I was invited by my aunt. She had tickets to this ballroom event, some fundraiser for her religious group. I had never been religious and she told me to wear a blazer. The schmoozing occurred, hors d'oeuvres were served, I was not ID’d by any fashion of security. Champagne flutes flew, I did not know a single individual other than my aunt. We were getting tipsy on a Thursday evening, it was wonderful.
Shuffling into our assigned seats, I was surprised to not see a stage. I expected to see some sort of auction, a good-hearted bidding war, hell, at least a speech? No stage, just the tables… say 20? 20 tables of 10 people? Hearty crowd. White collared, some even black-tied, hearty crowd.
My cheeks were rosy by the time we found our table 12 seats, me and my Aunt Kathy. I was in a fabulous mood, one that, if the situation required it, would allow me to kill on a microphone to this audience of some 200 well-fed, well-boozed donors. Pulling chairs out for older women, them looking at me with a suppressed ear-to-ear smile then looking down at their dress, bending their knees, tucking their dress under their leg-backs, thanking me, hollering what a gentleman. Me spin-moving between the circular tables and wooden chairs, half-full flute in hand… Lord, I was killing it.
Well-dressed salads on metal plates greeted us at the table. Our new neighbors unwrapped their paper napkins to have the heavy silverware drop, thump, on the table all in some sort of cacophonous unison like an ending to a jazz tune, the jazz that folks who buy the records like. The caterers were buzzing about with waters and cocktails, complacent yet all walking impressively quickly… My rosy cheeks and I looked on to them fluttering about and to that we said, salud.
These busy bees took our salads away and discussed among themselves when to bring out the entrees, surely a variety of meat and vegetables and potatoes that would find their place all over my table cloth. During this intermission, a man stood up, grabbed a metal knife and tried to initiate what I imagined was to be a toast. He held this robust water glass with all five meaty fingers where the stem met the bowl, muting any sort of fulfilling, circular clinking noise he might have been hoping for. Yet his unwavering ugly clanging, his standing, and his looking with brows raised towards the flocks of folks having the best times and worst conversations of their lives eventually brought enough of a hush for him to pick up the microphone, stumble through turning it on, and begin speaking.
Back at our table? Steady flow of champagne, no glass going unattended. Granted, I was indulging amongst tax-paying adults.
From the minute he opened his mouth, this gentleman was rambling.
“First of all, I’d like to thank all of you for coming… to my wife Christina, this ship would not sail without your unending support… you know it’s funny people don’t know that we actually met on Christina Mingle…”
I did enjoy the Christina Mingle joke.
But during the “with your help we have been able to…” I began to survey the crowd closer than I was able to before all heads were turned one way. People looking attentively, endearingly even, people looking at phones, old folks dozing off, exciting eye contact and over-emphasized lip-signaling and lip-reading.
Finally, my eyes swoosh around to zone in on this man sitting right next to me. His knee was bobbing, the way that people do in cafeterias. The way that, without fail, seems to put those around them on edge.
I was looking at him also surveying the place. He had left his champagne flute at the last stop, long before we got onto this five-fingered toaster’s train.
He lifted his chin up, and said aimlessly, “Man, what’s this guy talking about?” I zoned back in on the speech.
“... we’ve found that… in order to see outward, you must begin to look inward…” I looked back at him. Him to me. One eyebrow raised, one finger pointed towards the speaker.
“Now what the fuck is this guy talking about?”
We were now in this moment together, and my eyebrows and head worked together to do something that resembled a shrug. He turned his body towards me, and my facial expression did not change.
“Kid, these things,” he took a beat. “Anybody thinks they can get up there and hoist a microphone in front of our faces. Like a… like a frickin’ hypnotist watch up there with the microphone… It’s… it’s sickening, bud.”
I bought into the bit. “You’re tellin’ me.” I rolled my eyes, sipped my champagne flute with my left hand, and rubbed my right thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger together as to indicate money.
He laughed through his nostrils.
“At the end of the day, pal,” he said, “To scare off the crazies, you’ve got to be crazier.” I supposed he had a point. “I suppose…” I started, “man, I don’t know.”
I got up and left.