Game Over

It always happens in my head like this:

I see the woman of my dreams across the room at a social gathering. A formal get together. Everyone’s drinking, including the two of us. I smile. She looks over at me, a little startled, then she looks away. I walk over and I start my spiel.

I’m equal parts Tricky (from the little seen, vastly underappreciated “Under The Cherry Moon”), James Bond, Detroit Red, and my older brother Zachary. I can’t lose. Except for the part of me that’s Zach. Zach always loses, but he’s funny in the process.

“Enjoying yourself?” I ask, not particularly interested in the answer, but willing to listen. “I don’t know. It’s a little staid for my taste. How about you?” “I can’t say that I’m not enjoying myself, but I understand your dilemma. You don’t have the same things to look at as I do.” At that point I sip, waiting to see if this bullshit bait is taken. “Point taken,” she says, smiling, “but the view isn’t so bad from where I’m standing either.” She sips, giving me time to contemplate what comes next. “Perhaps we can find something else to do, go somewhere that’s a bit more to your liking.” “What do you have in mind?” “I have a place in mind. It’s someplace where we can ruminate on the origin of the phrase ‘fits like a glove’.” I take her hand, and we take leave of our guests.

This is the way it would happen in real life:

I’m over a friend’s house that is having an informal get together. I see the woman of my dreams who is clearly irritated that I keep looking in her direction. As soon as she dips away from the rest of the crowd, maybe to go to the kitchen or the restroom I’m there.

“Ay, how you doin’?” “I’m fine.” “You sholl is. Dang. It’s like them jeans is sewed around that ass.” “Excuse me?” I start to speak louder, “I said, ‘It’s like them jeans is sewed around that ass’.” The woman then walks off in a huff and rejoins the rest of the group.

I was born with an affliction called formally known as Lackus Schemia, or the Zed Zednanreh Syndrome. (What kind of irony is that to be afflicted with a condition named after you?) I gots no game. None. Nada. It doesn’t exist. My last name nor my brother’s last name is Parker. There is no Milton Bradley in my family tree. I believe that all the run I’ve ever gotten has been in spite of the shit that comes out of my mouth.

It takes a certain amount of braggadocio and bluff to pull off the Mack thing. I lack both of those things in spades. I hate braggers and name-droppers. And I can’t bluff to save my life. If I’m standing in front of you, I’ll never be able to convince you of something that wasn’t true. My face is a living lie detector. It gives up the goods on me every time.

If I had some level of game, I’d be a master hustler, probably at least “hood rich” or something. I wonder how much shit I leave on the table by being a dork.

Be Easy,

KZ