Big Time

Four

The following Saturday, John and Mac sat at their regular booth knowing what they wanted. The waitress dropped the menus on the table. John tried to stop her from leaving, but she was off like a shot. He didn’t need to look at Moroc’s menu; he knew it by heart and knew what he wanted. It was the same thing he had every Saturday.

The 1960s decor, tiles, and cash register gave the place a dated feel. Patrons busy in conversation and engrossed in Saturday papers filled 12 wooden tables as the coffee machine whirred around them and the smell of fresh pastries infused the air. Large glass windows opened the cafe to natural light, and outside a few people sat on stools at blue tables under umbrellas—something that hadn’t been done for a while as New York thawed into Spring.

“Baked eggs with basil and tomato, a large fresh orange juice, and coffee, no cream,” John ordered from the waitress when she returned.

“Same, but cream with my coffee,” Mac said, from behind his sunglasses. He sat next to John, looking seedy.

“So did you call her?” John asked.

Mac frowned, confused. “Who?”

“The blonde from last Saturday night.”

Mac searched his memory. “Nope, why?”

“Just curious.”

He shrugged. “Don’t think I will. You want her number?”

“No,” John said laughing.

“You’re welcome to her number if you can remember her name.”

“You don’t remember her name?”

Mac shook his head with a proud smile.

“It was Heather,” John said, amused.

“Do you want her number or not?” Mac flicked through his Motorola TAC cell, which he’d picked up shortly after the firm had given John one.

“So why did we bother talking to them all night if you weren’t interested in her?”

Mac shrugged. “I would have taken her home if she’d been more forthcoming.”

“So why’d you get her number then?” John enjoyed catching Mac out.

Mac sighed. “If you want to take her out, just do it already. I won’t have a problem with it.”

“I’m not interested in her,” John said. “I’m just curious why you asked for her number if you had no intention of calling.”

“I guess …” Mac stopped and thought for a few seconds. “I guess it was so I had the option of calling her if I was still interested the next day.”

“An option?”

“Yeah, a free option. It cost me nothing to ask for her number, and it cost her nothing to give it to me.”

“You knew when you asked for it you’d never call.”

“That’s not true,” Mac protested.

“Bullshit.” John’s tone was playful but Mac was reacting to it.

“I don’t see what the problem is. After all, you’ve done it. Several times, if memory serves,” Mac said straight-faced. “So don’t play holier than thou.”

John thought about it. A few hazy recollections came back to him.

“Well, if I’m into her, I do call. It’s just that there aren’t that many girls I meet who I’m really into,” John said.

“So why do you do it,” Mac asked, looking around the café, seeming only half interested in the answer.

John thought hard, trying to find an explanation. “Well, I guess it’s an indicator that I’m interested in her, maybe part of the seduction to get her home.”

“Too true. But I asked for that girl’s number when I was leaving, so sex was off the table at that point.”

“The question is, why did you ask?”

“You tell me, Dr. Freud,” asked Mac.

John was stumped. Calling a girl for the first time was an anxious moment that some guys couldn’t handle. But not Mac or John, who had outgrown that fear long ago. “Maybe it’s a form of conquest,” John suggested.

“Yeah?” Mac said, his attention caught again.

“To ask for her number and get it is like an affirmation that we could have had her if we wanted her. We get to wake up feeling good about ourselves without actually having to ask her home.”

“But I would have taken her home and slept with her that night if I didn’t have to run uptown to take care of business.”

“Sure.” John shrugged. “But was she the sort of girl who would have come home with you?”

“Of course she was,” Mac said dismissively while John kept talking.

“… You see, you get your affirmation even if she isn’t easy. Besides, by asking for her phone number, it makes her feel good about herself. It’s a compliment. It boosts her self-esteem.”

“True, but it’s way too early in the day to be talking about this shit.” Mac flashed John a cheeky grin. “Unless, of course, this is all a guise just to get her number.”

John rolled his eyes. “She’s not my type.”

“You know, her number is probably fake anyway. You should call and find out.”

John laughed.

“And that’s another reason not to call a woman,” Mac said, picking up his coffee cup and taking a sip. “How many give fake numbers?”

John had no idea, but he thought the number might be higher than most men suspected. “Getting numbers is sort of self-defeating when you look at it like that.”

“So it’s probably even,” surmised Mac.

John thought about it. A guy talks to a girl for an hour or more at a bar. He asks for her number, giving her self-esteem a boost, as well as his own if he gets it. She then gives him a fake number so as not to insult him. For the guy, it’s a conquest, and the trade-off is she gets to feels attractive. He never calls, and she doesn’t expect him to call.

“Hilarious,” John said.

“What is?”

“We rarely call and they rarely give out real numbers. What a sad city we live in.”

“Yeah, but where else could you live?” Mac asked.

John didn’t even have to think before answering.

“Nowhere.”