Noodle Box was a sort of ladies man. Anyway he wanted to be, and he was never shy in letting his feelings be known.
Noodle Box would keep a rolodex of pick-up lines in his brain and when he would approach a girl, he would sift through
this mental catalogue and choose the right one.
One night at a bar he sees a short dark-skinned girl with jet-black hair. He picks up his feet and drags himself over, stops in front of her.
He smiles.
“You must be lonely.”
“What?”
“Cause we're just starting to talk now.”
The thing with Noodle Box is, he's a low average triple-A hitter who thinks he's at bat in the majors. He's a tenacious thing and at
times desperate, but overall he's an unattractive man.
He was born from a cockney and a southern bell who, in a moment of weakness, took a shot at love. They brought Noodle up in New Orleans
until he was four then the Southern Bell took him back up to Northern Louisiana to live with her parents. His father, the cockney, went
back to his cockney posse and they did what they always had dreamed of, which was to start a traveling cockney carnival. It was young
Noodle's greatest fear to have to perform with them and he was made to time and time again on visits from his mother's. He loathed the
tight pink and red-striped costumes they made him wear, which gave him a rash on his back. He came to loath having to visit his father,
who was always too busy with his new cockney family.
But that was then.
Another night at a different bar Noodle Box finds himself lost in thought standing over the urinal. While he's in the bathroom a double date
walks in the door. Two slim ladies with cropped blonde hair. They click their way to a table near the back and sit while their dates,
two hulk-like men, cross to the bar and order everyone drinks. Of these two men it could be easily said one would like more to cross a hungry
leopard than to slight, even a little, either short-tempered man.
Noodle Box comes out of the bathroom and sees these ladies at the table. He sees a blonde with red lips. He sees a dark eyed doe with
curls and he knows his journey either starts or ends with them.
Noodle Box picks his feet up and marches across the bar directly and stops in front of them. He clears his throat.
“Am I dreaming, cause if I am, I don't wanna wake up.”
“Excuse me?”
“What does a fire-man do when there's two fires at the same time?” The ladies stare up from their seats.
“I don't know but we can try and find out.”
Noodle Box winks, shines his white teeth, bares his soul. The tap on his shoulder goes thump, thump, thump.
There is an alleyway that separates the bar from the adjacent Chinese restaurant. It's dark in that ally, especially at night.
The first thug slams his fist into Noodle Box's stomach. Noodle doubles over, clutches his chest. The other thug pounds him on the back
two or three times and Noodle box hits the cement. They take turns kicking him until the fun wears off. They look down
at Noodle box, who's curled in ball shaking.
"That's for being a pip-squeak," the one says.
"Yeah, and for talking to our ladies," the other says.
Then they dust their hands, as though it were a good days work, and leave.
Noodle Box groans. Noodle Box moans. Noodle Box slowly uncurls. He sits up and takes a deep breath. He examines the large cut on
his elbow. He lightly touches his ribs. It's been a long time since he was beaten up, maybe since high school,
but its not been long enough. He wishes he had a cigarette.
A faint whisper from a grey voice catches Noodle Box's attention. He turns to find an old man in dirty, torn clothes,
laying on his side, around back of the dumpster. The man's got a beard, and holds a pan-fried dumpling in a black-gloved hand.
“Got beat up, did ya?”
“Nice of you to notice.”
“Hurts like hell, doesn't it?”
“Yes, yes it does.” Noodle Box touches the cut below his eye which bleeds freely. He wipes the blood on his tee-shirt.
“What'da ya do to deserve it, son?” The old man sits up, mats down his beard with the palm of his hand.
“I don't really know.”
“Well, you must've done something.”
“I guess I did.”
“So, what is it?”
“I tried to put out two fires at once.”
"How do you do that?"
"That's just it, isn't it."
“What the hell are you talking about, boy?”
“I guess I'm talking about girls...”
“Ah hah! A lady's man.”
“At least I'm trying to be.”
“No shame in that, kid!”
Noodle box looks at the man who's come alive in his eyes.
“Hell… I used to fetch more tail than a hot dog in a bucket full of fish.”
“How's that?”
“Son, you wanna be a ladies man you gotta learn how to control your urges. You gotta learn how to learn the way.”
Noodle Box stands, brushes the dirt off his pants and shirt. He searches in his pockets, produces a dollar and hands it to the old man.
“I'll work on that. Thanks for the advice.”
“You're not listening!” says the old man.
But Noodle Box already has his back to him.
“I know the secret of love!” cries the man and Noodle Box turns back.
"Oh yeah? And what is that?"
The old man slowly gets to his feet. He reaches into the breast pocket of his old coat and produces a faded orange envelope.
He holds it out for Noodle Box.
“Take it.”
“What is it?”
“Just take it.”
Noodle Box takes the envelope from the man. But before he can open it, the old man stops him.
“Not here, please.”
“What's in it?”
“Inside is the secret to love, young man.”
“You wrote it down?"
“I've kept it with my for 45 years! It almost ruined me, but I bounced back. I'm done with dumplings, son. Now it's your turn."
Noodle Box scratches his head. He weighs the envelope in his hand; it doesn't feel heavy, just about the weight of two or three
folded pieces of paper.
When noodle Box gets back to his apartment, he throws his coat on the couch and sits down with the worn orange envelope in his hand.
He peels back the frail seal and removes three pieces of paper.
The first page is a diagram of a woman's body with some notes written almost illegibly by hand. The second and third pages are
full of writing, this time typed neatly.
