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by Vanessa Rebello

Before entering the office, Joe read the big letters on the board outside – ‘JJ Matthews:  Professional Wingman Services’. What he didn’t read were the small letters. “We reserve the right to choose our customers,” Matthews informed him. 

Joe had spent the last ten minutes explaining his situation to this man. He needed a woman in his life. It had been so long, he was beginning to forget what that thing below his belly button was really made for. 

“But... why?” asked Joe. “Is it about the money? Because, I can pay in advance.”

“No, no. Money is not the problem at all.”

“Then what is it?” asked Joe, leaning across the table, struggling to grasp his rejection.

“The thing is,” said Matthews, looking for an explanation. “We have a 100% guarantee system.”

“I know! That’s exactly why I came to you. It has been almost five years now since... well... you know. So I need a 100% guarantee.”

Matthews sat back in his chair, foot a-tapping, fingers intertwined on his lap. He had known that this day would come, but preparing for it was something he hadn’t considered. How do you tell a man, politely, that the only way he would get a 100% guarantee on some lovin’ was if he hired a hooker?

He found it was difficult to pin point the exact cause of Joe’s repulsiveness. Sure, he was not a good looking man, but he wasn’t an eyesore either. His black headed nose was large, but not large enough to bulge out of his face. His almond shaped eyes drooped at the outer edges, pitiful like a mongrel begging for scraps. Under his straggly moustache, his thin lips formed a straight line, devoid of the emotions that his eyes so easily displayed. 

It wasn’t just this dismal appearance that bothered Matthews. It also had something to do with his drooping shoulders, the inability to know what to do with his hands, and the total lack of self confidence.

“We can’t give you a 100% guarantee,” said Matthews. “That’s the problem.”

Joe sank into his chair, desperate and how. This was his last resort. How was he going to live down a rejection from a wingman service? 

“It’s alright. You don’t have to guarantee anything. Just... at least give it a shot,” he begged.  Not a dying ounce of dignity remained in the conversation.

“I’m sorry. I really am. I can’t put our company’s reputation at stake like that.”

“Please,” he said, knowing full well how pathetic he sounded. “I won’t tell anyone.”

The two men shared the awkward moment, both aware of the fruitlessness of this meeting. They let the silence linger in the air, long and drawn out, painful to the ears.

Joe’s eyes brimmed with tears, weighed down with as much indignity as sorrow. He clenched the money in his hand, and thought about making a scene. It was something he thought about often. Then he gently pushed his chair back as he stood up, nodded his thanks and went on his way.

He walked out of the building, money still in hand, head to the ground. He looked up, took a deep breath, and let the sound roar out of his mouth. 

“ARRGGHH”

Nothing ever went his way in life. Ever. He began to walk, his pace steadily rising until he was sprinting. Small beads of sweat had dotted his forehead when his legs stopped moving and he found himself outside the brothel. He stood a few steps away from the gates, catching his breath, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. 

‘It’s not such a bad thing,’ he told himself. ‘Everyone’s done it at some point of time.’

A teddy-clad damsel spotted him from the window of the first floor. She bent forward, displaying her best assets and smiling seductively.

‘See, she wants this. She wants you.’

Movement in the next window caught his eye. The curtains were partially drawn, but he could see a woman looking in the other direction, watching a customer leave. Long reddish-brown curls tumbled down her back ending at her waist.

‘She’s beautiful,’ he thought. A smile touched his lips. ‘Absolutely stunning.’

The customer he had seen leaving the room opened the main gates and walked out towards him. He excused himself was brushed past Joe, grinning.

‘What was he grinning at?’ thought Joe. ‘Was he laughing at me?’

The thought stabbed him like a fork in the eye. ‘What if she rejects me too?’

His eyes widened. Was it really possible?

‘They don’t reject anyone. But what if she does?’

He looked back up at the windows. The women weren’t looking at him anymore. Maybe it was a sign. The crumpled note fell out of his hands. If there ever was to be a person rejected by a prostitute, it would, in all likelihood, be him. 

He gave up. There was nothing worth wanting, at the risk of never getting it; there was nothing left to fight for. Home was a long, slow walk away, which was perfect as he had all the time in the world. The small bottle of pills in his pocket rattled in rhythm with his walk. He stopped, took it out of his pocket and looked at it. He perched himself on the sidewalk and gave his options a quick consideration. The bottle was opened.

In a few minutes Hope, although that wasn’t really her name, would make her way around the corner towards Joe. It’s hard to say, though, if those few minutes would be a few too many.