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As such, this isn’t my typical type of hangout. I don’t “hang out.” Maybe I should’ve brought someone with me, looked less suspicious, less like a creep. But again, time.
I don’t have enough of it to waste.
At thirty-seven, I’ve been alive for 13,608 days. I’m in good health, so if I die of natural causes, that leaves me approximately 15,592 days left…if my mind holds out to age eighty.
My father died of a heart attack at age sixty-four. The men on my mother’s side have battled testicular cancer. I get regular check-ups, and my blood pressure is decent. Foregoing any unanticipated diseases or accidents, I could gain an extra few years out of my life expectancy.
A minimum of thirty-five years left to develop a cure.
To the average person, thirty-some-odd years may seem like plenty—but when speaking scientific breakthrough, a lifetime is hardly enough.
As I mentally break down the math, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look at the woman in a black slinky dress to my right.
“You look deep in thought,” she says. Her eyes are heavily rimmed in black kohl, her smiling lips red and plump. The dress is tight and leaves nothing to the imagination.
Buying time, I take another swallow of soda. Then: “I’m not interested.” I turn my attention to the front door of the night club. I waited in line for two hours to get inside. I’m not missing a single person that passes through.
I can just make out her offended scoff over the blaring music, but the “asshole” is perfectly audible as she storms away.
I’m sure she’s on her way to her friends to complain about the asshole who blew her off, and that’s fair. She and her friends are not what I’m searching for. The first step in the scientific method is to identify.
I’ll know it when I see it.
After another few minutes, the bouncer unhooks the velvet rope and admits a group of suits. Four men in black tailored business attire. Expensive. Important. This piques my interest, and I watch as they lead six women to the VIP lounge on the second level.
I watch them as they order drinks. I watch them as they grope the women. This really isn’t their kind of scene either…but they’re not here to pick up women, like every other single man that ventures to a night club. And the women aren’t here to be picked up. They’ve already been paid for the night. They’re escorts.
To the keen observer, these men are celebrating. I grab my drink and weave a path through the undulating bodies toward the other end of the club. A rope separates the VIP section, and another bouncer-type guards that post.
I smile at the burly man. His facial muscles are carved in steel. I’m not getting past him.Noted.Instead, I take up the empty seat on the leather bench directly below the elevated VIP section. The only thing blocking the VIPs off is a black metal rail; it’s not soundproof.
I catch fragments of their conversation, but it’s not enough to form a conclusion. They had bet on a fight of sorts and their contender won. They plan to blow a lot of money tonight. Frustrated, I push back against the cushioned seat and wait.
Here’s the thing: I’m searching for particular traits. It would be easier and much wiser for me to search out these exacting qualities and behaviors in a less conspicuous location. Like a homeless shelter. Or back alley. Few notice when a vagrant goes missing.
But that pool is lacking in the characteristics I covet the most.
Lack of empathy.
Superficial charm.
Grandiose sense of self-worth.
Shallow affect.
Theseindividuals are more prone to climb the corporate ladder than fester in an alley. Their disregard to human compassion sets them apart, gives them the tools necessary to achieve greater heights, like a surgeon, or CEO of a fortune 500.
Like my friends in the VIP lounge.
Then when the scope is narrowed even more, there’s the crucial criminal element. As this particular person already believes they’re above the law, that the rules don’t apply to them, they have no qualms in breaking the rules to justify their end.
My tumbler of club soda slides across the tabletop to draw my focus. The condensation has pooled around the glass to create a suction effect. Distracted, I absentmindedly push the glass from side to side, and almost miss my chance.
One of the suits passes me on his way to the bar. Accompanying him is one of the escorts. I abandon my seat and club soda and make my way to them.
As he flags a bartender, I push in beside the couple at the bar top. I hear him order a martini, so I do the same. “Dirty,” I add. The woman with blond hair sends me a guarded, curious look.
I’m taken off-guard for a moment. Saying she’s beautiful would be a lame attempt to describe her. The way the LED lights cast her features in an iridescent hue…she’s some unearthly creature. Some goddess from a myth.
