Encounter On A Sunny Afternoon (A Contemporary Romance) (standard:other, 4706 words)
Author: Rick Pyzyna	Added: Nov 09 2007	Views/Reads: 4412/2325	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
You never know when the woman of your dreams is about to come round the corner.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Of course, Clarence did not always perceive that order, but such faulty 
perception in no way disproved its existence. So, while the discovery 
of the book seemed accidental, Clarence was certain it was not.  He had 
been led to it for some purpose.   And what was that purpose?  Clarence 
made that determination even before he left the bookstore.  He began by 
asking himself a very simple question.  What was the most gnawing 
concern in his life?  The answer came easily:  a lack of women or, more 
accurately, a woman.  No doubt about it, that was the axis around which 
everything in Clarence's world revolved.  Yet as much as it pained him, 
he had come to accept his womanless condition, for in it Clarence had 
found a modicum of security.  The book, though, was his means for 
change.  Previously rejected on the basis of cost, it was not being 
handed to him for a pittance.  Finding the book was no accident.  It 
was a portent, a harbinger of the future. It signaled the end of the 
old life with its loneliness, dateless weekends and empty bed and the 
beginning of the new, an existence filled with women .     .    .  and 
SEX.  The book would be the trigger if Clarence chose to use it.  This 
eschatological interpretation excited Clarence as nothing else in years 
had (It also enabled him to blot out one disturbing question regarding 
the book's present status — why had the previous owner discarded it?). 
Grabbing the book, Clarence hurried to the counter and plunked down his 
eighty-nine cent oblation (five per cent sales tax included) to the 
fate gods.  The book was his. Nothing was left but to glean the secrets 
it held. 

Clarence spent the next two nights pouring over the book's contents.
Five times he read it cover to cover.  Not even the repeated readings 
could blunt the amazement Clarence felt at the insights the book 
offered.  There were so many things he never previously knew such as: 

--the fact that girls got horny too. Clarence was aware they had a   sex
drive, but only in his wildest fantasies had he imagined it to be as 
strong as a man's; 

--that beautiful girls could be picked up just as easily as fat, ugly,
dumpy girls. Clarence could understand about the latter.  How else were 
they going to 	get a man?  They had to put out.  But beautiful girls 
too?  Incredible; 

--that shyness and sexual timidity could be tools in getting a woman.
They were not necessarily disqualifying characteristics. 

Nevertheless, it was the book's frequent assurances that looks were
secondary, recognizing (and taking advantage of) opportunity primary, 
in the process of getting a woman, which had fascinated Clarence the 
most.  The average man, according to the book, was given hundreds of 
chances to pick up women in his lifetime (“a conservative estimate”). 
The trouble was he either failed to recognized them as such or, having 
recognized them, could not follow up because he lacked the words to 
bring the situation to fruition.  Fortunately, it was in these areas 
where the book was strongest, devoting six full pages to the 
identification of those subtle little signs of a woman's interest, 
listing fifty great opening lines, outlining more than a hundred 
stratagems so well-conceived they virtually guaranteed a score. 
Clarence studied these sections greedily, concentrating specifically on 
the material dealing with the initial approach and the subsequent 
manipulation of the woman into a satisfactory relationship.  It was 
from there, Clarence felt, the book's greatest benefits would accrue. 
But Clarence also realized it would not be enough to simply memorize a 
set of lines or some snappy repartee.  No, if the techniques were to 
successful, they had to become a part of Clarence, a natural extension 
of his personality. 

To that end Clarence worked feverishly.  He spent hours conducting
imaginary boy-girl conversations in a myriad of contexts.  Potential 
approaches were tested and judged for their effectiveness in three 
categories:   a) attracting a girl's attention; b) starting a 
relationship; and c) getting a girl to bed.  Every conceivable response 
a woman might make to a given line was considered, then countered or 
built upon mentally.  Clarence was determined to be prepared for 
anything, to be able to improvise.  At one point, he even taped a 
series of spontaneous conversations in an effort to simulate more 
closely the conditions of a real pick up (The tapes proved only 
moderately successful.  Clarence's attempts at doing girls' voices 
strained his credulity too much.  He could not get sufficient tonal 
variation in his falsetto).   Finally, at the end of a weekend devoted 
entirely to practice, analysis, practice, analysis, and more practice 
still, Clarence pronounced himself ready.  Let the opportunities come 
where they may, he thought confidently. A swinger had been born.   And 
humming softly the Stones' “Lets Spend the Night Together”, Clarence 
lapsed into a well-deserved reverie. 

