Saturday, June 13, 1999: Oh, What a Night...!

Prose, including snippets (mini-memoirs).
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sasha
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Saturday, June 13, 1999: Oh, What a Night...!

Post by sasha » January 18th, 2019, 6:04 pm


From my journal archive. Last names have been changed, though the initials have not.



What a strange night...

Yesterday afternoon I received an email from Tom Hoffstadter inviting me to his place for a cookout Bacchanal after work, an invitation I received with some diffidence. For one thing, I’m not comfortable in large social gatherings – any more than three or four guests, and I tend to hide. For another, I’d just passed the 50-pound mark of my weight loss program, and was a little fearful of slipping back into old eating and drinking habits just as the new ones were taking root. Besides, I had simply been looking forward to a quiet evening at home watching some of my new “Twilight Zone” videos (containing, among other gems, "Eye of the Beholder"!)

So I had begun composing a reply alluding to a fictitious conflict of interest which would prohibit my attendance. While revising the note to carry the right mix of breezy humor and regret, and paring away details of my "excuse" (one mustn't protest too much), I started asking myself "Why?", and reconsidered.

So after a moment’s hesitation I deleted the unsent reply, and said, Sure, I'll be there, what can I bring?

Fateful decision...

Krista wrote back, assuring me all I needed to bring was my appetite and something to drink; so, taking her at her word, I went home, changed, gobbled a little leftover tofu to occupy space in my stomach I might otherwise be tempted to fill with booze or grease, and hung around so I wouldn't be the first to arrive. I left about 6:30, and arrived some fifteen minutes later - the first to do so. An omen…

Tom and I hung around outside chatting while I nursed my first beer. Something didn't feel quite right - I couldn't shake my reserve for some reason. It might have been apprehension about the number of invited guests, or lingering unease about losing control of myself. Whatever it was, I seemed more reticent than I had on past occasions. Sensing it, perhaps, Tom led me into the backyard and shared with me the remains of a joint. That should have helped, but it didn't.

No, Mister Paranoia decided to drop by instead.

Rather than relaxing, I became even more fearful of a social misstep, and caught myself - too late each time - making heavy-handed, pointlessly inane remarks in unsuccessful attempts at wit. I became restless, and whenever Tom stood to ready the grill or pick up one of his kids' toys or get another cigarette, I'd stand, as if afraid he'd stray out of sight. I was driving myself, and probably him, crazy.

Then the other guests started to arrive.

John and Jerilyn Laperierre were the first, along with their two children, Patrick and Corrine. John is funny and engaging, and I like him; but his humor is edgy and occasionally harsh. In my altered state, I glimpsed him once as a smiling predator. It chilled me a little, even though I knew it was probably just Mr. P. whispering in my ear.

I'd met Jerilyn once or twice before, but I knew her best as his perennially off-camera wife, serving admirably as the target of John's oftimes caustic humor. She's an attractive woman, and has herself, according to John, been losing weight. I thought this might provide a source of conversation between us, but I yanked myself back at the last minute, convincing myself (correctly, I suppose) that I really don't know her well enough to broach such a potentially delicate subject. ("So, John tells me you used to be quite the lard-ass.") When we found ourselves momentarily stranded alone together, we dutifully "mingled" with forced and clumsy dialogue only marginally less excruciating than the awkward silence it was invented to displace. Even that wasn't enough to keep the silence from trickling over the sandbags, and when it had gotten up to our knees, I took a few nervous gulps from the bottle to fill my mouth with something, even if not words. She cast about for her husband.

God, I thought, I hate this!

Midway through my second beer, another car pulled in, and a few moments later an attractive woman appeared around the hedges to join us in the front yard. I'd never seen her before, and the cursory greetings John and Tom conveyed suggested they didn't know her very well. Jerilyn smiled and addressed her by name, and Krista especially gave her a warm welcome, so I suspected this was a single friend of hers – some of whom she has in the past hinted would be “perfect” for me.

Oh my God, I thought. She's supposed to be my date.

This has been, I think, a secret wish of mine, but more of a fantasy than an actual desire. Now that I was faced with the prospect of an evening trying to appear attractive and interesting to a real woman, it looked more like an agonizing chore than a wish come true. As she looked around the yard to appraise the milieu and her eyes briefly rested on the unfamiliar form huddled off to one side at maximum distance from each human, I hoped I'd be able to find and keep to that narrow line of civility that threads its way between aloofness and familiarity, and rose to my feet with a smile. I extended my hand and introduced myself just as Nick Kapiloff came around the corner. "Oh, I see you've already met my wife," he said.

God I HATE this!

