C.C.G.

Heading home, Chars insists on leaning out the window, as usual – this actually really amuses me that an ivy league grad enjoys such silly activities; although, he is a dog.

“You want to stop at the Java Jerks?” I ask, half suggesting, I don't know that I need to go, it is Saturday though, and there aren't really any consequences for excessive coffee consumption today.

“Uh, yeah!”, Charles spits back, tounge hanging out of the side of his mouth as we cruise. I'm debating playing the 'oh my goodness the car is out of control and I'm swerving all over the place' game, and seeing if I can scare Charles. Last time he covered my eyes for a good 5 seconds, which is actually a long time when driving down a freeway, and I opt out of playing the game.

“Java Jerks”, is actually “Java John's”, but one day, a year ago we met John, an inconsiderate jerk who gave Charles funny looks for being, well, a dog. He had the nerve to suggest that we might want to sit outside, Charles took care of a retaliation that somehow involved the fifth or sixth Amendment and the Boston Tea Party Reparation Act, which I'm pretty sure he made up. Thankfully John is a lazy jerk and is never at Java Jerks, or maybe he died in a terrible car crash and the place is under new management. I don't know.

Charles is jumping through the stations on the car radio, pushing harder and faster in growing frustration as each station serves up an even less palatable song or syndication than the last. Finally we land on an AM oldies station, both of us a little relieved that relative goodness has been found.

Charles has been a little stressed out lately, not really sure what's up. Usually when I call him on my lunch break I can hear him typing like mad on the computer, strained and focused on the task at hand; and a quick brush off follows. Not to sure what he's so busy with, as when I ask I usually get a “Saving the world numb nuts.”

Ah Yes! A great song by Diana Ross comes on. We both make up actions that generally consist of waving our index fingers back and forth, shaking our heads; followed by pointing our fingers, still shaking our heads. Charles is a pretty good dancer, as am I. I'm pretty sure we'd take gold at the 'National Pairs Cool Dancing - Ball Room Dancing Sucks – Finals”, should such a beast exist.

Inside an attractive coffee girl stands at the till, blond, mid-length hair that goes behind the ears with a few chunky strands that hang down in front of her right eyebrow, or wait her left eyebrow, my right. I haven't seen her here before, oh and I better call her a 'caffeine technician' or 'coffee artist'... she's gorgeous.

Charles has his nose up against the pastry display, asking her co-worker, dorky hair, pasty white skin boy about the ingredients of each pastry. Charles could make the boy's life much easier by going in a nice linear fashion starting at the top left and working his way down to the bottom right, instead of from one side of the deli display to the next and back. And his “hotter, hotter... ok now your getting cold, colder... No! Now your getting ice cold, I'm on the dark side of the moon cold! Your killing me!” isn't nearly as effective as a simple “up and to your left” might do.

Paying for the drinks, two lattes with one for Charles having so many adders that dorky hair boy is sure to screw up, we make some small talk with 'cute coffee girl', C.C.G. for short, pronounced 'Seee-Gee'. “Enjoying the lovely day, yes.”, I put in, deciding I won't mention the few incidents that occurred earlier at the park.

We're forced to sit a few tables down from our usual tables, which Charles isn't too happy about, as two elderly ladies are in our usual spot. Our spot. No worries, there's a 34% chance that seats are always taken, and irregardless Charles and I both 'pffft' underneath our breath each time we somebody in our spot. Sit down, three stirs, sip, burn upper lip; three stirs, spoon up, blow, sit. I always do this, burn myself on these stupid drinks, which they make so stupid hot. I don't know how Charles can handle the heat.

We're nearly settled in, I bring over the few remaining shreds of what was once the Saturday newspaper, the one we don't buy because it's not nearly as well written as the one we subscribe to – or so Charles has informed me. I manage to get the Business section for Charles and find what might be the section that has the comics in it for myself. Charles takes a deep breath, pulls a little stretch, and looks at me.

“Robbie. Did you know you hold your breath whenever you're talking to attractive women?”, starts Charles.

“What? No I don't.” Yes I do. How does he know? “Oh wait, help me, an attractive girl, I can't breath... please help... tell family... I love them...” I cough and spudder.

“You do. You get nervous and you stop breathing. I'm sure you don't mean too.” Charles doesn't take the let's-change-the-subject-your-wrong-bait and continues, completely serious.

“Oh. Maybe I do a little. I'll stop.” What am I saying. I don't why I do this. I don't purposefully try to stop breathing, I don't know what's going on: room spins, palms sweat, speech gets jumbled, and time seems to stop, spitting me out a few minutes, or hours, later.

