Persuasion

A fictional story unfortunately based on real people. 

         All men are carsalesmen, and it is only a matter of time before you find out he sold you a lemon. -Ana

Raymond was a man, and an arrogant one at that. He was the type of man that was sure of himself, a man who possessed that perverse, yet often quite comical, faux self-awareness of the many gifts he had to offer to the world. And by the world, I mean to half of the world’s population, and by half of the world’s population, I mean the feminine half. Yes, Raymond was one of those infallible men who believed himself to be a gift given directly from the Universe itself to the women of the world.

         Yes, Raymond was a rather handsome man. Being the ripe age of thirty-three, he had a full head of dark brown hair that he kept cut short and combed over with two bright emeralds for eyes that often wandered from lady to lady. He kept himself in relative shape, disciplining himself to stay on a strict bicep-curl regiment three days a week, and Raymond was relatively tall, but the type of tall that didn’t make one think he was tall, just that he wasn’t short.

         All his life, Raymond had it easy with women; approaching them, talking to them, loving them, and most importantly, leaving them. That was what he was best at. It could almost be seen as a sort of twisted talent how easily he could abandon those he persuaded to sleep with him. No, a woman could never satisfy Raymond for long, and it was no fault of their own. How could it be? It was simply in his very nature to leave. You wouldn’t fault a polar bear for his hunting of a helpless penguin would you? 

As a polar bear is indifferent to the penguin’s life story, its family, or stories of its mundane job, Raymond couldn’t be bothered to care less about the women of the world. The amount of knowledge he had on each one he seduced was their hair color and maybe a name, if he even bothered to remember, but other than that, Raymond had no desire in learning about these people. Why should he? They were women, they had nothing to offer worth mentioning anyhow. From his angle, he was blessing these lowly women with his presence, his look a generous gift, his touch a miracle from God. 

With false promises of passion and romance, he’d shower las mujeres in compliments, praising their beauty and bodies, relentless in his pursuit of the diamond in their muff, until at last, he would finally have them. Always telling them he’s only passing through for one night, Raymond would take them to a random hotel on the outskirts of town, fuck them all night long, and in the morning, they would awake to a pre-typed note always beginning with, “Hey You,” saying how he regrets he couldn’t stay longer, that before he left he stopped and stared at them as they slept, thinking how beautiful it would be to wake up that face every morning. But Raymond was already back home in his own bed, sleeping soundly well into the afternoon before his next night time excursion. 

Raymond sat at the bar, taking long sips from a strong cocktail, his eyes wandering around, drifting out into the restaurant before him. The restaurant, a small, intimate supper club he frequented most weekends, always reminded him of when he was a boy gazing up into the night sky in the midst of summer; a thick darkness with the tiny flickering of candles on each table twinkling, dancing, like little stars far away. In the back of the room lay the stage where four men in black suits played together in chaotic harmony. Horns blared and competed and synchronized as the drums and bass maintained the rhythm. Their faces were the only ones visible throughout the jazz supper club, each one of them glistening with sweat from the heat under the focused stage light.

As he looked around the joint, he couldn’t see any of the faces of the patrons, all black shapes with no features; silhouettes that occasionally caught the flicker of the candle, revealing a small glimpse of a woman or a thinly mustached man, but for the most part, each person might as well have been a shadow. While the main dining room lay in darkness, the bar where Raymond sat every Saturday night remained relatively lit, allowing himself the pleasure of observing the multitude of people who occupied the barstools each week.

Yet there was something different about this week. Raymond had seen the usual crowd, the typical Saturday night clientel wearing overly elegant clothing and too much lipstick. He had trained his eyes to see through their off-brand Gucci dresses and eau de parfum, but something peculiar stuck out to him that night. Something sitting at the end of the bar.

 One of the light fixtures above the bar had busted, and, instead of pointing off-center, was fixated on a single stool at the end of the bar, and in said stool a woman sat. Not just any woman, but a woman the likes he had never seen before, a woman who immediately drew his gaze with her ebony hair that shone like black silk in the yellow glow. Her face golden, serene, her body wrapped tightly in a white dress that was reminiscent of a Michelangelo sculpture. She sat with a friend, a thicker woman with a rambunctious laugh that bothered Raymond twenty feet away. 

The cheerleader effect, he thought, taking another sip, eyes locked on her like a starving wolf. She brings the fatty to make herself look better. I see your game, girl. You’ll be something else once Fatty leaves. As if the larger woman heard him, she got up, giving the white-dress woman a kiss on the cheek, and left.

Wait a moment, thought Raymond. This woman in the white dress. Nothing was changing about her. She was just as beautiful now as she was with the fatty next to her. All those years of studying Barney Stinson’s philosophy on women and finally, something contradicted what Raymond had always believed to be fact. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; at least top ten in his list of women slept with, but before he could rank her, she would have to first be on the list. He finished his drink, stood up, adjusted his tie and pressed his pants, and Raymond, with all the confidence in the world, approached the white-dressed woman. 

