February 8, 2006

What follows is a section from an essay to be included in a book on women scheduled for completion in 2006 [or whenever he gets his lazy a** around to finishing it]. Selected chapters will be published as MND exclusives. In book form, the essay will have a different title, but “The Final Quagmire” is comprised of almost entirely new material.

“The Viagra Triangle” is a title used in reference to the congregation of nightspots which stud the Gold Coast, uber-tourista section of Chicago. As its nickname suggests, ‘tis a harrowing place indeed. There’s more cheese to be found there than in the entire state of Wisconsin or on a collection of Barry Manilow’s greatest hits. Due to the prevalence of hyperventilating egos, compensation hairstyles, mafia wannabes, varieties of ethnic American Princesses, cigars, disco tunes, and makeup as opaque a burqua, the scene is one entirely avoided by locals except when promised a sure thing or the possibility of a multi-million dollar door prize.

In upscale parlors like Gibson’s, Tavern on Rush, Palette’s, and P.J. Clarke’s, the men are over-dressed, established, and in search of the type of company one generally has to pay for—one way or another. As for the women, they are glammed up like 70s rock stars and chronologically diverse. Regardless of how long they’ve been on this earth, there is one thing they have in common. They all fall somewhere within what clinicians dub, “The Golddigger Spectrum.” With surgeon enhanced bodies and a focus on low finance, or the study of how to fulfill your dreams via the labors of another, their high heels clatter to and fro as they fashionably display their wares.

While the golddigger is often the subject of societal scorn, I find them superior to a number of their peers due to their honesty. They make little attempt to deny that they hunt for “successful” men alone. These sirens are absolutely devoted to maintaining their appearances and are found in gyms across the city eroding cellulite and providing endless PR for the spandex industry. To behold them on a stair master is to comprehend just how much the consumer economy influences lifestyle choice. There’s nothing or no one they wouldn’t do for unlimited trinkets and hazy junkets to paradises around the globe. And if the bond they crave with the Gordon Gekko’s of the world does not endure, then there’s always divorce which will garner them exactly the same benefits (or possibly more). 

Of course, your narrator only knows such ladies from afar. They are not stupid and have acute squalor-dar which instantaneously alerts them that non-famous and non-flush bachelors are in their presence. Just by the shoes they know where you stand in terms of disposable income. You’d have to put considerable work into fooling them and such efforts have always been beyond me. I recall a time when I walked into a disciplinary hearing wearing a black shirt and a black pair of slacks. I tapped a coworker on the shoulder, waved my hand over my body and announced, “I’m Johnny Cash.” He turned around and corrected me, “No, you’re Johnny No Cash.”

For outsiders, encounters with these ladies make for riveting yarns. Back in 2002, after approaching a girl in one of the triangle’s swankiest bars, my opening was interrupted by, what for the subject, was a most pertinent question: Where did I work? I told her I worked at a high school at which point she promptly turned around and fled. Her behavior was rude, but the steadfast way in which women like that avoid pretenders in their quest for the golden calf, or Platinum Trump as it were, is almost inspiring.

Another time I recall an entrancing nubile stopping me with a gaze on my way to the bathroom. We spoke for awhile and I hoped that a lengthy plot would follow—even if it had to only be rated PG-13. Unfortunately, she was less than impressed with me due to my overlooking an important subtext which I did not know was part of the conversation. In the midst of rambling I was discombobulated by a stern look. She held an empty tumbler before my face and said, “How can you stand there talking to a woman and not offer to buy them a drink?” I drew back. I had noticed little more than her curves. She succeeded in shaming me or at least dazing me so I pulled out my wallet, perhaps my only redeeming feature in her eyes, and motioned to the waitress. Seconds later, however, my pride intervened and announced that he’d be handling all future interactions with this young lady. I replaced the billfold, gave her an off-white smile, and left to go find my friends.

With the exception of Evil Chuck, such were the realities for regular guys on the Gold Coast. Aside from Chuck, no one I knew wanted anything to do with the place. Yet Mr. Kandalos, with his ultra-dominant and manipulative personality, managed to drag us down there endlessly in the years between 2000 and 2003. In his trademark Armani blazers and $250.00 Italian shoes, Chuck fit in well among the exploiters and the expropriators. He took advantage of our times, the victory of the sexual revolution, feminism, and the insecurities of aging women on a regular basis—sometimes even for successive nights. He was both a rousing and aroused success. The rest of us observed his accomplishments with a mixture of admiration and jealousy.

