The Party

The author is compelled to attend another one of those stupid "Surprise" parties. He's not happy about it...and it only gets worse from there! No surprise!

The afternoon was swimming along peacefully, uneventfully, when the phone rang. I had just settled down with a much anticipated chapter in a novel I had been hoping to finish by evening. The martinis were chilling to Ernest Hemingway’s recommended 15 degrees, the edges of the glasses, rimed with frost, duly rubbed with lemon peel (yellow side down). And I was in no mood for any interruptions, particularly those which demanded chit-chatting.2

I should have let the thing blare and clamor through the machine’s quota of four rings before the voice-mail picked up but it was just too rude and demanding, too urgent and annoying a peal to let sustain for a moment longer than I was physically able to prevent. 3

Skinning my knuckles on the shelf above where the phone sat, New York apartment-jammed in, among books and knick-knacks, I bloody grabbed the screaming banshee. 4

“Hello.”5

“You don’t know me. Dan Melkin’s daughter-in-law Leslie? Dan is in the hospital having a throat procedure so he couldn’t call. Sheryl is going to be sixty and I’m calling to invite you to a surprise party we’re having for her on the 23d, four weeks from now. It’s going to be at La Fortunata de la Tranavera, in the Oakland Building…that’s all the way downtown. It’s not hard to get to…”6

“Surprise? She’s sixty and it’s a surprise?” There was a chuckle, but not much of one. “When you’re sixty you can’t lift your arm to get into your coat; you can’t straighten up getting out of a car, and you don’t look so great. Funny things start growing on your body and mysterious little brown spots begin appearing. It shouldn’t be such a surprise. Why is she having a surprise party?”7

“Anyway, it’s not hard to get to. But you have to find Sixth Street first, and then it’s just around the corner. The address is 7466 Fourth Ave. Don’t confuse the street with the avenue because there’s no such number on the street buildings. And it’s kind of in an alcove, so look for that. And the number may not be on the door but you’ll know. There’ll be people inside.”8

“Dan is having a throat operation?”9

“It’s only minor surgery. He’ll be ok. He just can’t talk now.”10

“Four weeks away.”11

“So can we count on you?”12

“I guess so. I love surprise parties.”13

“Great. See you then. Be there around six. It’s around six-thirty but we want to make sure everyone’s there a little early.”14

“For the surprise.”15

“We’ll send a formal invitation in the mail but Dan wanted to make sure people were notified directly.”16

“That was good of him.”17

“Bye-bye.”18

Have a nice day….19

Somehow I couldn’t get right back to the book. I left the phone off the hook, took down the jalapeno stuffed olives and went directly for the martinis. 20

Four weeks later, invitation in hand, my wife and I found ourselves wandering around lower Manhattan trying to find an address which didn’t seem to exist. I wondered if Dan’s wife was going to have another surprise party next year when she would unexpectedly turn sixty-one. I wondered if this was payback for the surprise party Sheryl had arranged for Dan when he was sixty. I wondered if that was a surprise.21

Twenty minutes later we discovered the place. Two couples I had recognized from Dan’s surprise party some years back were overdressed and crowding into a small, unmarked doorway that opened onto a long flight of stairs. I was surprised at having recognized one of the women. Apparently she had undergone considerable plastic surgery since I saw her last and appeared somewhat younger although her face seemed to have a starboard list to it. I hadn’t seen her for months. Perhaps this was her coming out party.22

There was an usher at the foot of the flight pointing the way but there was no noise from the restaurant’s “party” room.23

As the six of us entered, everyone upstairs stood frozen in anticipation; they evidently were thinking birthday girl. It was not. Noise and movement resumed. I looked for the bar and perhaps a canapé. It was almost seven and I was hungry.24

A heavyish woman whom I didn’t recognize introduced herself as my neighbor, an old friend of Sheryl’s. She was affable, with some uncalled for smiles, (more plastic?) but was completely colorless and with not a hint of femininity, leaving absolutely no doubts as to why she was unaccompanied. It seemed a cruel observation but perhaps a softer, kinder one would follow after I ate.25

A waitress passed with a tray as I awaited the first martini of the evening, at the bar. I twisted to reach around…but the tidbits on the platter were unrecognizable…puzzling. 26

“What are those,” I pointed?27

“Akmi sashimitu.”28

“Really,” I said. “I think I’ll pass. And what are these?”29

“These are squid rolled in maple leaves.”30

“Oh.”31

I found myself grasping the martini…a lifeline, wandering the room, trying to avoid jostling, trying to dodge as many people as I could, and hoping to preclude a drink spilling incident. At the door was a table laden with petite, shiny, designer shopping bags, fluffed with tissue paper swaddling little things inside. I had no idea what they were. Apparently, I thought, no one did. No one had mentioned the bags. But it seems everyone did have an idea. These were the goodies for later…the favors!32