*	*	*	* 

Here then, sitting next to Clarence is opportunity, opportunity in the
form of this girl whose blue knit dress exposes a great deal of thigh 
(more now that she is seated).   Clarence is pleased.  He had not 
expected it so soon.  He steals a few more peeks at those long, 
shapely, sexy legs.  No question, Clarence wants her; the girl excites 
him.  What excites him more is the possibility –a good possibility– she 
wants him too.  The signs are there; and thanks to the Book he has 
recognized  them (Basic signs numbers 8 and 22: the present inviting 
body position and those furtive glances.  Combined they translate as “I 
want you”.  Also number 73 from the section on supplemental signals, 
the old “check the watch” routine, an archaic device used by some women 
to remain in the presence of an interesting male without committing 
themselves too aggressively).  Although he wishes the girl would do 
something more obvious (such as basic sign number 3 –her hand lightly 
rubbing his knee and/or thigh) in this his first post-Book attempt, 
Clarence senses she has made her move.  The rest is up to him Clarence 
shifts his body, adjusting the angle between them so that there can be 
no mistaking at whom he is looking.   The girl continues to stare 
straight ahead.  Clarence clears his throat.  The girl's eyes shift 
toward the sound for a fraction of a second, then back again.  She's 
seen.  Satisfied, Clarence begins. 

“Uh hi    .      .     .   uh, beautiful day, huh?   Must be close to
seventy.  I wonder how long it will last.  The weatherman on T.V. last 
night said it would probably stay this way ‘til early next week.  I 
dunno.  I bet we could have snow by Sunday.”   Clarence pauses, waiting 
for a response to his small talk.  The words are meaningless, but the 
Book has stressed how essential it is to establish verbal contact, 
innocuous prattle being the safest and usually the most successful. 
Clarence waits.  And waits.  Nothing happens.  The girl seems oblivious 
to his overture.  Figuring she has taken his statement for a rhetorical 
comment, Clarence presses on.  An idea comes to him.  Get her name. 
Everything is easier when you are on a first name basis, a page one 
axiom.  Clarence can't believe he forgot it. 

“Yea.  Seventies one day, snow the next.  Real midwest weather.  Oh, by
the way, my name's Clarence.  Some of my friends call me Clancy.  I'm 
not really crazy about the nickname.  Sounds like some kind of hung 
over Irishman.  A sick Mick.  Heh, heh.  Hey, I don't think I caught 
your name earlier.”  Clarence is proud of his banter, especially the 
last line with its suggestion an introduction has simply slipped the 
girl's mind.  Again he awaits a response.  The girl remains motionless, 
lost in another world.  Clarence is confused.  She should be saying 
something by now or, at least, laughing at his whimsical hurdy gurdy 
about the Irishman.  Maybe she is Irish.  The though scares Clarence 
momentarily.  What a stupid blunder if she is.  He had to get ethnic. 
In an attempt to salvage the situation, Clarence opts for a new tact. 

“That's some dress you've got on.  It's beautiful.  Absolutely
beautiful.  Of course, the person who's wearing it has a lot to do with 
that.  You've got to be the prettiest girl on campus.”  Clarence fully 
expects the flattery to cancel out the possible faux pas.   Moreover, 
it's a good tactic in its own right, recommended in most circumstances 
(“an 80% success probability” the Book has said in assessing the pick 
up potential of flattery).   But not in these circumstances evidently, 
for the only break in the girl's deportment comes when she scratches 
her right elbow.  Not exactly the response Clarence has been reaching 
for.  Frustration begins to set in.  Clarence has prepared for 
everything – except being totally ignored.  Why is she acting this way, 
Clarence asks himself.  He raps the side of his head repeatedly with 
his knuckles as if that might somehow dislodge an answer.  The 
approaches have been sound.   Could it be the girl isn't?  Or is she 
too sophisticated, too jaded, for compliments and small talk about the 
weather?  Quite likely now that Clarence thinks about it.  This girl is 
too hip to be taken in by such standard ploys.  They might work with 
some fourteen year old nymphet or even some naive college freshman from 
a small town.  But Miss Blue Knit?  Never.  She's much more like the 
buxom babe in the old English Leather commercials, the one who 
threatened men because she shot a mean game of pool.  Clarence 
remembers that the characteristic the babe with the pool stick wanted 
most in her men, other than the smell of English Leather, was that they 
not be intimidated by her failure to be submissive.  How can he come 
across that way to Miss Blue Knit?  It's not an easy task for someone 
whose previous social behavior has demonstrated all the aggressiveness 
and sophistication of a bookend.  What's worse, Clarence cannot make a 
connection between this need for sophistication and anything in the 
Book.  Could the Book have failed him?  Clarence senses the onset of 
depression.  He tries to fight it, his thoughts returning, for some 
reason, to the English Leather commercial.  Associations, no more: 
English Leather, lady, pool stick, sophistication.  Clarence draws 
blanks.  Again: lady, pool stick, pool stick .   .   . phallic symbol! 
The connection!  The sublimated sexuality of the commercial (a woman 
speaking softly, breathily, while fondling a pool stick) reminds 
Clarence of the section in the Book on talking dirty seductively.  What 
could be better than some glossed over filth.  If nothing else, it 
would show her that he was not afraid or ashamed of sex.  And at best, 
some bold references to the object of his quest might be the very cue 
she is waiting for, the final turn on.  Clarence sifts through his not 
extensive collection of dirty jokes and double entendres.  At last he 
leans over and nudges the girl with his elbow, “Say.  As long as we're 
serving out this sentence together, would you like to hear a joke?” 

