Paco's Wasting Your Time: Musings of the Mediocre

Ever wonder what happens when you have virtually nothing to say but oodles of time in which to say it? Yup, I'm wasting your time.

4.22.2005

Capitalist Cupid

From all accounts, society is encouraging chivalry out the door (as well you know, society lives in a duplex. Once chivalry is gone, society and his friends, hedonism, selfishness and parsimoniousness, all play XBox together and talk about how much of a jerk chivalry is). Standards of chivalry might be slipping because they could potentially undermine standards of equality; after the women’s movement of the 60’s and 70’s—when, among other things, women vied for the right to earn comparable salaries for comparable work—some women viewed opening doors and paying for meals as condescending and, ultimately, oppressive (studies later conclusively proved that acts of chivalry, rather than being active attempts to undercut salaries and rights, were actually meager tactics to get, you know, laid). Concepts of “going Dutch” emerged at a monumental crossroads in history. Not only were women beginning to earn more but, as luck would have it, anthropologist/adventurer Howard Carter discovered Holland in 1981. Not only did it become more acceptable for a guy to buy his own cheeseburger and movie ticket, many girls now insisted on covering their own checks.

But, like a dying Catholic grandmother, chivalry can’t go peacefully without leaving you feeling at least a little guilty. As much as I embrace the idea of paying just for myself, it’s still a little awkward to have a waiter place the check on the table equidistant between a girl and me (especially when I make an explicit point to cross my arms and avoid eye-contact with both her and the check). It then becomes a showdown of wills; the gunfighters of the OK Corral never knew tension like I do. My knee will begin bouncing furiously as I struggle to find something (not money or meal related) to discuss. “So… I hear it’s supposed to rain this weekend. How ‘bout that, huh?” In all her cunning and deviousness, she’ll casually point out that it is, in fact, Saturday night and that she had heard it was going to be really nice out. Agg! Foiled! The black, vinyl folder with the check in it sits “unnoticed” next to ignored condiments.

Finally, one of us will come up with something to talk about (probably her, because I’ll still be reeling from her parry and riposte) and the waiter will come around, pick up the folder dealy and ask if we need any change. We’ll both apologize for not having looked at the check yet and then the pressure’s REALLY on. Eyes dart from the check to the face across the table… the waiter’s, well, waiting… throats will be cleared, forks fumbled with… having exhausted my one conversational silver bullet (stupid weather!), I’ll dejectedly reach for the infernal check. Not until my fingers reach the corner of it will she reach halfway to the check in a pathetic display of attempting to pay. She’ll invariably say something like “What do I owe?” or “No, no, let me cover it” in such a way that it sounds like “Ha! Sucker!” I’ll force a smile and say “I wouldn’t think of it” or “Trust me, it’s my pleasure.” She’ll ask if I’m sure as I flip through the seven dollars and overdrawn credit cards I have in my wallet and I’ll assure her that I’m perfectly sure. Just once, I’d love to win that battle. Even if she lets me win because she knows I’m pathetic (and poor). Even if she had a full meal and I only had a Dirty Martini (so it’d only be fair if she covered her tab). Just once, I’d love to win.

Anxious (read "pathetic") men are torn between conflicting ideologies: “fair is fair and even is even” and “Darwinism is trying to eliminate the cheapo-gene from the pool”. We’re struggling to reconcile the virtues of equality with the intrinsic desire to satisfy animal needs (with the full knowledge that naked girls beat abstract nouns damn near every time). Truth is, an entire element of commerce is founded on the premise that residual chivalry will, by force of guilt, make men buy things for women. Capitalism—which normally agrees with me—tells men they need to pay for Y under Z circumstances; capitalism also tells women that if men don’t get Y at Z, they’re to be given no X.

Random Angry Interjection by a Fictional Reader:
“Wait, wait, wait! Paco, I can’t believe you would suggest that women are so materialistic they’d submit to having sex with someone that bought them things.”
Editorial Response:
I can’t believe you would suggest that tactic has ever actually worked for me.