The only thing I really like about larger parties is that, with enough attendees, it's easier to become invisible. You can discretely retire to a corner and observe the proceedings or even shut them out altogether without being unduly conspicuous. As long as you occasionally rouse yourself to toss out an appropriate one-liner (it doesn't have to be funny, and is probably better not to attempt to be), you can create enough appearance of engagement to spare the host and hostess any anxiety. Nick is gregarious, funny, and self-assured, though he's apt to be hard and judgmental like his father. I was perfectly happy to let him do the work of driving the party wherever he chose. Tom plays well to him, and their spirited verbal roughhousing not only lent a distinctly masculine tone to the proceedings, but freed me of the burden of making conversation. Besides, a crackling bonfire always needs to be poked and prodded, and who better suited to that ceaseless task than the guest who doesn't quite fit in?

However, the only thing less desirable to a recluse such as myself than playing solo Oldster at a party of attractive couples fifteen years his junior might be the prospect of doing so every week. This was the suggestion on the floor. Not only would we do this every week, we'd have a Theme. We'd have a Seafood Night! Or Pizza Night! And it wouldn't have to stop there; we could have Costume Nights, as well! Not only could we feed one another our failed gastronomic experiments, we could do so in drag!

Good Christ, what's next? How about an Occult Night? Idolatry Night? Left-Handed Metric Power Tool Night?

So unless I can extricate myself, I may be compelled to host Boring Old Guy With Crappy Music Night in the uncomfortably near future.

But Mister P. wasn't finished with me yet. Tom and I were playing with the fire while the festivities eddied around us, and he hesitantly began telling me something. He had been writing me an email that day, he said, but had never gotten the nerve to send it. He'd completed it, but deleted it unsent. This naturally piqued my curiosity, and I asked him what it had been about.

My hair, he said. Didn't I think it was time to change my hairstyle? Here I was, 50 pounds lighter, and still wearing a fat man's haircut. And maybe I should consider shaving my beard, or cutting it back to a goatee. I reflected, and reminisced aloud how decades earlier I'd worn a goatee for several years before letting it fill into the full beard I've worn since. I have no idea what he meant by "fat man's hair", but since he seemed so uncomfortable even bringing the subject up, I was loath to press him on it.

Curious.

Earlier, he'd wondered aloud if he should go next door and invite Cathy Ellis to join us; but then he'd remembered our history, and asked if - or rather, stated that - it might make me uncomfortable. I shrugged, allowing that it might be awkward; so he'd dropped the subject. But then I overheard Nick saying the same thing, and when he actually left to fetch her, I turned away with a grimace, but not before Krista saw my expression.

This was getting better and better. And to think it might become a weekly tradition...

I had drifted off to play with the dogs - the only social creatures I can truly relate to - and Cathy was standing by the fire when I returned. I smiled wanly and said hi, then returned my attention to the dogs, who had accompanied me back to the front yard. How about Repulsive Force Night, where you only invite people who cannot stand the sight of one another? I hadn't eaten yet, but the leftovers I'd gobbled before leaving Sanctuary were more than sufficient fortification inside a nervous stomach.

Better and better.

After twilight deepened into night, Nick invited me out for another smoke. I hesitated - Mister Paranoia had begun packing up his things and making noises about getting home, and I was starting to regain some perspective - but eager to appear like a Regular Guy, I said sure, why not, and followed him to his truck. As always happens when you're a little stoned, we got sidetracked somehow. I think he couldn't find his lighter, so we just stood there and let the conversation drift where it would.

Then Mister Paranoia changed his mind, set his bags down, and helped himself to another beer after all...

Nick started telling me a story. As with a dream, I can't remember how it started; but from a misty and unformed beginning, it assumed form and direction. He was a fairly open-minded guy, he insisted, and tolerant of alternative life styles. He'd even had a friend, an old childhood buddy, who was gay, and although he, Nick, wasn't That Way, he'd really liked this old chum of his, and relished their long and colorful friendship.

I nodded, thinking I'd tell him about Scott Farnsworth when it came to be my turn.

And then, he continued, something had happened. About three years ago, this friend had started pressuring him. He wanted to be more than a friend, he said. He'd tried to up the ante. He'd tried to convince Nick to take the next step, even though Nick tried to make it clear that he wasn't interested. And you know what?

No, I said. What.

The son of a bitch blew me off, he replied. All our history together, all those years we grew up together - he just tossed it away like it was nothing. Know what I'm saying? He couldn't get his way, so he wouldn't have anything more to do with me. He wanted it his way or not at all, and I'm saying that's more than a goddam shame. I really valued his friendship, and offered mine back, but he wouldn't accept it. It wasn't enough for this asshole. He refused to take the relationship on any terms other than his own, so he just turned his back, without so much as a word of explanation to tell me how he felt, you know?

He had my attention. I tried to read his eyes as he looked into mine. He shook his head and glanced away. "I got no respect for someone like that," he concluded. "None."

Oh, yes. This was getting better all the time.

If this was meant as a parable about me and Cathy, its meaning was all too clear to me. It would also seem to indicate that we were playing head games now, a sport for which I have a particularly violent revulsion; but this was a threat that could not go unanswered. I looked thoughtfully up at the night sky.

