Best. Wingman. Ever.
“So, it started at Transport and it ends at Transport,” Aster said as he handed me a pot. He put down his pint and handed me some change. “I thought I’d get you a pot since you don’t like to drink so much.”
Eighteen months ago, I was in the middle of Transport bar, chatting up girls, and waiting to meet an English traveller I’d arranged to meet on the Internet. My phone rang.
“Hey there, it’s Aster. It’s Firstclass. I’m inside – where are you?”
“What are you wearing? Uh, never mind. I’ll put up a pinky.” I jumped up onto a couch and threw my pinky finger in the air. I saw Aster. The bouncers politely asked me to step down.
26 years old, English, scrubby looking, a little nervous, and wearing a black padded jacket with German colours. I thought, who the fuck is this guy?
“We should reminisce about some classic times.”
“How about the time you picked up at Lord of the Fries?”
Aster met Danielle, got some fries, went back to Danielle’s place, had a few drinks, and had sex for about 18 hours straight. When he described the night to me, I think his exact words were “No holds barred debauchery. Anal sex, toys. Nothing’s sacred.” Aster saw a lot of Danielle after that. He started telling her about some fundamental concepts of game: The girl feels what you feel, being authentic.
“That sounds great,” she said. “Because I’m all about getting girls back here, fucking them, and kicking them out on the curb.”
“That was one of my favourites actually,” said Aster.
“What about that time… We were at Bar Open and I picked up a hippie.”
“Oh yeah. She really was a hippie, wasn’t she.”
“She sure was. She had a sign on her toilet saying ‘Don’t be plush, only flush if you must’.”
Aster and Monty had just arrived. Monty was saying “Man, it’s terrible. I’ve been sitting in that bar alone. You can’t pick up in a bar alone… Can’t be done.”
Mandy came up and put her arm around me. “So how long have you guys been together?” said Monty.
“About 40 minutes.”
Monty nearly spat his beer.
“Yeah,” said Aster. “Monty has never picked up in a bar.”
“Never?” Yet, he sleeps with all of his female employees.
“You know, I think we’re more balanced now than we were then. We don’t need to go out every weekend. It was an obsession for a year there.”
“Yeah, that’s right… Hey, I got you something,” I said as I reached into my bag. “The colours didn’t come out exactly how I wanted, but here.” I handed him a T-shirt saying “Best. Wingman. Ever.”
“Oh…” He laughed. “Wow… Thanks man. I’ll rock this in Thailand. That’s awesome.”
Friendship between wingmen is a special thing. In a way, it’s like going to war together. When you take on a wingman, you’re going to go through a lot of shit together. You’re going to see some beautiful things, and very ugly things – and I’m not talking about girls here. There have been times when I’ve been close to crying, when I had to face some harsh truths, wondering what’s the point of it all. I’m glad you were there with me.
I thought back on all the good times. The times when I slept on the couch when I got rejected by his girl’s friend. All the trouble we we got in and out of. All the times we took the piss out of girls and they didn’t realise. All the times when I had to drag my girl away from him because his English accent was too “enchanting”.
They’re deporting him, and he’s barred from the country for three years. His flight leaves at 1 a.m. on Thursday. Time of writing is 12:06 a.m. on Thursday…
To my good friend, good bye and good luck. We’ve had many adventures, and I wish you many more.