The girl shrugs her shoulders. 

Clarence goes on, “Well, it seems there was this drunk.  And he stops
this well-to-do young man on the street for a handout.  The young man 
decides to do the drunk a favor, but while he's digging into his pocket 
for some change a beautiful girl in a short, tight skirt walks by.  The 
two men watch her and just as she passes them the well-to-do young man 
says loud enough for her to hear, ‘Tickle your ass with a feather.' The 
girl turns around and in a shocked voice says, ‘What did you say?'  To 
which the gentleman replies, ‘I said it was typically nasty weather.' 
And since the day was overcast and drizzly, the girl says, ‘Oh, you're 
right, I guess,” then walks off.  Well the drunk is impressed with the 
whole incident, and he asks the young man to repeat it.  The young man 
says, ‘Sure.  When you see a pretty girl you say ‘tickle your ass with 
a feather' and if she questions you, you change it to ‘typically nasty 
weather.'  The drunk thanks the young man, and they part.   The next 
day the drunk is forced to take a bus during rush hour.  As he fights 
his way through the crowd, he sees this middle aged matron. ‘Hmmm,' the 
drunk thinks, ‘might be a good time to try out that guy's line.' So he 
squeezes his way through the crowded bus and wedges up next to the 
matron.  Once there he yells in her ear, ‘Hey lady!  Shove a feather up 
your ass.'  The lady turns and utters a disbelieving, ‘What?'   And the 
drunk cooly says, ‘Looks like fuckin' rain.'” 

Clarence laughs; the girl doesn't.  A few seconds later, he nudges the
girl again, and in bad Chico Marx says, “Some a joke, eh boss.”  The 
girl arches her eyebrows, a gesture Clarence interprets as a signal to 
go on. “Uh,” he says, “would you mind very much if I asked you a kind 
of personal question?” 

The girl doesn't object. 

“O.K., then.  Would you hold it against me if I told you, you had a
beautiful body?”  Clarence impatiently awaits her rejoinder. 

She yawns. 

It's too much.  Clarence's frustration becomes mixed with anger.  He
can't understand her treatment of him.  One would think he had bad 
breath (Clarence takes the Certs breath test.  He passes).  She acts as 
if he weren't even there.  Clarence laughs sadly at the conjecture, 
then impulsively slides over, leaning so his eyes are peering directly 
into hers, their faces barely a foot apart. 

“How does it feel to be talking to someone who's invisible?” he asks
disdainfully. 

The girl shifts her head mechanically from left to right, then up and
down, the movements obviously exaggerated.  At last she stops. 
Scratching her head, she mutters in mock confusion, “God, I could have 
sworn I heard a voice.” 

Clarence straightens up, slamming his fist into the concrete as he does.
It's all so unfair.  Other guys get girls – plenty of them.  Why is he 
any different than they?  Why can't he be cool?  Clarence wants to cry; 
instead he forces back the tears.  Once more he turns to the girl. “Why 
.    .    .  Why are you doing this to me?” he stammers.  Clarence 
pauses to avoid sobbing.  “I'm just trying to be pleasant.  That's all. 
I'm not going to hurt you or anything.  So why can't you be nice?  I 
mean the least you could do, damn it, is tell me your name.  That's all 
I ask.  It won't kill you to do something that simple, will it?” 

The girl nods. 

