Randy takes a table by the fireplace, while I collect my vodka tonic from the bar. The fire crackles, and as I approach, Randy lights a cigarette. I sit across from him.

“So, I take it that my execution of your design left something to be desired?” I ask. I am referring the copy of this morning’s student newspaper left in my inbox, covered liberally in red ink so as to give it the appearance of a badly executed eighth grade term paper.

“Well you know,” Randy says, “it could have been better.”

“Yeah, well, where were you at three in the morning to point out my flaws?” I ask taking a sip from my drink.

“Probably doing something fun,” Randy says, “but I like to think that eventually, if I use my red Sharpie enough, you’ll start to see those mistakes all by yourself.”

I roll my eyes and lean forward for another drink. I look up in time to catch Randy’s eyeballs as they wander down to my cleavage.

“I saw that.” I say.

Randy’s eyes dart back up to mine.

“I saw you looking at my tits. You were looking at my tits just now.” I point out.

Randy smiles a boys-will-be-boys smile. “Yeah, I was.”

“Can you please just focus? You’re supposed to be finding a woman to use Abe on.”

Randy and I have come to the Second Act on a dual mission. The first part of the mission, I think, was to give Randy a chance to make up for the rudely marked up newspaper he’d left in my mailbox that morning. It contained gruff comments like, “you can drive a truck through this hole” and my personal favorite: a long series of question marks and exclamation points followed by an arrow pointing to a cut off caption. This drink was Randy’s way of saying, “no hard feelings,” but just in case the drink wasn’t enough, the second mission of the night was for me to witness his use of the fabled “Abraham Lincoln Sincere Voice.”

To hear Randy tell it, the Abraham Lincoln Sincere Voice is a powerful tool that, when used properly, will lure the most soberly frigid woman into one’s bed. Randy had promised that tonight he would give a demonstration of the awesome power that supposedly manifests when you channel the honesty and sincerity of our sixteenth president into one singular endeavour: getting laid.

“All right, fine.” Randy says scanning the room for a target, or a victim; depending on how you feel about the whole situation.

“Don’t bother turning around,” I say, “the only person by the bar is that old guy with the piss stains on his pants.”

Randy takes a drink and stares over my shoulder intently. “Ah, old piss stains,” he muses. His eyes remain glued to something about fifteen feet behind and to the left of me.

“Behind me?” I ask.

“Uh-huh.” He replies.

“Great. I have to go to the ladies room, so I’ll check her out on the way by. Do I get to talk to her? Can I be your cousin visiting from Eastern Oregon?”

“You know, some people fuck their cousins,” Randy causally points out, “and the whole point of a back story to make you out to be unfuckable, or at least, non-threatening.”

“Good point.”

“You’d have to be a sister, and you, frankly, look about as much like my sister as piss stains, so I think I’ll take it solo. I don’t want you to break my concentration.”

“Uh-huh.” I roll my eyes again, but Randy has already turned his attention back to his target.

As I get up to go to the bathroom, I turn while pretending to fumble with my bag so that I can check out this woman who has caught Randy’s eye. She is petite and curvaceous with long curly brown hair. She’s sitting against wall behind me with her plainer, chubbier friend.

Randy has already informed me of the exponential rule of girlfriends which is stated as follows: the more girlfriends a woman has with her, the chances are exponentially less that you will bed her. Thus, a lone woman is an open target. A woman with one other woman is a gamble, but a worthy gamble. A woman accompanied by more than two female friends is considered, shall we say, insurmountable.

Randy had picked a challenging target by the looks of it. I recognized her from my writing workshop last term. She had written a very long, very emotional account of her father’s murder and her subsequent therapy sessions. I remember thinking her story should have been titled, “This is why I have man issues.” Of course I would only share this tidbit of information with Randy after he tried Abraham Lincoln Sincere Voice on her.

I was so close to finally seeing it, I could barely contain my enthusiasm as I exited the bathroom. You see, I had literally been begging to see Abe in action ever since Randy first boasted about his abilities. I wanted to see it for myself for obvious reasons. First, I needed to see if this Abe business actually works. Second, if it really does work, I figured I should familiarize myself so that I might come to know the sound of douche baggery by instinct. I hoped that by knowing the sound of a douche bag, I could avoid waking up next to one under the cold, harsh light of the morning after.

And here I was, about to see for myself how a predatory male slut hunts down a lady.

When I returned to the lounge, I purposely sat down facing the action. Randy had already relocated himself to the target’s table and was chatting away with both ladies. Judging by the expression on the face of the friend, Randy was on shaky ground. She was not at all thrilled to be sharing her table or her girlfriend with a strange man trying to score. The target, for her part, was flirting away, but I knew from Randy’s careful tutelage that all could be lost in a moment with one sharp comment from the friend.

