Cocktail Generation Party

In the next room, the 65 year old boys exchange the intricacies of guitar playing, the details of their toys which such imagined exactitude.  They speak numbers like a secret language, narrowing it down until they can figure out the exact secret code; letting them into the good graces of the Rock Star like the right knock for the speakeasy.

The tumbler will slide into the right combination, the gates will open and he will offer them a smile of recognition.  Open Sesame.  And the funny thing about his smile.  It is magic.  He’s an old man, just another one, and then he gets on stage and smiles.  He evokes himself in the younger magic days, when good luck gets taken for granted.

Another guy of his generation fell into his luck.  Raised by a record store owner, already heir to the Hip trends and with music swimming around him like delicious food in an Italian kitchen.  He knows nothing of negativity or depression, the same way that some people are honestly ignorant of religion-and the spectrum of emotions which run alongside it.  

“I had hard times, sure, but I asked my Dad, and he said, “Anything is possible” and I believed him.  

This man causes people to love and hate him at the same time.  His philosophy runs knee deep, like a kiddie pool.  Instinctively, she begins to respect her Rock Star.  For all the drowning he’s done in life, he’s at least aware of it-the highs and lows- and doesn’t succumb to this ethical amnesia and denial.

“Relax, I told her.  I mean, yes, I said I LOVE you, but that doesn’t mean I want to fuck you.  She got VERY uptight about the whole deal”

Somehow the more he talked, the more he tried to diffuse this random story, the more one could tell that he did make an appropriate remark.  Perhaps LOTS of them.  

When he played his coronet (??) /fluglehorn he tried to ride the wave of jazz.  Somehow he always seemed to be off on some notes.  Granted, Jazz is a very flexible medium, but here, somehow, he stood out like a bad dancer.  Glide, glide, trip, rhythm, rhythm, fall.  She held her smile perfectly, like the waiters who effortlessly carry their trays of champagne over the crowd’s heads.

Here was a perfectly nice, if fuzzy character.  If she were smart, she’d switch alliances and ride off with this guy tonight.  He seemed to have all the money and the fortune that by all rights should have accrued to her Rock Star.  Their paths had diverged in the woods, and he had figured out how to sell out early and well.  

Buoyed up by his brother and record store parents, he’d gotten a backup singing spot on a TV Show.  Flown to New York for a car commercial, everyone seemed to want to open doors for him.  Learned how to manage a Sound Board, made just the right friends.  Could hang in head in sorrow like Gielgud when a pop hit from the 80’s came on.  Tear in his eye-”Man, that kid was so young, only 50.  I still can’t believe it,”  What do you call it when someone seems to be acting in a bad made-for-tv movie, but it is their real life?  Sure, you were best friends with your Rock Star, but don’t expect me to console you at this party in a rooftop bar.

And then there was that NY1 Movie Reviewer, who loved the mileage he got out of reducing weekly Hollywood releases to a 30 second synopsis.  He hated everything she loved, which turned out to be the ones he couldn’t stay awake for. She watched him for the sheer spite of flipping his advice on its head.  She met him at a party hosted by a former “would-be politician” (ran for Governor of NY on a ticket for a party that didn’t even survive the election).  It was one of those nights when she had decided to wear something especially low cut so that she could hate every man who ogled her.  

“NICE BREASTS!”  was the first greeting she got when she stepped off the elevator.  This came from a woman who, slightly drunk and possibly coming from the same strategic viewpoint as she, was immediately (if briefly) her comrade in arms.  Literally.

“YOU HAVE LOVELY CLEAVAGE AS WELL!”  At a party with this soundtrack, remarks were exchanged at a scream over the music, but everyone acted as if it were all completely normal.

Two men had been hanging onto the woman, one of whom was the former politician.  And somehow, their conversation had turned into a group hug in which large breasts seemed to form the central motif. The former politician was laughing, as was the other man.  The former politician might have been wise to steer away from politics, for his proclivities towards exactly these sort of parties.  Not because sexual scandals were commonplace, or even commonly competing for highest shick value.  She knew him to be an extremely closeted gay man, to the point where she was almost eager to let him continue to flirt with her to gain his confidence.  If he couldn’t come out of the closet to another man, straight or gay, maybe he needed sisterly shoulder to cry on.  Or even a fag hag.  She knew that it wouldn’t do for a politician to be closeted (or even worse, in denial to even himself).  New York could stand to have its politicians lie, but it would eat them alive if they were discovered to be in denial.

