Party | Lines

Party | Lines

I made the rounds like a good girl, playing the gracious hostess to highly educated pigs, such as my husband's friends were.  Not a single soul there possessed a single iota of humility. None of them possessed any sobriety, either, and I was well on my way to complete inebriation myself.  I stopped in front of a full length mirror and tugged my dress hem down a bit. I loved the thing to death but it sure did cling to my slip and nylons. I ran my fingers over the obnoxiously huge sapphire necklace my husband had bought for my wedding gift.  It had a matching bracelet which I wore over long, white gloves, and matching earrings. I admired the square neckline of the royal blue dress he’d given me earlier this evening. It went well with the emerald cut sapphires and diamonds. I glanced at his reflection and caught him trying to extract himself from a conversation with a man who never shut up and who couldn’t take a hint.  My hair was fine but I patted the springy, brown waves anyhow. I discreetly freshened my lipstick and tucked it away in my handbag.

There were beautiful women and ugly women.  There were handsome, good looking men and ugly men. In my prejudiced opinion, I thought my husband was the most handsome man there-or just about anywhere we went.  His charismatic presence set the tone of any room he graced. I’ll just never mind about his compliments regarding me for now. They’re not relevant to this explanation-by-way-of-story anyhow.  Let’s just say that the feelings and thoughts were mutual in spite of all our post-party fights. It was either drinking (We tried to control each others’ consumption) or else the predictable arguments over his social circles.

    “Make friends with some of the wives. I’m sure some of them get as lonely as you do.” he once suggested.

    “You know that saying about making a silk purse out of sows ear?” I’d asked him.

    “Yes.” He folded his arms.

    “Well none of these women would even make a decent sow purse from a sows ear.” I told him.

Boy did that piss him off!  I don’t know why he got so defensive about it-he knew they were a bunch of phonies just like I did.  As a matter of fact, he complained about them as much as I did.

I sighed and swapped my empty wine glass for a fresh one when a maid passed by.  I so badly didn’t want to finish making rounds to ingratiate these people toward me anymore than they wanted the ‘odd duck’ redneck with no social standing playing hostess to them.  Each time I approached a group (usually oiled up with 2 or 3 glasses of wine) they would shift their stance from merely snobbish to unbearably snobbish. Then they’d launch into discussions about people I’ve never heard of, books I’ve never read, authors I’d never heard of, and countries I’d never visited.  To make matters worse, they’d ask my humble opinion when they knew damn well I had none to give, and why the hell I didn’t.

I looked up and noticed that my husband had finally succeeded.  I turned around only to see him in a worse predicament. Teena (Teeeena, with two ‘e’s ) had her arm neatly tucked around his.  Bitch. She flirted with everyone’s husband and probably slept with half of them. If she didn’t watch herself, I’d drop-kick her right out the door.  I walked toward them, weaving my way through the various groups, trying to appear casual to the other guests. She was pulling him into a well known venus’s fly trap: the always romantic balcony.  I wondered how romantic she’d find it if she was pushed over the railing and falling 12 floors. I could hear the hushed and intimate tone of her voice as she spoke to my husband, “….ability to see beauty.  Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.” she said. Bitch, please. I approached to ruin her little attempted seduction.

    “So...what are we talking about?” I asked.  I was a bit testy because I had no idea whether she was being a literary snob or trying a pickup line on my husband...or both.

    “Oh, it’s just a quote from Franz Kafka.” she said.  “Are you familiar with him?”

    She knew damn well I was uneducated.  Well, I wouldn’t disappoint her. “Sadly, no.  I’ve never met the man. I only know Kefka from Final Fantasy VI.” I smiled and smacked my lips silently.

    “You really should get out more, dear.” she told me.

    “Maybe you need to stay in more.” I told told her right back.  “I think about 100 percent of the women here would appreciate not having to worry about keeping their husbands out of your cross-hairs.  Or should I say short-hairs?” I laughed. That was pretty low brow, but I enjoyed it immensely. Besides that, no one would expect anything less from a bumpkin like me.  I could see my poor husband cringing and dying a little before my eyes. Why did all this inconsequential bullshit have to mean so much to him? And furthermore, why did we end up being the ones who usually ended up hosting these  things? I walked away before the bitch could corner me with more of her boorish snobbery, and the wine was pushing me to that fine edge where I could easily lose my temper.

I suddenly felt the tears come out of nowhere.  One minute I was just angry, and the next minute I was welling up.  I refused to blink. If the guests saw mascara stained tears running down my face, they’d probably make snide little remarks just barely within my earshot, but not close enough for me to call them out.  There had to be just that little space for doubt so they could easily lie and say they had no idea what I was talking about and that their conversation had nothing to do with me. Of course the unspoken words that hung in the air were that I was a craaaazy lady.  Well, I wasn’t going to feed their craving for dramatics, so I made a quick beeline for my room at the first opportunity and sat on my bed. I cried so hard that my shoulders shook, but I made no sound. My mascara was probably a frightful mess.

I could feel his presence before looking up so I didn’t bother.  I did manage to get my crying under control at least.

    “What is wrong with you?” he asked.  And there it was: the unspoken implication that I was a ‘craaaazy lady.’ “You can’t just walk out on our guests like that; it’s really bad form.” he tossed in.