The truth is I never got close enough to actually hear what the Abraham Lincoln Sincere Voice sounded like. I can, however, tell you what it looked like. It was a softer style of speech, one that required the speaker, Randy, to lean slightly forward toward the target. It involved a few carefully placed hand gestures, keeping the palms open in a welcoming, trust me, kind of way. Perhaps the most important component, however, was holding a steadfast gaze. And by steadfast, I mean that when Randy talked, he wore an expression of boyish innocence, earnestness, and wonder. He appeared shyly smitten, as though he were trying to hide it. Every time the target talked, Randy locked eyes with her and listened to each word intently.

It was mesmerizing, and it was working. Even the friend was starting to loosen up a bit. Randy called this, “hoping for seconds,” meaning the girlfriend was now warming up to him and might, if the first girl cast him off, be a willing substitute.

Just as things were looking up for Randy, something truly amazing happened. A man walked into the bar, and impossibly, he blew Randy completely out of the douche bag water. He was shorter, and a bit more muscular. His brown hair was long, shaggy and greasy. He wore thick glasses and a sweat-stained, thread-bare t-shirt, worn-out Levi 501 jeans, and Birkenstock sandals pulled over thick, wool hiking socks. He walked right up to the target, and I couldn’t believe my eyes when she stood to greet him.

Then they hugged.

It was more than a friendly hug.

I could tell by Randy’s face that it was game over. He excused himself to the bathroom and when he returned, he sat at my table again.

“Monkey-butted!” He proclaimed.

“What?”

“That was a monkey butt. I was monkey butted by that little greasy asshole. Dave Carter. Apparently he’s in her poetry class,” Randy says. “Poetry class,” he repeats, shaking his head with what seemed a mixture of awe and contempt.

“Not surprising.” I say, and then stop when I remember that it might not be the best time to tell him about my writing class experience with the target. “So a monkey butt is basically anything that gets in the way of you scoring?”

“No,” Randy corrected, “that’s more of a cock block. A monkey butt, is the specific act of stealing away the target, and I have run across this Dave Carter monkey butting asshole before.”

“You have?” I am incredulous.

“House party,” Randy explains as he aggressively takes a swig of his rum and coke, “Let’s just say that guy, somehow, gets to all the best ass first. He’s a machine.”

“That guy?” I say and I can’t help but point.

“Don’t point!” Randy swats at my finger. “That guy is damn near a legend. That party I met him at? He disappeared within minutes of arriving. I would have never even noticed if the hostess hadn’t found him in the back bedroom a half an hour later getting a hummer from this hot little blonde.”

Randy paused, winced and then continued, “The very same hot little blonde that I had been eyeing since I walked in.”

“Naturally.” I say.

“Anyway, I think you know what this means.”

“I have no idea.”

“It’s totally on.” Randy announces.

“What is totally on?”

“All out Monkey Butt war.”

“Is she bi-curious?” I ask. “Maybe I can monkey butt her for you.”

“Don’t even joke about such a thing.” Randy smiles at the thought. He is an attractive guy—tall and broadly built with a strong jaw line. He has a silly mop of Art Garfunkel hair that he barely manages to pull off with just the right heir of cockiness and a pair of Hunter S. Thompson sunglasses.

“Well I guess you know what you have to do.” I told him.

Randy looks at me and then back to the target sitting beneath the strong, greasy arm of one Dave Carter, monkey butt legend.

“I have to get back to the office.” I say. My vodka tonic long since finished, I knew it was time to get back to work before things got messy.

“It’s just as well,” Randy agrees, “it’s going to be a long night.”

“What’s your plan?” I ask.

“I’m going to buy a round of drinks, and I’m going back over to that table. The plan is keep the drinks flowing, keep the conversation lively, and make monkey butt-er over there look like the jackass that he so obviously is. I’m not leaving until at least one of those sluts is mine.”

“That’s it? That’s your plan?” It sounds deceptively simple, but I know Randy, and so I’m thinking there must be an ace somewhere in the hole.

“I suppose if things aren’t going my way, I might have to mention the circumstances under which I was first acquainted with Mr. Monkey Butt.”

I stand up to leave and wish Randy all the best luck. “Godspeed, young man,” I say, and then I am out of the smoky lounge, past the restaurant portion of the building and standing in the center of campus. A cold wind shakes the trees and leaves flutter about my feet. Trudging up the concrete path to the student newspaper office I can’t stop thinking about the target, whose name I just remembered is Lisa.

Godspeed, young Lisa.