on it.
    “So what did you learn from Mystery?” Ross asked with a sneer.
    “A lot,” I told him.
    “Like what?”
    “Well, one of my sticking points was knowing when a girl was attracted to me. Now I know.”
    “And how do you know?” he asked.
    “When I get three indicators of interest.”
    “Name them.”
    “Let’s see. When she asks you what your name is.”
    “That’s one.”
    “When you take her hands in yours and squeeze them, and she squeezes back.”
    “That’s two.”
    “And, uh, I can’t remember the rest right now.”
    “Aha.” He leapt to his feet. “Then he’s not a very good teacher, is he?”
    “No, he was a great teacher,” I protested.
    “Then name the third indicator of interest.”
    “I can’t think of it right now.” I felt like an animal backed into a corner.
    “Case closed,” he said. He was good.
    A short waitress with blue nails, a touch of baby fat, and sandy brown hair arrived to take our order. Ross looked at her, and then winked at me. “These are my students,” he told her. “I’m their guru.”
    “Really?” she asked, feigning interest.
    “What would you say if I told you that I teach people how to use mind control to attract any person they desire?”
    “Get out of here.”
    “Yes, it’s true. I could make you fall in love with any person at this table.”
    “And how’s that? With mind control?” She was skeptical, but bordering on curious.
    “Let me ask you something. When you’re really attracted to somebody, how do you know? In other words, what signals do you get from yourself, inside, that allow you to realize”—and here he lowered his voice, slowly pronouncing each word—“you’re…really…attracted…to…this guy?”
    The purpose of the question, I would find out later, was to make the waitress feel the emotion of attraction in his presence, and thus associate those