Please Deny You Took Part in This
Sure enough, the tall tale was shorter than we expected and the evening still wasn’t
aggressive enough to suit that wired and witless wiener-humper with the beehive. What I
did was I fished the curled green coral from the restaurant aquarium and garnished the
arrogant twit’s salad.
The thing is you can’t just propose to a guest and expect a dream palace to assign
you to your immediate future. No matter how short the unjustified entertainment. It’s
not like a conversational piece with spaghetti straps entitles you to first romance. Red
Fish Suspenders agreed quickly but the agreement had already turned to soap.
“Women knew about mortality the second they hit the air,” said the disturbed
husband. Men like to make it a competition, said the wife.
“We must leave at once,” they both suddenly concluded. How could it be such an urgent
message? Life or death in the bedroom? Kill the troll and steal the coins?
“We don’t have to admire the Stump Brothers to get in touch with ordinary reality,”
said the departing masculinity of the unreasonably merry married pharmacist. “There was
this one guy I knew,” he insisted, “just up and stuffed a goofy Smurf doll in his
Thanksgiving turkey. He survived, but the medical bill was incredible.” He couldn’t stop
admiring the evidence.
So we left the restaurant and motored on over to this druggery geek’s crusty
clover-hoofed cluttercastle. A ritzy second-hand mausoleum of period pieces with a nasal
butler and three dalmatians romping in the garden. The new host busied himself pawing
Spaghetti Straps while a couple of long-nosed Brooks Brothers eyed the dalmatians. Not
an admirable nose-lifter in the place. Decadence cruising the crib with a redundant leer.
Then the story we started with came back with a toothache and I fed it some
dog-food stew. Exclamations of wonder. Approval of an altered nature. I wouldn’t call it
Finally the live and unplugged Chamber Music began sawing up the blocks of
boredom into manageable interludes and I settled in to voyeurizing the requisite nooks
and crannies. A reasonably good year settled in my stomach and I drifted into the cellist’s
trousers. Roomy but welcoming. I stayed for the wedding. I couldn’t tell if it was mine,
but that didn’t seem to matter. There’s always an extra alibi at these affairs.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.