“Stop.  For Christ sake, stop it.”  Clarence's speech is frenetic. “Damn
it, damn it, damn it.  Your name.  All I want is your name.”  A tear 
begins to trickle out of the corner of his eye. 

“Gertrude,” the girl says, her eyes still focused straight ahead. 

Magically, the name calms Clarence.  “It's about time,” he says, chiding
her but not meaning it.  “Gertrude, huh.  That's a pretty name.” 

“It stinks.” 

“Well, what name would you choose.  If you had the choice, that is.”
Clarence deftly capitalizes on Gertrude's dissatisfaction. 

“Olive,” she answers.  “Like Popeye's girlfriend.  Popeye was my
favorite cartoon character when I was a kid, but “Popeye” would 
probably be a bit strange as a girl's name.  Ergo: Olive.  Besides 
they're awfully good in martinis.” 

“That's interesting,” Clarence observes, not understanding, nonetheless
happy that things are adhering to a recognizable pattern.  “So what's 
your major?” 

“Neo-Abyssinian epic sonnets of the post-Pleistocene epoch.” 

“Oh.  Literature, huh.  I'm an agri-business major myself.  I never was
very good in English although I do read a lot of science fiction.  Is 
it interesting?” 

“No, but it's easy.  There aren't any.  Of course, being such a
specialized field, it doesn't provide too many job opportunities.  So I 
guess it all balances out in the long run.” 

“That's too bad,” Clarence commiserates with Gertrude's plight.  “Hey, I
know.  Why don't we go to Starbucks?  I'll buy you a cup of coffee, and 
you can tell me all about yourself.” 

“I don't like coffee, especially in mixed company.” 

“Have whatever you like.  There's nothing sacred about coffee.  Anyway
that's just an expression.” 

“Really?”  Gertrude feigns surprise.  “O.K.  I'll take a bottle of pink
champagne.” 

Clarence chuckles.  “I don't think they serve that in Starbucks.  What
else do you like?” 

“Coke.  I'm a coke freak.” 

“I'm sure that could be arranged.” 

“Yea,” Gertrude adds as though in a daze, “I do it a lot.” 

“Fine.  Then it's settled.  We'll .   .   . “ Clarence doesn't get a
chance to complete the pick-up, for Gertrude stands and begins to walk 
off.  “You're not leaving, are you?” 

“No,” she says, turning her head in Clarence's general direction, “I'm
practicing for the Olympic twenty kilometer cross county ski race.” 

Clarence catches up to her.  “Won't I ever see you again,” he asks
pleadingly. 

“Maybe .   .   .  If you don't go blind,” Gertrude snaps back quickly,
her pace never slackening. 

“At least .   .   .  at least .   .   . Clarence hesitates, unsure of
what should follow.  “At least, give me your phone number,” the words 
finally come out. 

“It's in the book,” she says. 

“But I don't know your last name.” 

“It's in the book too.” 

Clarence continues to pursue her.  “You can't do this,” he says to the
back of her head. 

“That's nice to known,” Gertrude replies snidely. 

“You can't!  You can't!  This isn't how it ends in the Book.” 

Gertrude stops and stares back at Clarence.  Disbelieving she blurts
out, “What the hell do you think this is?  A Harlequin Romance?” 

“No, not a novel.”  Clarence reaches into his back pocket and pulls out
his worn copy of HOW TO GET A WOMAN!  “This book, the BOOK,” he says. 
Clarence opens it to a heavily marked section.  “See.  Right here are 
the signs, the little tip-offs you gave me that you were interested in 
me.  There can be no mistaking them.   So how can it end this way?” 

Clarence hands the open book to Gertrude.  She skims the page Clarence
has pointed out, stifling laughter with great difficulty.  She turns a 
few more pages rapidly; they have the same effect.  Gertrude closes the 
book and tosses it back to Clarence.  “Tough luck,” she says as 
Clarence makes a juggling catch.  “You should have bought the hard 
back.” 

Gertrude resumes walking, more quickly now than before.  Clarence
doesn't follow; rather he slumps onto the concrete wall like a rag doll 
– arms hanging limply between his legs, upper body bending from the 
waist, gaze vacant.  Tears start to flow freely down Clarence's cheeks. 
He makes no effort to check them.  Surprisingly, he does maintain his 
grasp on his book for a time, but eventually it works itself free from 
his fingers and falls silently to the ground.  Clarence doesn't notice. 
His mind is immersed in thoughts of his own insignificance, his own 
impotence (The thoughts hurt yet comfort Clarence simultaneously).  He 
is absorbed in self-pity, oblivious to everything else (although 
semi-conscious might be a more apt description), including the 
insistent voice screaming, “CUT!   CUT!  CUT!”  Clarence hears the 
words, but pays no attention.  They are background noise, somebody 
else's problem. 

