Nice Guys ...The Subtle Art of Losing
― Garry Shandling
I hate the word special—it’s a pity word women use to let you down easy and categorize you as a nice guy. I get that a lot and it bugs me because I am a nice guy, but I’m also tired of losing.
Just once, I’d like to get the girl, instead of smiling, lying through my teeth and wishing her the best.
So now you know what makes me run.]
I don’t want to be special—I want to be noticed. Unfortunately, Pam Nichols doesn’t know I exist.
As Oscar Wilde said, there is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.
I want to be the guy Pam whispers about with her friends—not in a nice way, cause I get that now, but naughtily, with lots of blushing and over the shoulder peeks.
That’s what I want, but it sure in hell is not what I’m getting.
“You’re a really good guy, Chet—I can’t believe you’re still available.”
Cyn stares at me with her huge frank eyes and I know she means well, but seeing as she’s taken and out of the race, her vote of confidence doesn’t mean much.
I give her a wry smile.
“I think I’ve cornered the market on nice—maybe I should aim for something less savoury—women seem to like bad boys.”
Her eyes start dancing. “You a bad boy? Forget it, chum—you’re the kind of guy women marry and stay with for forty years.”
I’m standing here in the middle of Zucky’s, a towel draped over my wrist, holding a tray of drinks with my other hand.
“Anyway, I should get these gimlets back to The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, before they start doing handstands.”
I nod in the direction of three big-haired blondes laughing and talking in the booth at the back.
“Go get ‘em Tiger,” Cyn smirks and returns to wiping down tables.
I approach the booth and the girls notice and start acting dumb. Obviously, it’s girls’ night out and they’re all taken—it doesn’t stop them from flirting and having some fun.
The one who looks like Jessica Simpson is well on her way to getting smashed. “Hey, Handsome. What are you doing when you get off work?”
“Going straight home to bed—I’m training for the Olympics.”
“Is that bedroom Olympics?” the ditzy smaller blonde asks in a kind of tawny voice that makes me want to torture her very slowly.
I smile blandly and drop the drinks.
As I head back toward the bar I hear their snickers and one girl gives a whoop.
“I think that’s a possible case of sexual harassment, don’t you?”
I turn and my stomach drops. Pam Nichols is standing in the foyer with her friend Nora and they’re both waiting for a table.
I turn three shades of scarlet. I hate these situations—I never know how to react. I Figure she’s mocking me or at best, making an attempt at good-natured ribbing—either way, I come out looking and feeling like a loser.
“You’re embarrassing Chet,” Nora says which makes me feel even worse.
Pam gets this compassionate look on her face as if she didn’t mean what she said. “Oh Chet, please forgive me—I just get ticked when girls get drunk and try to hit on guys.”
“Yeah, well I should be so lucky.” I grab two menus from the lectern.
Nora laughs hysterically. “That’s what I like about you, Chet—you’re hilarious.”
I sigh inwardly and walk them back to the only available table, right beside The Dallas Cowboy tryouts.
Everybody loves a clown. I hate it when I use humour as a defence.
“Oh Chet,” says big blonde Jessica, obviously still sober enough to read a name tag, “when you get a chance, maybe you can help us choose from the appetizer menu.”
Nora shoots a glance at Pam who grinds her teeth and rolls her eyes heavenward.
I nod back at blondie and pass on a comeback—what’s the point? She’s tipsy and out for a night of fun. Why rain on her parade?
I seat Pam and Nora, noting that Pam likes whiskey sours—a small detail I tuck away in my brain on the very slim off chance I’ll ever get to use such intel.
I like Pam. I like the way she smiles, the sound of her voice and the way she’s kind to kids and animals. Yeah, I watch her a lot—not in a creepy stalker way, but in the way guys are fascinated with bright things. As Romeo said about his love, she could teach the stars to shine.
There are some women who brighten a room just by walking into it—Pam’s like that.
Last week I was on my way home from work and saw her and Nora stop to watch the Easter Parade—Pam’s smile and personality outshone all the cheerleaders and elves.
They should bottle what she has and mass-produce it—the world would be a better place.
I return with the girls’ drinks and sure enough, the blondes want me to help them navigate the appetizer menu. I’m thinking they’re going to waste a lot of money on good food they’re just going to throw up anyway.
I waste ten minutes repeating myself and coaxing them to order. I finally get them straightened away, but they’ve stressed me so much, I nip out the back and grab a smoke. I’m trying to break the habit—got it down to two cigarettes a day, but tonight I’m going to exceed my limit.
It could be worse—at least I don’t drink.
I’m on my way back in and blonde Jessica waylays me—I figure she was standing back there waiting for her chance.
Anyway, she puts her arms around me and gives me this big, boozy kiss.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I like women and this girl was a knockout—but I don’t like being harassed.
I try to escape her embrace, but she’s got me locked up tight. I’m getting claustrophobic and starting to panic, when suddenly Jessica gives a yelp and is pulled off me by Pam, using Jessica’s long blonde hair as a kind of tug-of-war rope.
“Back off bitch,” Pam hisses in her ear as she pushes her back toward the dining area.
Jessica looks at her dazed and glassy eyed and mumbles, “Sorry—didn’t realize you two were an item.” She staggers back to her table.
My jaw drops and I stand there staring at Pam wondering who Wonder Woman is.
“Are you okay?” Her soft voice and concerned gaze make me melt inside.
“I—I’m good,” I say shakily.
She touches my cheek. “You poor thing—I hate women like that.”
I allow her to console me and we end up making a date for the next night. After she and Nora leave, I’m still shaking my head, trying to figure out just what occurred.
I’ve come to the conclusion I am special. I was just going about it in the wrong way. I’m not an initiator—my style is to play helpless, allow women to rescue me and against my will drag me off to bed.
I’m not exactly a Mickey Spillane pulp hero, but regardless—Pam’s decided to keep me around.
Maybe Cyn was right all along—I’m the kind of guy women marry and stay with for forty years—I hope that’s what Pam’s got in mind.
Now I know it's true that nice guys finish last...
and frankly, I’m all for it.