Ana was a woman, a very smart one at that. I met her long ago, and such an impression did she leave on me at first glance that I had to know her story. So I, like Raymond, approached her one summer day in the middle of a park and asked for her name. 

Born in a Cali, una ciudad caliente del sur de Colombia. Con un ritmo delicado pero fuerte al caminar, casi parecía que diera minúsculos pasos de baile, pero era el compás de su origen, inconfundible. De pelo negro largo, abundate  y aletiado, como si hubiera dejado que el viento lo hubiera estilizado durante el dia. Ojos oscuros, intensos, fijos, amables y coquetos. Pero definitivamente su sonrisa era la que inundaba el salón  con aura de alegría, el tipo de sonrisa que hace olvidar el correr del tiempo y recuerda vivir en el instante. 

 Since then, she has become both my closest friend and wisest teacher. She taught me the most valuable lesson of how to be a real man, and she told this through a story she began with a man named Raymond approaching her in a dimly lit restaurant as trumpets played far away. 

“Hey there,” said Raymond, sitting next to Ana. “How’s it going?”

Ana said nothing, fixed her focus on the four men in black suits playing on the stage. 

“Buy you a drink?”

“No,” said Ana, taking a sip from a golden-yellow glass of something Raymond could not pronounce. He always had trouble saying non-American words, but never cared enough to learn. “I’m all set.”

“I see that.” Raymond called the bartender over who had been polishing the same tumbler glass for the last hour. “Two of whatever she’s drinking.”

“Veuve Clicquot, sir?” the bartender confirmed, lazily lost in work autopilot.

“In American, thank you.”

The bartender sighed and shook his head. “Bubbles.” 

He snapped his fingers, like a Hollywood douchebag might snap his fingers when he says “What’s up, big man,” cause he couldn’t care to remember your name. 

“Thanks, big man.” Raymond turned to Ana who seemed to be pretending he wasn't there. She wished he’d just buy the drink and go, but oh no. He would persist. 

“I haven’t seen you here before, miss?” 

“Maybe you just didn’t see me.” 

“So what’s your name?” 

“Ana.”

“Ana. That’s a pretty name.”

“My mother thought so, too.”

The drinks finally were poured. Raymond slid two single dollar bills to the bartender, who looked at them with utter disdan in his hands.

What an asshole. He pocketed the cash and resumed his detailed polishing. Raymond on the other hand thought himself a good dude for helping out the little guy. Drinks in hand, he returned to Ana, who had since turned back around as the band had paused.

“Bubbles?” He set the glass down in front of her. She glanced at the glass and pushed it to the side.

“I’m good, thanks.” 

Why doesn’t she want the drink? They usually don’t mind the drink. Even if they walk off, they always take the drink. “I’m sorry, Ana,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“It’s alright. Thank you for the offer.” She turned back to face the stage as the band started back up.

“It’s just I was sitting over there and I saw you under that light, and I thought you just might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” She stopped and turned to face him, looking into his sickly, greedy green eyes. 

Not just the tongue of snake, but the eyes of one, too, Ana thought. It was in this moment that Ana knew the man called Raymond would not leave her alone. All the signs were there: she had yet to engage in conversation, denied his already purchased drink, and had barely even looked at him till then. He was either really stupid or extremely persistent, either option unappealing. 

Ana knew Raymond’s words rang hollow in his presumably empty head, words that he had probably heard Ben Affleck give in some ridiculous movie, and that he never really knew what power those words, albeit generally shallow, had. Before she made any decisions, she had to confirm something.

“You say that to all the girls I bet,” Ana said, playing along.

“Not all of them,” Raymond said, feeling his ego throb, his certainty of having sex with Ana solidified in his monkey head. “Only you.” He stood closer to her, softening his voice and slightly raising his eyebrows. But that confirmed what she had known all along: the man called Raymond was an asshole, and she had known too many like him before. She was tired and relatively bored, so Ana decided to have some fun that night

“Alright -Raymond, was it- I’ll play along,” she said, flashing a pretty white smile and crossing her legs. “But I want a gin and soda.”

Raymond snapped his fingers. “Coming right away. Bartender! A gin and soda please.” His phone rang. “One sec.” He answered. “Robbie! You sonuvabitch, how the hell are you?” He put one hand to the phone, “Excuse me, Ana.” Raymond stepped off towards the bathroom. 

Ana motioned to the bartender who was just starting to grab the bottle of gin. “Hey,” she whispered. “How often is that guy here?” 

“Every Saturday.” A two dollar tip doesn’t cover loyalty. 

“Mhm, and does he usually talk to women like this?”