Chuck spoke the language of these ladies; well, at least he did during the initial stages of their courtship. Due to his stretch of post-9/11 unemployment, he was even able to speak authoritatively about soap operas. It wasn’t all an act though. He had many of the same preoccupations they did such as mega-concerns about advancing age. Certainly Chuck did not have the type of looks that afforded much of a downgrade. He was not what anyone would refer to as “classically handsome.” His jet black, swept back hair always featured too much oil for contemporary tastes, and the curves in his nose bore witness to both his terrible temper and his preferred way of handling conflicts. His shape routinely fluctuated between plump and average. Whenever he felt self-conscious about it, he would take pounds off by smoking a few more cigarettes or replacing tonic water with club soda in his vodkas. He often was despondent about the future and examined the past with awe.

In the early nineties, he worked out with Duke at the Quads Gym in Calumet City. From some source in the community he was able to obtain a six month supply of oral steroids. The results were spectacular. He regarded their effect as being the highlight of his life. Several times he fondly shared a few pictures preserved from the era. He’d gaze at them with a mixture of depression and wonderment. “Fire,” he’d say, “can you believe this was once me?”

I could. In one of the photos he was reclining shirtless in a lawn chair circa 1994. His body was devoid of fat and even his face was striated. I’d tell him, “You look like a mastodon here.”

He shook his head in agreement. “I was. Ah, I love the taste of Anavar in the morning. Oh well, that was then...”

His analysis about age was flawed as he made the error of confusing his own preferences with those of the opposite sex. Chuck’s diminished appearance did not equate with lessened production, however. His game was so strong that it never really mattered what he looked like. Even women who initially dismissed him as being too old or condemned him with, “the chemistry just isn’t there,” promptly changed their minds upon being flailed with his Road Warrior interpersonal style. Only after knowing Chuck for several years did I become fully aware of just how deeply ingrained the lust for bad-boys is in many women.

My work at the alternative school provided me with an independent level of proof. The stigma of suspension, expulsion and/or prison only served to magnify our boys’ attractiveness. Not being able to write, read, add basic figures, qualify for driver’s education, or even be allowed on their home school’s campus gave them cache and accentuated their allure.

I still remember a tale told by one student who claimed, at the time, to be juggling seven girlfriends. I knew his family’s economic circumstances well and their income could not have been more than $15,000 a year, so I asked him the question that all Average Frustrated Chumps¹ would want answered, “How can you afford to have seven girlfriends?”

He made a queer face and whispered, “Afford?”

“Yeah, where do you get the money to spend on these dates?”

“Dates?”

He informed me that, if circumstances required, he could get money from one of the girls who was “rich.” He could then take the cash and distribute it to the others, but such eventualities never arose. His “romantic” life consisted in visiting the girls at home while their parents were away. It was a practice which would appeal to men from any historical era.

With Chuck things were little different except that he paid during excursions. He never faced the same obstacles as the rest of us. His life was infinitesimally easier. In a typical situation, Chuck would eschew cabs or public transportation and pick up his prospects for a night out in his Saab. He would then valet the car in front of whatever overpriced restaurant their destination happened to be and then retrieve it the next day if, as was often the case, he was too drunk to drive later in the evening. Once seated he’d buy bottle after bottle of wine which he, I, nor most of the women we knew could ever possibly appreciate. Much conversation and soul searching would be undertaken. Chuck would reveal all sorts of personal secrets while his companion had the opportunity to take in his alpha male characteristics and bravado. It was a sale far better than any he made during the day. Upon leaving, they’d invariably find their way back to one of their apartments where more alcohol would be consumed. Shortly thereafter, Chuck would be invited to consummate their relationship, and, because he was such a swell guy, he never turned down an invitation. I used to imagine his whispering, “I love you,” into the ears of his paramours before leaving in the morning, but I don’t think he ever actually did so. If he had, it would have implied that he was aware of his real personality which he most assuredly was not.

Chuck fully lived under the illusion that he was another man. He reveled in his roguery in a manner few others could, but he harbored the misconception that he remained a stand-up guy. An example of Chuck’s delusions was on display whenever religion would be brought up. He believed that he was getting right down to the sacred heart of the matter when he’d observe: “You know, I don’t think it really matters whether you go to church or not as long as you’re a good person. If you are, then God’s fine by you.” Of course, I have little knowledge as to what puts one on the square with the Lord, but Chuck couldn’t meet his own definition let alone anybody else’s. He was farther from goodness than I am from enshrinement in the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

Chuck never liked children and wanted nothing to do with them, but he simultaneously held a perverse attraction to the institution of marriage. He did not seem to comprehend that the temporary bonds he formed with random females were the entire basis for his extravagant self-regard. Indeed, those endorphin-charged moments were the only thing which gave his life meaning. Despite his tremendous natural ability when it came to picking up chicks, Chuck faced a problem endemic to every harem master: how can one guarantee a perpetual supply of tantalizing women that despise the word no? For Charles Peter Kandalos the answer was always the same: Electric Old Ladyland.

Bernard Chapin