I had this system for getting exactly what I wanted out of people. Barring a few extremely ruthless beings, most are able to empathize with another’s plight, given the right impetus. The right emotions in any story can bring forth the desired effect, as long as it’s handled with due diligence. Carefully chosen words delivered with perfect sentiments and the power to convince; I had this system down pat.
I gazed around the Midnight's Blues nightclub, the ambiance of the place was true to its name, dark with ambient streaks of iridescent indigo illuminating the people sitting in the shadows; holding, sipping, reaching out for their happy hour drinks and indulging in conversation that is the very definition of small talk. My eyes wandered over to the bar. The lady barkeep was standing behind the counter, giving a customer this root-beer-float kind of smile, delivering the slightly pot-bellied unkempt man the impression that she was enthralled by what he was saying. I was partly sure that this was expected of them, either out of politeness or out of necessity. There was a very tiny part of me that thought she actually was interested in what this man was telling her. That was the old romantic side of me that would rear its alluring head ever so often.
The man was telling her about the way he can write with both his left and right hands. I was trying to recall the name for such people but couldn’t place my finger on it. Ampl…ambe...something with an A. Then I started to think about how many people there might be in the world who can boast of this ability, probably 5 or 6 percent, and out of all the bars on the East coast, I had to find one of them here, in this seedy, unpleasant bar, with a beautiful bartender who currently was having an unfortunate one-way conversation with a man who may or may not have an ability that starts with an A.
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