The voice persists.  “CUT!  Will ya cut for Christ sake!  C'mon Clancy,
get with it.  Would it asking too much for you to direct just the 
teeniest bit of attention this way?” 

The use of his nickname jars Clarence out of his stupor.  He searches,
unsuccessfully at first, for the source of the voice, the area 
seemingly deserted.  Then, in the periphery, Clarence spots a man.  He 
is standing on the roof of the administration building, his face 
partially obscured by an object held to it with both hands.  Evidently, 
it is he who has been speaking.  Clarence cups his hands around his 
mouth and yells, “Hey, you .   .   .  you on the roof.  Were you 
talking .   .   .” 

“Thata baby, Clancy!”  the man's voice (aided by what Clarence now
distinguishes to be a bullhorn) drowns out the rest of the question. 
“Now listen, carefully.  I'm not trying to be cruel, but the whole 
scene was weak – beginning to end, top to bottom, A through Z. 
Everything!  Weak!  Your delivery was way off.  Much too hesitant. What 
the hell was wrong, Clancy baby?  Didn't you get enough sleep last 
night?  I mean you were shaky, Clancy.  You can't be shaky and expect 
the scene to work.  Get me, babe?  The scene needs more sexual tension. 
It's that simple.  Now lets see if you can bring it off.  O.K.?  A 
little more assurance when you speak your lines.  That should help 
some.  Project your confidence .    .   .  your machismo.” 

The man pauses.  He remains so still that he seems more gargoyle than
human.  But the pose, like the silence which accompanies it, is 
fleeting, broken ultimately by a shrieking, “That's it!  MACHISMO!” The 
words now flow in a torrent, non-stop.  “Of course!  Machismo!  The 
very thing!  The perfect foil for the chick's smart mouth.  Look what 
we'll have then, Clancy.  A clash of similar types!  Cross purposes! 
And the effect.  TENSION!  With a capital T!  You dig, babe?” 

Clarence says nothing.  He merely gapes, befuddled by the words,
overwhelmed by the intensity in the man's voice. 

“No questions?  All right.  Lets take it from the top.  No, wait!  I
almost forgot.  The breakdown at the end.  No good, Clancy.  Strictly 
second rate.  Not a bit of reality to it.  You couldn't have fooled a 
four year old with that performance.  Get into it, babe.  You want 
those lonely, bored, neurotic housewives to identify with your pain, 
feel the despair.  They gotta cry with you, and that ain't gonna happen 
with those transparently phony tears.  Lets really inject some feeling 
into that breakdown.  O.K.?” 

“No, not O.K.!” Clarence screams in anger and confusion.  “Who are you?
What do you want?  What is this anyway?  Am I on Funniest Home Videos? 
Are you Bob Saget? 

“Great!”  the man answers (Whether he has heard Clarence or has
purposely chosen to miss the drift of his questions is impossible to 
determine).  “Lets give it a go then.  From the top.  Quiet everybody. 
This is the Accidental Rendezvous and Attempted Pick-up Scene – Take 
two.  Ready!   Action!” 

The man now sits, his legs dangling over the edge of the roof.  He sets
the bullhorn down on his right and commences watching Clarence. 
Clarence has no idea who this weird character is, a fact which makes 
Clarence uncomfortable and scared.  He considers asking the man once 
more to identify himself, but resists the impulse.  He senses it would 
be futile, a waste of words.  Instead Clarence examines the man himself 
for some clue:   a familiar piece of clothing, a distinctive mark, a 
glimpse of his face, anything that might help place him or explain his 
presence.  The bright sun, shining in Clarence's eyes, hampers his 
efforts.  Clarence tries squinting.  He tries shading his eyes with 
either hand, with both hands.  Nothing helps.  The figure on the roof 
remains little more than a vague shape to Clarence.  A man (apparently 
so).  But which man?  And why?  The lack of answers torments Clarence. 
He resolves not to leave the wall without some, a decision he reaches 
at the precise instant that a girl rounds the corner of the 
administration building.   About nineteen, the girl wears a blue knit 
dress that clings lightly to her slim, but sensual, figure.  She walks 
toward Clarence, who, preoccupied as he is with the enigma of the man 
on the roof, does not see her immediately.


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