Charles continues, “The key is confidence. When you walk in and attractive girl is present, don't think: 'she's gorgeous, amazing, out of my league'. You need to have the attitude: yes, she's attractive, but I'm pretty amazing myself; I don't need her to like me, but she will because, well, I'm amazing. In fact, I'm so amazing that I'd be just as happy sitting on an island, alone, thinking up great Plato caliber philosophy.

“It's all just a game, it's not as serious as your grade seven teacher made it out to be as he pointed to overhead slides of circles which represented relationships with the pinnacle being 'Mommy and Daddy making babies'. It's about selling yourself; it's the hard sell. 'I really don't need you', therefore she thinks, wow, he must have something going for him, 'not needing me or anything'. And once one notices the flocks will start to come in. Hard to get, therefore: wanted, desired, and needed.

“If diamonds lined the shores of every ocean would women insist on having them on their engagement rings? No. They like diamonds because they're rare, expensive, hard to get, cost an arm-and-a-leg and everybody likes shiny stuff.”

“Wow”, I'm slack jawed at all of this information. “You mean, I shouldn't be myself, really. Basically, be as narcissistic as possible – setting a trap – and then bait beauties. Right?” I guess this makes sense. Its still going to take some time to absorb all of this, I wish I was taking notes.

“Yeah, and if you get lucky, you'll get the prized catch,” Charles says.

“What's that?”, I ask, confused.

“The coveted, legendary, perhaps mythical: 'virgin whore'”

“What?” I hate both of those words, and together they make my face crinkle up in discomfort and disgust. I give a quick glance to ensure that elderly ladies don't hear us; they'd probably drop dead in horror – on a positive note we'd get our table back.

I hate the word virgin as a result of a dumb game played in elementary school, in which an unsuspecting youth is confronted by a group, generally of older kids, and asked, “Are you a virgin?” Poor unsuspecting sequestered youth immediately, without giving it much thought responds “No way!” Thinking that being something, couldn't be as good as not being something. Why don't we just ask, “What is a virgin?” Not wanting to look dumb, and appeasing the leading looks, we say, “No way!” The laughing, pointing, and 'do you know what that means? That means you...' soon follow.

Secondly, I hate the word whore, because well, what's there not to hate about it, it's a bad word. It feels bad when you say it, tongue curled at the back of the mouth, breath coming from the bottom of the lungs, lips out.

This deadly mix of two words I really don't like has me wanting to take a conversational mulligan with Charles. Maybe a car will crash threw the front window, or a robbery, or both: a car crash through the front window, the robbers getting out and robbing the place, forcing me to leap into action, saving C.C.G.'s life (remember: Cute Coffee Girl) – any of these would great right now.

I hope I don't regret this: “Please explain Charles. I don't ... what the heck does that mean. Why would I want one of... those.”

“Well, every guy wants one. A girl who is pure in character, thoughts, and past; yet, most importantly, the potential to be ... a great lover... and only for you of course ... and forever and ever.” Charles cross his arms and nods, waiting for my epiphany gasp. It's not going to come.

“This is a lot to think about.” I think this will be an ample out for this conversation.

Charles raises his cup, giving an imaginary toast, “That's the way it is.”

I don't know what to think about all of this new information that has be bestowed upon me. It contradicts a lot of what I know, but I don't really have remedies for my holding breath problem, so this might be worth a try. And let's face it, what I'm doing now, whatever that is, isn't working so well. Charles is right though, walking tall with confidence that radiates, he gets away with anything.

Charles starts again, too soon, I know this is going to be down the same alley as the last conversation, “Coffee Chick likes you.”

“What?” Taken back with disbelieve, “How do you know that? Or why would you think that.”

“Well, romeo”, Charles begins to explain, the Romeo name completely uncalled for, “As soon as we walked in she started playing with her hair...”
“So, maybe she has really bad dandruff.”

“Maybe. Then when you paid she didn't put out her hand cupped for you to drop the money into, but she put her hand into the 'downward swooping crane', ensuring that she would make contact as she pawed each coin out of your hand.”

“Gimmie a break,” I laugh, but the thought is nice.

“And she gave back your change quite slowly, a few coins at a time -- getting more contact. And she was smiling a ton at you.”

“They have to, 'service with a smile', its a big must in the service industry I here.”

“No dummy”, cuts in Charles, “Her eyes. Watch the eyes, they tell everything. Her eyes we smiling. And she kept looking down and to her right, still smiling, while making your drink.”

“Oh.” I don't know what to say. Shy, and quite flattered at Charles synopsis of what I thought was a completely innocent interaction with an attractive girl. Even if it isn't true, a boy can pretend.

Charles shatters my bliss, “And she's probably a 'virgin whore' too”.

“Let's never use that word again.”