I find a prime example of capitalism’s treason every Friday and Saturday night in the bars and restaurants of most big cities. Chances are good that if you’ve spent a lot of time in the bar districts and restaurant rows of large cities, you’ve seen the guy with the basket of roses walking around. It will generally be an older, kind-looking man (although I’ve seen a couple of girls and ladies from time to time), they don’t have to be foreigners, but they seem to be most times. Anyway, Eddie Extortion will walk into the restaurant, let’s say, and scan the room for tables with one guy sitting with one girl, because he knows they’re potential gold mines. He’ll flash his roses disinterestedly as he breezes past a group of women, he’ll completely ignore a group of men, he’ll make a half-hearted effort with an older married couple, but he’ll never take his eye off the twentysomethings in the corner.

The guy at the table—unless he’s swimming in money—will see Eddie Extortion walk in with his basket of love and make every conceivable effort to plead with Eddie not to offer him roses. He’ll scratch his temple and look out the window. He’ll shift his chair slightly so as to avoid any kind of eye contact. He’ll abruptly shift the conversation into a loud and emphatic diatribe on his hatred of foreigners. All the while squirming (to his mind, imperceptibly) as the rose guy closes in unfazed. Eddie will finally reach the table, with a bundle of roses in hand and look at the guy as he waves the roses directly in front of the girl's face and will (without fail, no matter what part of the country you’re in) utter the same four fatal words: “Roses for the lady?” He doesn’t say “Would you like roses?” because the answer is clearly “No, I don’t want roses, thanks!” He doesn’t ask the girl if she wants roses. He lets her get a whiff of their aromatic villainy and essentially tells the guy with those four words “Look, buddy, we both know you’re gonna look like a bastard if you don’t comply with my demands.”

SIDEBAR: Before There Were Roses...
--Used Volvo for the lady?
--Wood-chipper for the lady?
--Celibacy for the lady?
--North American badger for the lady?
--Geoger Clooney for the lady?


The girl, who has all the while pretended not to see Eddie Extortion until he got to the table, will make one of three moves. A few girls will answer politely for the guy and then feed the guy some line about being inconvenienced by having to carry them around all night. Another few will look expectantly at the guy and all but say “Golly, do I ever love having flowers bought for me.” A large majority of girls, however, will say to the guy (note: not to Eddie the rose peddler), “It’s okay, you really don’t have to.” Then they’ll stare a hole into the guy’s face. “No, no, really. I don’t want any.” The hole starts to itch and she’ll start cocking her head to one side; kinda like twisting a knife in someone’s gut to ensure they bleed to death. The guy’s cornered. Should he risk believing her and rely on his charm to pull him through the night straight into her candlelit room? The girl and the rose guy have never met nor will they ever see each other again, but for that instant, they’re allied against the guy. At this point, she’s started smelling individual roses and caressing the petals. “It’s okay,” she’ll say.

Remember that whole thing about animal urges versus abstract nouns? Sweat has formed on his brow at this point and he’ll look over one last time in vain for any signs of sincerity. Then he’ll buckle under the pressure and try to play off his hesitation as an evaluation of the quality of the roses. “Give her the best rose you have,” he’ll say… defeated. If Eddie and the girl could, they’d slap hands.

“They come by the half-dozen, sir.” Eddie owns the guy at this point; he could say they come by the truckload and Darwin wouldn’t excuse him from his obligation.

“Well then, let’s have the nicest half dozen.” Notice the guy hasn’t asked how much the roses cost. He can’t. Inconceivable. Were he to ask, the slightest grimace when he’s told $45 would expose to the girl exactly how much he thinks she’s worth (or, to be accurate, exactly what she’s NOT worth). Eddie will fumble through the roses, make some ridiculous comment about one particular set of roses being the best of the evening and only tell the guy how much they cost after the six dreadful, hateful, detestable roses are in the girl’s hands. The guy hands over the money, hates the rose guy, the girl and, most of all, himself. The girl and Eddie thank each other and Eddie goes on to start the cycle again with another helpless victim.

But, no, friends, it doesn’t end there. It’s been said before (by many a smarter, more miserly man), Valentine’s Day was conceived specifically with the same idea in mind. See’s, Hallmark and 1800flowers.com came up with Valentine’s Day in 1959 to bolster profits after two consecutive quarters of poor sales. Similarly, Zales invented engagements (and later marriage) as a means to sell all the shiny rocks they’d found. To all this, there’s really only one thing I can say…

Cupid sold us out.

That’s all.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home