Written 11/24/13

If She Asks You Why, You Can Tell Her That I Told You

Onstage, it was a few cabaret songs, everything inspired by him, directly or indirectly. This was getting to be a regular thing for her; a gathering of the tribes.  Not that she could tell the difference between friends and the people she had met out on the road and in the city, maybe some of them considered themselves her fans. If you perform often enough, everyone will come around. As if of you had never left the piazza in Rome, or Washington Square, and just let the world come to you.  And the world was in the audience that night.  She'd walk away with some money, a few good reviews, and a sense that there were more strangers in the audience than family.  And there he was, sitting right out in front, where she could see him.

But she wasn't sure until the break that it even WAS him.  He'd disappeared for years.  And he looked different, lost weight off his already skinny frame.  She couldn't tell if it was better or worse.

"Meet my fiancée,"

Her heart dropped into the bottom of the earth, but she didn't miss a beat.

"Congratulations!! When's the lucky day??"

"Well, we haven't set it yet. All his god kids seem to be getting married .... And every time we pick a date, it ends up being too.."

"Yeah, we're just amazingly lucky to be surrounded by so many happy couples!!"

"Um, yeah,"

She recognized the humiliation in the poor fiancée 's eyes and immediately decided to be on her side. The wedding had often been close to not happening many times, his lack of commitment and fear of changing anything. The poor woman was so close to being free, to being lucky, but was completely blind. And too heartbroken to fall out of love now.

Heartache gets to be a feeling that one grows to know well. And when you tell yourself that it is equal to love, to HIS love, then it is hard to break away. One smile from complete and utter happiness. And he smiles less and less often. Well, not at you.

If she had been hooked up to a lie detector, or heart monitor, her body would have easily betrayed her.
It was only as she walked away that she realized that her body had been in PANIC mode.  Eyes dilated, sweat sprang up suddenly, like driving through a Stop light, and then awaiting impact from the phantom autos headed her way.  But when she took a breath, she had to remind herself how lucky she was.  To get away.

Even he could tell she wasn't buying the story about postponing wedding dates.  And neither was his fiancee.  He wasn't in love with this woman, she wasn't The One.  She was just the one to be taking care of him right now.  If he were smarter, he'd grab her.  Make her commit to him legally, the solid gold handcuffs in the shape of a single wedding ring.

So he shifted the conversation to her current charade.

"Speaking of happy couples, how long have you been with him?"  He indicated the flamboyant man in the black suit who was flirting with the young sound engineer.

From a distance, she hoped that her "date" resembled a sophisticated lounge singer who may not have been entirely gay.  Until he put his arm around the boy, he might have even passed for bisexual.  She couldn't tell if the question was as sincere as it sounded.  You'd think that even a straight man, with 70 years of experience would be suspicious of a fabulous man who could arrange Broadway show tunes into power ballads.  But she was nonplussed to see that the Rock Star seemed vaguely peeved, which was as close as he could get to admitting jealousy.

"Oh, I've known him about a year or so. And, yes, we ARE happy! Much too happy to get MARRIED!!" she was careful to overdo the emphasis so that it could all be passed off as a joke.

If this conversation were being played out on a Scrabble board, she would have gotten a triple word score. Funny, evasive and insulting all at the same time.  But they both walked away from the exchange feeling as if they were performing in a scene they had never agreed to.  She made an excuse about getting back on stage, and he graciously began to let her go.

And then he whispered the words that made her nearly cry, "Go get 'em, kid!"  A simple thing he used to say before they'd get on stage together.

"Can I invite you up?"
"It's your night.  Besides, I'm not ready.  I couldn't."
"Are you fishing?  Should I insist harder?"
"No, really, I haven't sung in a while.  My voice isn't . . ."
"Next time then,"

She shrugged, half embarrassed and half relieved.  He'd steal the spotlight, certainly.  But it was politically the right thing to do.  Not that anyone in the audience even recognized him.  And then the absence hit her. as if her body were suddenly hollow. He wouldn't be on stage with her ever again.  Maybe she'd mention that.  At least.

Thankfully, by the time she got back onstage, someone else had taken over their seats.  He had walked out on her show.  Maybe he was sick.  Or maybe just an asshole.

In between songs, she became more honest.  One mournful song was introduced in a new way.

"Once upon a time, there were two people.  They loved each other, but they could never quite get along.  He wanted to live in the country and sing around the fire.  And she wanted to be where there were people. It sounds like such a cliche, until it happens to you."

Castles in the Air by Don McLean