The writings begin as follows:
It is said of the human spirit that its journey through the fleshy confines of life is similar to that of a lost key looking for
its perfect lock. But whereas in the physical realm only one key can open one lock, in the spirit realm there are many keys to a
single lock. To master the art of love, one must master one's self. The human body speaks a language which, if learned, will reveal
another's desires, fantasies and secret urges. The following is a guide. Use it wisely.
Noodle Box turns the page over to find a set of principles in the form of a list. The list is broken down into three major categories.
The first is about diet. The second is a strict regiment of physical practice aimed at conditioning and improving the physical form.
The third is a detailed explanation of small physical movements, twitches, spasms, ticks. These small movements, the paper goes on to
explain, are the foundation of a language between bodies.
Her left eye twitches. You curl your left pinky. She suddenly itches her nose. Has she detected your urges?
You shuffle your feet. Her right temple pulses. Quickly exhale! Again, her temple pulses. You are on the right track if her urge is to
fornicate in view of her neighbors.
Noodle Box pins the pieces of paper to the wall beside his bed. It takes two months for the cuts on his face and the bruises on his ribs
to heal. During this time he spends every waking hour focusing on the set of principals. He changes his diet almost exclusively to fruit,
as the instructions insist. He performs mundane physical movements and focuses with the vigor of an athlete. Incidently, the list also
requires Noodle to practice a set of stretches that his cockney father used to make him do each morning. Noodle Box used to hate doing
these pointless exercises.
With practice, Noodle learns to like doing them.
As Noodles comes to learn, the logic behind the principles is simple. In the context of a male picking up a female,
the body involuntarily secretes oils from glands into the air. This is picked up on by the opposite side, and in reaction to
what it senses, it discharges its own reply. These secretions are a sort of dance, a back and forth between the two people charged
with determining if a biological match can be made. After all, nature and its subsequent species are invested heavily in the stock
market of healthy reproduction.
Indication of these subtle spasamings, twitches in either temple or the eyes, would read as a match. Spasms from the muscles in
the throat, neck or shoulders would indicate the opposite. All you have to be able to do is ask a question using your own subtle
twitches and spasamings; train your body to secrete from individual glands at will.
And learn the map of these glands and their meaning.
Noodle Box stands in front of the mirror for hours and concentrates on making his left eye twitch. Once he achieves it, he moves
on to the right eye. Once he masters that one, it's on to his temples.
His cuts and bruises have healed. His body has taken on a new form. And after exactly two months and 18 days of practice, Noodle is ready.
It was nearing the end of summer. The days were beginning to shorten and a brisker, cooler air now sweeps the city in search of fall.
The desperate last dash of summer's party atmosphere would be a suitable platform for Noodle Box to try his new technique.
The bar uptown is a classy one. It is in a classy neighborhood. A sits on a stool valet near the door and waits to park cars.
He idly picks a booger from his enormous nostril and examines it. Upon seeing Noodle Box approach, flicks it in a bush.
Inside the bar is dimly lit. Candles along the bar glow and dance and a soft melody plays from speakers near the ceiling.
Noodle Box approaches the bar and orders a beer.
Not long and a young woman enters the bar. She walks past Noodle Box and takes a seat at a small table.
She is pretty Noodle Box thinks. He observes her thin black dress and long ear-rings. He watches her click her finger
nails on the hard wood table and scan the place through slit tigress eyes. No time like now Noodle says to himself.
He picks up from where he sits and makes his way over.
“If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”
“What the fuck?”
Her left temple pulses twice, Noodle Box is keen to notice. “I'm just kidding, have you heard that one before?”
“It's disgusting and you're disgusting.”
As she speaks he concentrates and makes the spot just under his Adam's apple flutter slightly.
Immediately her temple pulses. This time Noodle Box makes the soft crescent under his left eye twitch.
“I'm not disgusting, I'm Fred Flintstone. Would you like to come to bed rock?"
“You're a freak! That's the worst line I ever heard!”
Again, her left temple pulses. Noodle Box forces with all his might and makes his left temple pulses twice.
In response, her left eye twitches.
Without asking, Noodle Box sits down.
“I've thought long and hard about it, and if I could rearrange the alphabet, I would put U and I together.”
Her left eye twitches again.
“By the way, I was going to ask you when you walked in, aren't you wanted by the police? Because its gotta be illegal to look that good.”
Noodle Box winks at the woman, clears his throat. He leans in close to her and whispers in a deep voice.
“Truth is, I'm a love pirate. I'm here for your booty.”
Noodle Box holds the door open for the woman in the thin black dress as they exit. Outside, the sun is setting, casting an orange
glaze across the doughnut valley; pollution is prettiest in the summer.
It's a short walk to her condo where upon Noodle Box makes love like he never dreamed imaginable.
He is a 9-point buck for which no arrow can slay. Afterward, they sit up in bed and share a cigarette.
Noodle Box watches the cigarette burn between her finger tips. He imagines he is a great actor at the height of
his career. He pictures Huge Jackman in his mind. That would do.
In an hour he would catch the bus back down to his apartment. He would enter, take off his shoes and socks,
and sit in the dark. Then he would take a shower.
He would sleep well that night, and in his dreams he would revisit his father's fantastic cockney carnival
and do somersault after somersault in the ring as the audience looked on with pleasure. He would finally feel at ease in the ring,
and for once, the pink striped consume would not irritate his skin.
Noodle Box would awake in the morning to new world.
sup
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