A number of reasons for not giving my number

Out Of My Mind

By LIZ MOODY
lizmoody@berkeley.edu

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My friend Carey and I were walking back from a dingy basement bathroom back to the dingy main floor of a dingy bar when a face appeared at the top of the stairs. The eyebrows went up, the mouth opened and — "You girls look sexy."

I looked at Carey and she giggled. "Thanks," I said.

"I'm single," the guy informed us.

"That's nice," I said.

"Did you want my number?"

"Not particularly."

"Did you want to give me yours?"

"Not really."

"Well." He paused for a moment. "Well, OK, then. Have a nice night."

This was, as most pickup attempts are, flattering, awkward, slightly annoying yet smile-inducing. In my many years of dating experience (ranging from shared cookies on the swings with Randy Pullman, who had FACIAL HAIR, to the more recent trying to drink just enough — after lowering inhibitions to become flirty and fun, but before vomiting — bar dates), I've found that guys usually fall into one of several pickup categories. There's the suit-wearing guy, usually found in his natural habitat of a $17-a-drink cocktail bar. He will approach you and glance at your drink.

"What are you drinking?" he'll say (subtext: "How many have you had? Are you just drunk enough yet?").

You'll name your pear/mango/mint/imported-vodka/sugared-rim concoction.

"Can I buy you another one?" he'll ask (subtext: "My wealth and ability to provide for you will make me irresistibly attractive.") He'll pretend to be interested in your yoga class traumas (subtext: flexible!) and you'll pretend to be interested in his stock portfolio (subtext: rich!) and the cab driver who ripped him off on his recent Hawaiian vacation (subtext: rich AND well-cultured!).

The suit guy will give you his card at the end of the night, take your number and not call you until 3 a.m. one day the following week. Because he works really, really hard. The only time he gets a second to even breathe is at 3 a.m. — there are no intentions behind this at all.

Then there's the shy guy. I had a run-in with the shy guy (run-ins with shy guys are few and far between, unless you actually physically run into them, because they're, you know, shy) on the train the other day.

I'd been visiting my parents at home and was lugging back my freshly washed clothes and home-cooked food when I noticed a teenage guy staring at me. He walked by quickly and went into another train car, only to reappear two minutes later, stare at me and slip through the sliding glass doors. I moved my bag closer to me and tried to send psychic messages to the one other person in my car, a guy in glasses reading the comics. Help me, I telepathically projected, I am a good person. If this kid tries to rob or murder me, be a hero and save me. I looked over. The guy was asleep.

The train rumbled on and I became immersed in my novel until I felt a presence next to me. I looked up and a girl was sitting there, grinning.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi ... "

"My cousin likes you," she said. "He's kind of shy so ... "

I followed her eyes to see my potential mugger, sitting across the car and watching his feet like they were immensely interesting.

I told the girl I had a boyfriend, and she returned to the spot next to her cousin, where they both sat and stared at me for the rest of the train ride.

Truly, though, any man who can approach a stranger has my respect — I would never have the courage to do anything like that. Just remember, men, when she says she's not interested, she's really not interested.

Unless, of course, you happen to be able to buy her a $17 cocktail. Then there might be some space for negotiation.

Liz Moody, a Johansen High School graduate, is a student at the University of California at Berkeley. She can be reached at lizmoody@berkeley.edu.