"It seems to me," I said, "that if he really was in love with you..."

"In love with me," he repeated. "That's a good way to put it."

"...then for his own sake, he might just have wanted to make a clean break from you. Or at least to break as cleanly as he could." I looked back down and over his shoulder at Cathy, who seemed to glow in the light of the bonfire. "At least that's what I'd want to do."

He shrugged and looked away. "Whatever," he said. "I dunno."

I was shaken and disturbed, but also a trifle annoyed. I'm still not certain whether or not this was a camouflaged replay of my agonizing unrequited affair with Cathy. On the one hand, it doesn't quite seem to be Nick's style; I don't know him very well, but he strikes me as blunt and direct almost to a fault. It seems odd that he'd express such strong disdain without first getting my side of the issue, and even odder that he'd hesitate to express it plainly, and resort instead to the subterfuge of a head game. On the other hand, the parallels were striking, right down to the time frame, and I'd seen him and Cathy talking together for quite a while. It got my back up: who the hell was HE to ride in on his high horse and pronounce judgement without hearing me out, or to at least verify whatever Cathy might have told him? Who the fuck was he to indict me, convict me, and pass sentence on the basis of her testimony corroborated by nothing more than Tom's interpretation of his recollection of what I'd chosen to confide to him three years ago?

I know! Truth or Consequences Night...

Jesus...

I made an effort to politely engage Cathy without ever directly addressing her. In the company of three other couples, we sat by the fire, separated at all times by at least one other adult. I would include her whenever it was appropriate to do so, and respond in a general, impersonal way to any conversational openings she made. I did catch myself sneaking an occasional glance her way, though it didn't occur to me until just now how I would have leaped at the chance to sit by her side at a bonfire three years ago.

But all that’s left of those feelings now is a little ash, and perhaps that is a pity.

Nick and his wife had arrived separately, and at some time during this lovely evening, she had brought their youngster home. The Laperierres rounded up their kids and left sometime around 11:00, and Cathy wandered home maybe an hour later. By now Tom was drunk and slurring, and Nick was drifting in and out of consciousness. I had switched to ice water some time earlier, because I was still unused to alcohol - I had perhaps three drinks - and because I'd eaten nothing. The soiree had put me out of a mind for food early on, and I just wanted to sober up enough to drive home unnoticed by the police. Losing my license to DUI would have put the perfect cap on the evening. I took my leave a little before 1:00.

What have I gotten myself into NOW? Getting this hovel in order has taken on an importance beyond just restoring it to “tolerable”; and what about all the other issues raised? Should I get some concrete tonsorial options from Tom? Should I ask Nick directly whether he'd been driving at something, or leave it alone? Should I prepare a reconciliation speech for Cathy? Or should I legally adopt my Russell Stuart non de plume, join the Federal Witness Protection Program, and relocate to central Montana as a reclusive applications programmer and sometimes writer/photographer?

What a long, strange trip this is!
.
"Falsehood flies, the Truth comes limping after it." - Jonathan Swift, ca. 1710

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Doreen Peri
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Re: Saturday, June 13, 1999: Oh, What a Night...!

Post by Doreen Peri » January 19th, 2019, 3:52 am

Loved reading this! I thought I was there! So vividly described. Thx for posting this! It’s awesome

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sasha
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Re: Saturday, June 13, 1999: Oh, What a Night...!

Post by sasha » January 19th, 2019, 2:18 pm

thx, Doreen - happy to oblige!
.
"Falsehood flies, the Truth comes limping after it." - Jonathan Swift, ca. 1710

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Re: Saturday, June 13, 1999: Oh, What a Night...!

Post by goldenmyst » January 21st, 2019, 11:06 pm

Your prose was crystal clear and filled with innuendo of an emotionally fraught nature. The delicacy with which you wrote your entanglements with these people and especially Kathy made for heady reading. Most of all I felt what you went through because I too am lost in large social gatherings. One of the last ones I attended resulted in being publically corrected for my reclusiveness and focus on eating. It was truly embarrassing especially because this person was my closest friend there and my touchstone. Sadly I don't go to the group anymore because of my emotional barriers to group interaction. But your story truly took me there and showed me the angst we people who shun group socialization go through. Superbly written my friend. It doesn't get any better.

John

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sasha
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Re: Saturday, June 13, 1999: Oh, What a Night...!

Post by sasha » March 12th, 2019, 2:01 pm

Thank you, John, and my apologies for the long delay before replying. I suppose I could try blaming my introversion, but, alas, it was simple neglect. Glad you could relate to the piece! I bumped into Cathy a few times after that, and it became clear that, now that I was down to a size 32 or 34 waist, I was good enough for her, since she'd begun actively working her way back under my skin. The other characters in this drama urged me to let my guard down, but I assured them that one evisceration was enough. Eventually I became involved with a woman I'd met online, but that's another story......
.
"Falsehood flies, the Truth comes limping after it." - Jonathan Swift, ca. 1710

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