The Blind Leading the Blind  

Believe it or not, but back in the day I was surprisingly successful with the fairer sex. Despite lacking the generally requisite chiseled features and/or inflated bank account, for a short period of time I managed to notch my belt with ease before ultimately tricking persuading a great woman into a serious relationship. While I'd love to take all the credit for my consummate cocksmithing, there's a special someone who deserves a much bigger nod than myself. His name is Angel, and he was undoubtedly the world's best wingman ever.

Although charismatic, attractive, and ethnic, it was none of these traits that made him the Bucky to my Captain America. Unparalleled as an all-around decent human being, his biggest weakness became my greatest strength. For you see, Angel was blind, having been that way since birth. Our paths happen to cross in the most serendipitous of ways. In a time when I was just beginning to explore advanced techniques for attracting girls, his useful situation practically fell into my lap.

I was on my lunch break from the firm I temped at in downtown Portland, weaving my way through the multitude of crosswalks and high traffic streets, when all of a sudden I spotted her. A red-haired vixen within shouting distance, diagonally across the intersection from where I was standing. Deciding to go for it, I attempted to catch her attention with a loud "Hey!" only to have it muted by a large cement mixer truck that barreled around the corner and right in front of me. To my disappointment, she was now out of range and would be unable to hear the "Wanna go halves on a bastard!?" I had planned on following it up with.

Then someone had a death grip on my forearm. Turning to face what I had assumed would be a belligerent bum, I started to channel Steven Segal in anticipation of having to spare some pavement for their face. Instead I came around to a ghost white Mexican wearing sunglasses -- on a dark October day. "Holy shit man," he said, "Thank you." Apparently he mistook my mating call as a cry of warning, which in fact saved him from being turned into a quesadilla by the cement truck's high speed illegal left turn. Who was I to steal his sense of gratitude, especially at such detriment to my own personal glory? Besides, he was adamant about buying me a few beers that evening, and I had no intention of relinquishing my penis by forsaking the opportunity.

Later that evening, after we had a few pitchers on his tab and I smoked him in 5 consecutive games of foosball, we retired to a seat at the bar. As the alcohol began to overtake his higher brain functions, he regaled those nearby with a tale of my heroics from earlier that day. Somehow it came out as if I had physically thrown my body on top of his in a spontaneous act of courage. I decided to let Angel have his moment -- he had earned it.

What I never expected was the windfall of being looked upon as an utterly selfless individual. People buy you drinks, give you the "pat on the back with sincere shoulder squeeze" move, and women seem less -- if not at all affected -- by an overworked looking guy with a no respect temp job that pays mostly in self deprecation. Very soon I not only settled into this role, I built upon the very foundation of what made Angel the wingman of my dreams.

The Ice Breaker. Like it mattered. I could always approach a group of women with Angel next to me, asking them to confirm to him how good he looks, as I myself obviously had no fashion sense and could not be trusted. A blind guy is about the least threatening suitor for any woman, as appearance is completely removed from the equation. The fact that he came with a semi-funny and cute "in a geeky kind of way" friend who had rescued him and his six kittens from a burning building was nothing to blink at either.

The Drinks. Angel was independently wealthy, thanks mostly to a few "better living" patents he held. Between his deep pockets and inability to read a receipt, only on rare occasions did I actually pay for anything.

The Moves. Having never seen someone dance, out on the floor Angel came off much like Elaine from Seinfeld. Standing next to that, my 6'7" ass might as well have been Gene Kelly. And if things ever got too talented, I'd just tell him that some guy was checking him out and that we should go sit back down.

The Big Fat Friends. Likely the most important duty for any wingman is to keep occupied the ever oppressive, usually repulsive, cock blocking mother hen who lives and dies by the mantra "We came together and we are leaving together." Most packs of guys will have a rotating assignment, or even resort to groveling just to have a buddy fall on that grenade. Angel didn't care. His only requirement was that she not smell like tequila, because according to him, only whores drink that stuff.

Sadly, as time moved on, so did Angel. A little over a year after I accidentally saved his life, Angel was married to a beast of a woman named Sophia. Probably the most ironic thing is that they were set up by friends -- you guessed it -- on a blind date. But my time with him availed me to more than just a lot of fun; having that level of exposure with women helped me to understand them better, learn to carry a greater respect for them, and even understand why my infamous line of "I must be huntin' treasure, 'cause I'm diggin' yer chest!" isn't really as awesome as I thought it was.

Bookmark and Share

9 Reasons to Live

Post a Comment