    “Bad form?  Are you serious?” I laughed.  “You can’t just say ‘it’s rude?’ It has to be ‘bad form?’  And apparently I can leave the guests alone because I just did and the stock market is surely still intact.  I highly doubt if anyone noticed me slip off. There’s all too busy trying to out-do each other with their mad literary skills to notice my absence.  Don’t you realize things like that?  No one notices things like this because they’re too busy thinking about what witty thing to say next...I doubt even half of them bother paying attention.” I said.  

    “Oh, so it’s that again.” he slipped in. “Once again,  it’s my social circle at fault.”

    “ I...hate hosing your parties.  And I don’t care too much for your so-called friends, yes. Most of them wouldn’t even piss on you if you were on fire.”  I said.

    “Oh! What a picturesque visual! Your Southern roots are showing, love.” he said. “And you're going to let your lack of a formal education steer you from enjoying a perfectly peachy party just because you can’t keep up?”

    I wanted to slap that smug look right off his face.  “Yes, if you must know, you have no idea how awkward and stupid I feel standing around with a drink in my hand while I turn my head back and forth while they play verbal tennis with ‘let’s see who’s smarter' games. I do my best to look informed and interested, but it’s damn near impossible to keep up when your friends chuck names like Kafka and Kierkergaard around like a football.” I said. "It’s like trying to to understand a conversation that’s half Greek and remaining composed at the same time.  I hate it! I’m sorry, but I had to take a step back from it all.”

    “How about this?  Why not actually try reading them instead of being intimidated by them?” he suggested.  I was beginning to lose ground and felt shoved up against the invisible wall.

    “Why? So I can become one with the rest of the Yankee New York snob set?” I said.

    “Dear, your Cleghorn blood is rising.” he smirked bitterly.

    “Now who’s throwing cheap shots?” I replied. “I have no particular desire to study them, and certainly not for the purpose of impressing some phonies.  And I have no desire to turn into...that.” I thumbed at the door, accusing his guests.

    “Or maybe you’re just too scared and lazy to learn.”  A slap on the face couldn’t have stung more.

    “Or maybe you should just toss me a maids uniform and let me serve drinks.” I said. “At least that way I could retain some semblance of dignity.  You know, I’m sorry sometimes that our wedding was so public: ‘famous writer marries quaint, back woods redneck, high school drop out.’ If no one knew what I looked like, I could serve drinks in a uniform and no one would be the wiser. Jesus! Why did you marry me?  Just to have someone stupid around to make you look look good?”  A slap on the face couldn’t have stung him more. “Oh God. I am so sorry.  Why do we do this?”

    “I don’t know,” he looked weary. “…..Your mascara’s a mess.”  

He shook out a handkerchief and dabbed at my face.  He picked up my hand and kissed it. His eyes were full of tender affection, but also haunted by hurt, worried feelings. “I’m sorry.  I’m educated. My friends are educated. I’m sorry we bore you.”

    “Why can’t you guys discuss things other than literature, like a football game or something? I don’t know.  Even that’s a mystery to me but at least it’s a little more ‘down home’ if you get my meaning.”

He looked at his feet, bent over in weary defeat.  “Do you want a divorce?” he almost whispered. When I didn’t answer immediately, he jerked his head up as if I were actually considering it.

    “Well, we’re a piss-poor match, that’s for sure.” I said. I sort of danced around committing to a sure yes or no for the nonce.

    “Must you say things like piss-poor?” he sighed.

    “Why the  hell not? You’re the only one in the room with me.  How can you be embarrassed if there’s no one here to witness my ‘quaint Southern talk?’”

    “I just think you’d feel better about yourself if you tried a little harder.” he said. “Look...go clean up your make up and come back out.  Just fake it for the rest of the night and we’ll discuss this later.'

    “Okay.”

He got up and left, but not before tossing a worried look over his shoulder.  I felt a perverse sense of satisfaction from this. It was almost disturbing. Almost. “That’s right.  You just stew in that awhile.” I thought.  

I was unthrilled at the prospect of going back out there as I listlessly fixed up my messy face.  God, but I hated his friends! But hated them!  Jesus, I was thinking in uptown New Yorkese now!  I sighed and wondered if I’d missed my calling as a farmers wife.  It weren’t as if there’d been a shortage of would-be suitors. But no, I had to go and let myself get swept off my feet by the famous ‘Joe Blow’ passing through New Orleans.  He’d visited the bar I worked at and the rest was history. Him and all his writerly ways. I was starry-eyed and flustered when a well-known, famous writer cast a favorable look my way.  I’d always wanted to be a writer myself, and I was hoping some of that native talent would rub off on me, but I was too busy feeling out of of my element as I lost myself in the world of him and his circles.  “Why did he marry me?” I wondered.

At any rate, it was promising to turn into one of ‘those nights’ again.  I had no plans to moderate my alcohol intake once I stepped out of this room.  I meant to get good and tight and then whatever happened, happened.

I walked out of my room and greeted my guests with the brightest of smiles as I came downstairs. “The  show must go on, Linny.” I thought as I picked up a glass of wine from a passing maids tray. I downed it in a single long gulp and picked up a fresh glass, feeling like chum, and stepped into the sea of literary sharks.