a spiritual sort

It was one of those parties where the guests were under-dressed, smoking strawberry-flavored cigarettes, drinking either Cosmopolitans or Long Island Iced Teas.

Very few jokes were told; mostly, people looked at each other, sighing through their smoke rings and avoiding eye contact. When an anecdote was disclosed, it usually ended with the protagonist becoming an alcoholic, going bankrupt, suicidal, or faking their own death and moving to Bali.

The hostess, a thin, droopy-eyed spiritual sort constantly complaining of a “cloudy stomach” (something in her G.I. tract), approached me with a smile and a glass of wine.  “This is astonishingly good… I bought it at the 99 cent store…you won’t believe how masterfully blended and smooth and flavorful it is…”

I tasted it.  It wasn’t bad.  Sort of reminded me of the wine my father used to make.

“In a blind taste test,” the hostess said.  “It won first prize among a group of retired winemakers and grape growers in Sonoma County.”

Knowing nothing about wine, I just said, “Hmm, interesting…

“So,” she said. “How do you like the renovations to our house?  My mother says the early American antiques and collection of folk art just don’t go with the marble floors, the 18th-century paneling, and the bronze balustrades, but you know what?  I like it.”

And then this comment wafted through the air:

“It’s funny when new money tries to look like old money, but it’s sad when new money has no taste.”

I absorbed the decor and gave it a subtle nod of approval. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” I said.

The hostess smiled and waved to somebody across the room.  “…Well, you know, everyone has a different idea about what good taste is.  I’m not a purist; what can I tell you?… Would you excuse me?  I need to speak to my nutritionist… try the onion Bhajias, they’re wonderful…”

Before I could reach the hors’deserve table, I was accosted by the “Dueling Banjos” ringtone from my wireless.  Embarrassed, I entered the bathroom and sat on the avocado green custom-built pull chain toilet.

“Yeah,” I said.

“So, did you make up your mind yet?”

It was April, a girl who’d recently become more than just a booty call to me, according to her.

Over the last few months, she’d been pressuring me into giving something of a commitment to her. Still, when I told her I was too tired to get into a relationship, she took out her Palm pilot, searched for the calendar, and said, “I’m giving you until April 1st to make up your mind…if you haven’t made up your mind by April 1st, then,” she shrugged. “Oh well…”

“Oh well?” I said.

“That’s correct…”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged again and walked away.

I looked at my watch.  It was April 1st. 

“Nice day, isn’t it?” April said.

“Yeah, it’s April Fools Day, isn’t it?”

“All day…”

“Yaaa… been fooled by anybody today?”

“I don’t know, it’s still early…”

“Riight…”

There was a pause.

It was so pregnant it was about to give birth to quintuplets.

“Where are you?” April said.

“I’m at a party…”

“Oh really?  Whose?”

“Some coworkers…”

“Ohh…”

Pause.

There was a knock on the door.

“Occupied!” I said.

“Occupied?” April said.

“I’m in the bathroom…”

“Lovely…”

I glanced at the original French double-ended cast iron roll-top bath with ball and claw feet and the antique gold-finish flush pipe set and wondered why?

“Hello!” April said.

“I’m here.”

She started humming the theme from Jeopardy.

She was probably thinking this was the point in the story where I was supposed to discover my maturity and undergo some kind of transformation in which I gained new knowledge about myself, resulting in me becoming more moral and self-responsible than before.

But apparently, my time had run out.

“Ooooh, sorry,” April said, feigning disappointment. “Time is up.  Nice try, though. Thanks for playing,” and she hung up.

I walked outside onto the recently stained deck, where a group of elderly men were involved in a heated discussion about whether or not Karl Marx was a false prophet.  The man with the hairless, bony legs shook his fist in the air and shouted, “The man was so personally charming that he…,”  but he didn’t get to finish his position because he began hacking from not taking in enough oxygen in between sentences.  His main antagonist, an 80-year-old former beatnik in an Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt and New York Yankees cap, laughed at the hacking man, slapped him on the back, and said, “Statistics strike again!”

That’s when I got in my car and drove away.