Tales of The Hang Buddy

by Lazar Goldshlager

The “Hang Buddy,” a.k.a. Mitch, runs a “platonic escort service for men in serious need of male bonding.” With a swipe of your Visa, the “Hang Buddy” is there for you – to grab a late-night burger with, to boost your fragile ego, or just to hang out and shoot the shit because no one’s awake. This is his tale.

My client for tonight is Gordie, a 35-year old Caucasian male who lives at home with his parents in the ‘burbs. He claims to be a “struggling artist,” but I smell chronic unemployment. In any case, I don’t ask questions, as long as his Visa swipes through okay. I show up at 10:38 p.m., and offer my standard greeting: “Hi, my name is Mitch. I’ll be your ‘Hang Buddy’ for this evening.”

I swipe through the Visa – Daddy’s gold card, I surmise – and Gordie gets right down to business…or bonding, if you will. “How do I look?” he asks.

I take full measure of him - this balding, obese man with a unibrow, primping for me in his down-filled winter jacket. “Like a porn star, Gordie,” I respond. “Like a porn star.” He grunts appreciatively as he zips up. I’m good. “So what’s the plan for tonight?” I ask.

Gordie slaps on his mittens. “I was thinking of heading downtown,” he replies. “We’ll check out Easy On The Fifth.”

I check my watch. “At this time of night? Don’t think we’ll get in, Gord. Y’know, the line-up.”

Gordie reaches into the closet for two sets of shag-rug earmuffs. “That’s the plan, Mitch. You see, inside the club, you got a swarming war zone with dance music. Even assuming you can fight through all the ‘sausages’ (male bonding lingo for enemy dudes ~ the ‘Hang Buddy’), all the decent female prospects will have their guard up, expecting you. But outside, it’s a different story. You got the line-up. But here’s the scam – no ‘sausages’ are doing hits, so nobody’s guard is up. The same crowd you got outside will eventually be the same bunch you get inside and – best of all – it’s for free!”

“Maybe, Gordo. But did you consider that all those shivering ‘sausages’ in line will be concentrating on defrosting their doggies? Including us?”

Gordie hands me my muffs, and reaches back into the closet, retrieving for me a handsome pair of aqua-blue vinyl mittens. “It’s all taken care of, Mitch. If you want, I have a spare pair of thermal underwear.” Gordie pokes his head out the door. “Oh shit. Looks pretty slushy out there. Can you drive?”

I slap on my vinyl mittens. “No go, Gordo. The customer takes care of transit. I’m just there for the hang.”

Cruising along in Gordie’s vintage 1988 Pontiac Grand Am, I do the bonding schtick, as we discuss hockey – “Named in honour of Mr. Howe himself!” Gord boasts; women – “I fail all the time,” I assure him; and parking enforcement officers – “Fucking hate ‘em!” Gordie rants. After doing roughly twenty circuits around Richmond and King Street, Gordie gives up on his search for free street parking. “Time to pay the piper,” he mournfully sighs as we head for a parking lot.

As we trudge along the slushy sidewalk, on the way to the line-up at Easy On The Fifth, Gordie adjusts his ski cap, his earmuffs, and the scarlet red scarf that wraps around his puffy face, leaving only his beady brown eyes to peek out therefrom. “How do I look?” he asks me.

Just about ready for Stalingrad, I’m thinking. “Like a porn star, Gord,” I assure him. “Like a porn star.”

Gordie slaps his mittens together. “Okay, here’s the plan. I’m the pilot, you’re the wing man. If the target prospect has a friend, you take her down. But at all times, you make me look good. Understand?”

I’ll be earning my pay tonight. “Understood, Gordo.”

He pumps his mittened fist into the air. “Time to rock!” he bellows, as we pass a mustachioed officer dealing out a parking ticket. “Fucking parasite,” he mutters under his breath.

It’s 11:52 p.m. as we wash up on the shores of our line-up. Actually, it is more like two line-ups – on one side, a shivering, passive crowd of untermenschen, waiting despondently for their slim chance to make it inside, yet deep down accepting that - barring their one successful foray at getting conceived - these tadpoles have pretty much given up the swim; and, on the other side, a bulging mass of perfumed humanity that, in the aggregate, is better-looking – or at least believe themselves to be. And, blessed as they are by the lunar gods of clubbing, assume an entitlement to jump the queue for their chance to breed – or at least make good on their parking investment.

“We have arrived,” Gord proclaims, holding out his arms like Moses at the River Jordan. We take our places at the back of the line, among the untermenschen. “We can comfortably wait this out all night,” Gord proclaims with a confidence born of thermal underwear. And we do wait, silently, for the next fifteen minutes, until Gord turns to me. “Are you ready?” he asks. “Is your ego up for an approach?”

My ego’s on hire for the night, so I couldn’t care less. “Sure, Gord. Shall I do the opening moves?”

Gordie places a mitten on my shoulder. “Listen, maybe that’s not a good idea,” he says. “After all, you’re just the wing man – there for support. The pilot should make the opening moves.”

“Sure, Gord.”

Fifteen more silent minutes later, Gord turns to me. “Maybe we should have the wing man do the opening move. Cool?”

“Sure, Gord.”

“Just need a few minutes to gather my wits, that’s all.”

1:04 a.m.: Gord turns to me. “Okay, buddy. Let’s do it.”

I look around. By now, our line-up has dwindled – more from attrition than anything else - to five men and one profusely shivering woman. “F-f-f-f-fuck it,” she mumbles in despair as she takes off, cutting our queue down to five ‘sausages.’

“Uh…Gord?”

“No problem, Mitch. We’ll just switch over to the V.I.P. section.” We take no more than two small steps out of our line, and situate ourselves among a lingering crowd of six people – four men and two women. By my guess, they’ve logged in roughly forty-five seconds in the “V.I.P. section.” Half are either refugees from nearby line-ups or shrewd clubbers chatting up the bouncer, hoping to imprint their hopeful little faces on his sketchy, andro-juiced memory – for next time.

“Okay, let’s get into position.” We take up position next to what looks like two squat forty-five year old divorcees in imitation fur, showing traces of their former glory with Eighties-style eye shadow and big hair. In clubbing parlance, this is what’s known as the 4 o’clock special – only, it’s past one and I’m freezing my balls off. Should have taken him up on the thermal underwear.

Gord lowers his scarf. “I feel it, Mitch. At some point in the night, a man reaches deep within himself and discovers the ability to do battle, to throw caution to the four winds and risk ego death. I’ve arrived, my friend. This” – he bangs his mittens against his chest – “is my time.”

At which point the bouncer signals the divorcees into the club, immediately transforming our V.I.P. section into a hot dog stand. “Well, guess we’re done,” I say to him, “unless you want to ply your charms on the ‘sausages.’”

Gord stifles a yawn with his mitten. “Look, we tried our best. We just ran out of time,” he tells me. “Next time, let’s get here earlier.”

“You pay, I play,” I respond, wondering if Daddy knows how Gordie uses the gold card.

The bouncer turns to us. “Know something? I admire the stamina. Go on in.”

“You kidding?” Gord scoffs as his beady eyes dart out at the bouncer. “Who wants to stand in a crowded club all night, looking listlessly at women you’ll never pick up anyway? We’re much smarter than that.”

And with that, we take off. On the way home, Gordie suggests to me that we had a wonderful bonding experience, and that next time, we should go out as real friends. I believe he’s implying a freebie.

No, Gordo. I’m much smarter than that.