Tuesday, 01 March 2011

• How My Younger Brother Taught Me To Get Numbers

  

  Back when a twelve-year-old Oliver ran around making a spectacle of himself, he was an awkward attention whore. Me, Oliver, that is to say. I had a sketchy grasp on marketing. My task, as I saw it, was as simple as to endear myself to the general population, almost without exception. I tended to botch that simple mission.

   

  Many years of error -- leaving aside the trial for a more intelligent cad -- bred me, at long last. I am now calm and collected, extroverted and, on a good day, engagingly charming. I make full use of my all my unnatural advantages and learned powers of pretty. On a good day, I feel rather liked.

  I have three little brothers. One six years younger than me, one four years younger than him, and the last five years younger than that. As a result, I've had an opportunity to watch lads deal with the same problems as I've always dealt. It's interesting to see how they deal, also interesting to see how they deal better. I shall give this one example.

  One time, me kid brother Harpo (I'll call him Harpo in this blog), who was twelve then, went to a water park, filled all with water slides and things. We let him be, and he found himself floating around the lazy river, minding his own business and enjoying the sunshine. I found a shady spot and settled to contemplating body types, in good view of the lazy river so I could keep an eye on him. He went past a few times alone. The next time I saw him, he'd gathered people to floating with him. And by people, I mean two pretty girls.

  I don't know what he did, exactly. Whatever it was, he did it again, twice more on the next few circuits. I never learned his secret, but he managed to have a gaggle of girls giggling around him all afternoon, and the girls began collecting male hangers on, and all was gaiety and pomp, as far as I could tell.

  Soon after that, the afternoon began winding down, and we gathered the lad out of the water before he went too pruny around the edges. He, no doubt a bit dismal about the turn of affairs, climbed from the artificial lagoon and followed along. On the way he paused and said he had something he needed to quickly do. Off he dashed. Some few minutes of waiting later produced the child, Harpo, again, he carrying a notebook--a bit damp for wear--and a pen, and hiding a warm expression.

  As it turned out, he'd obtained for himself telephone numbers for not less than two of the fair maids, through supreme guile and all that. A quite heart-warming event for an older brother figure, such as myself, you may be well to believe.

  I'd have never thought to carry along a notepad and a pen to collect the phone numbers of fair maidens. And even if I did, I'd have forgot to use the bally implements. This new generation is clever, to say the least.

  Who taught you how to flirt with the opposite sex?

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