“Yeah. Most of them ignore him, but by the end of the night, he'll usually leave with one.”

“I see. Tell you what,  I’ll give you twenty bucks if you give me water and lime all night instead of liquor.” Ana pulled a twenty from her pocket and slid it across the sticky bartop.

The bartender nodded and took the wet money and set a glass of water before her just as Raymond was coming back from the bathroom. 

“Sorry about that, Miss Ana,” he said, sitting arrogantly close to her. “Quick business call.”

She smiled, took the water glass and drained it in one go, feigning the bite of alcohol on her face. “Buisness at this hour? You must be pretty important.” Raymond grinned deviously, his excitement pounding in his chest like the drums on stage. 

He drained the bubbles in his glass. “Ah, you know. I just do what I gotta do, you know?” 

“I don’t think so,” Ana said, holding up two fingers to the bartender. “You’re gonna have to show me.” The lazy and annoyed bartender set down two shot glasses filled to the brim. 

“Shots, huh?” Raymond laughed. What was seemingly not going his way was now falling into his lap. God, he was good. “I like your style, Ana.” 

Ana smiled, raising the shot. “Salud.”

Raymond followed suit. “Salute.” They threw the glasses back and for the next thirty minutes, Ana bought them each a round, hers pure, wonderfully refreshing water, and his, well, smelt like gasoline and might as well have come out of a bottle labeled, “XXX.” 

He began with sweet nothings, empty and shallow compliments that he could recycle over and over again with a different woman’s name each time. No originality, nothing new or special that pertained strictly to Ana, only meaningless words he memorized as part of his act, his role as a stand-up man. Raymond showered her with niceties addressing her beauty, her hair, her accent, the latter being rather offensive, and was relentless in his pursuit of her.

Ana knew the man called Raymond was bullshitting from the get, but even still, some part of her wished that he wasn’t. She wished she could believe he wasn’t lying to her just to get in her pants, that he really held the conviction he saw the most beautiful woman in the room right in front of him and was compelled by something greater than himself to talk to her. But she didn’t. She had believed them before. She wouldn't again.

Pretty soon, Ana was listening to Raymond give a slurred-speeched recounting of the most recent J.R.E. episode followed by why The Godfather showed the plight of "true Americans."

“Have you even ever seen The Godfather?” Raymond asked through belches and hiccups. Ana smiled and shook her head, even though she had been watching American cinema long before she lived there. Why do men always assume any one who speaks with an accent have no clue about anything American, and why, of all movies, they haven’t seen The Godfather? 

“Well,” he continued, “the point is--” 

“Raymond?” Ana interrupted, unable to endure another second of his drunken babbel, “What say we go back to your place, huh?” Raymond smiled and snaped his fingers. She grabbed his hand and, helping him to his feet, led him out the front door.

Dealing with drunk people when you aren’t drunk is already terrible enough as it is, but holding one steady on a dirty sidewalk at midnight waiting for your Uber to arrive, trying to tune out the bullshit being spewn in your ear, half unintelligible, the other half slightly racist, you tend to wonder what you did to deserve such a fate. 

Ana sat him down on the ground and he took a quick powernap after throwing up a little bit between his legs. His phone slid out of his pocket and onto the cold, wet street. Ana picked it up, brushing the dirt from the screen. It began to ring. The caller I.D. read, “Baby.” A photo of Baby came up when she called, and Ana thought how absolutely gorgeous she was, how sorry she was to have to be with the man called Raymond. Her peaceful blue eyes were tired with dark circles underneath. They looked just like Ana’s mother’s had in the photos taken after Ana was born. 

When the Uber pulled up, Ana swung the rear door open and shoved Raymond in, indifferent to the fact she slammed his head into the roof by accident.

“Ow, shit!” Raymond cried as he threw himself head-first into the back seat. “That hurt, man.”

“Sorry,” Ana said, getting in next to him. “Get up.” Raymond drunkenly gyrated till he was right side-up, and Ana closed the door. The driver slammed his foot on the gas and away they went down the empty street. 

“Where are we going again?” Raymond slurred, his eyelids heavy with drunken weariness. 

“You’ll see,” she said having dropped the sultry tone of voice and pleasant demeanor. She was tired, so tired. The uber continued to speed on until they had passed the city limits. Ana smiled as she rested her head on the chilled window, looking out into the city, remembering her mother. 

By this point, Raymond had no clue where they were going. He closed his eyes to rest up for the long, five-minute session of dispassionate love-making ahead, expecting to be woken up when they got back to his place. But Raymond was wrong. 

He awoke to a pair of soft, sweet smelling hands grabbing his shoulders softly, ever so gently, before yanking him onto the hard asphalt. Raymond tried to raise himself but could not, instead laying there silently holding his hand up, breathlessly calling for them to come back before throwing up and succumbing to sleep.