On the dinner tables at each setting, next to the placards, were copies of Sheryl’s baby picture…taken some sixty years ago, at least. Throughout the rest of the room, placed randomly, and fastened to the walls were various sized photographs of Sheryl, in her twenties, her thirties, her teens, her forties. Nothing much beyond that. And her sixties, of course, was to be a surprise. 33

In a far corner of the room was the real mystery object or objects of the evening. Some rather bulky presences covered by several padded black cloths. What was beneath was a conundrum; the mystery of the evening. No one alluded to this corner. It rivaled the favors for being ignored…disregarded.34

A smallish man passes me. I have seen him in the building for years and have always taken notice of him because he resembled an old friend of mine. Something takes possession of me and I introduce myself. He’s Walter. It turns out, although we are both retired, we’ve been in the same business, know the same people. Shared similar experiences. He is ecstatic…calls his wife over, introduces me. He can’t get over living in the same building…all these years. All those old times….We’ve got to get together. 35

I was about to turn away my fourth or fifth server with another tray of unidentifiable Japanese raw cuisine and concentrate on my remaining, shriveled, gin soaked olive when a collective “sshhh” admonishes the room. Someone audibly whispers: “She’s coming.” It was after seven…and it was about time. I only hoped dinner would not comprise another complement of Japanese delights.36

“SURPRISE!”37

A stunned look on Sheryl’s face. People she hadn’t seen for years! All here, now, for the surprise birthday gala! Laughs…glee…kisses…finger pointing!38

I could almost anticipate “Oh! God! I thought you were dead!...” 39

It was close. “And Tracy…I thought you were in Hawaii!..Abe! Where’s Francine? Francine, honey!” More kisses. I found my placard, removed the baby photo, opened the cleverly folded napkin and sat down. 40

The menu sported three choices which I examined carefully and with due dread. Two were of the Japanese mystery variety; one was some kind of “hangar” steak. There was no uncertainty. It was going to be a hangar steak night. I just hoped that wasn’t what was in the designer bags.41

At our table was a giggly girl, attractive at first, but then, altogether too giggly. She introduced her friend, a tall good looking man who said he was a gynecologist. They had just met some months ago, were living together, were going to marry soon and had only met Dan and Sheryl recently on a trip to Aruba. Actually, they met on the boat coming back to N.Y. Dan secretly invited them to the party. I liked the doctor. He was going to have the hangar steak as well. The giggly girl, a rather thin person, opted for the shredded pickled sting ray fukami.42

Nothing came. But someone kept pinging a glass with a spoon. The toasts went on for nearly as long as the cocktail hour. Friends from her thirties, from her childhood, from when she met Dan, from her baby days, from when she was single. Oh, the memories. Oh, the people. There was her best friend from college, there was Mindy, Leslie, her wonderful daughter’s-in-law who couldn’t have made it if it were not for the guidance and understanding of Sheryl, a most incredible and unique mother-in-law; there were the grateful sons who never knew a mother like this; there was Ashley, and Kimberly, Taylor and Tracy, the daughters of Judy, Shirley, Joan and Barbara. Sheryl was a one-in-a-million. Dan was the luckiest man alive. How did he ever deserve Sheryl? Chuckles. Chortles.43

It was ten o’ clock; the salad finally arrived: greens with a strange pungent sauce. I poked at it, with not insignificant foreboding, but my hunger overrode caution. My wife, meanwhile, was falling asleep. Usually uncontrollable drifting off would take place while reclining on the couch in the face of an intriguing television event, but now it was upright in anticipation of washubi zotanambi hokunomo…while Dan clinked on a glass to announce what a wonderful wife Sheryl was and how supportive were all her friends, and to thank everyone for coming out in this weather, and for finding the place, and what a great mother Sheryl was, and how this couldn’t have been such a great surprise if it weren’t for the cooperation of all concerned, and to especially thank Ed, his oldest friend, who came out of retirement for the event, and all the members of the great staff of this restaurant, and this great food (there was silence at this) and please don’t go anywhere…because there’s a great surprise coming. There were more kisses.44

“Sheryl and Dan…Sheryl and Dan…Sheryl and Dan!” Frantic clinking! Another kiss. Applause. Another old girlfriend gets up…pings another glass. “Let’s give it up for Sheryl and Dan!” Utensils, in anticipation of the hangar steak about to arrive, are set down again. More applause. At last the food arrives. Rose, my wife, is asleep. I wake her with a gentle nudge.45

The hangar steak is unchewable, tough. There is no way around this. Even the sober, politically correct, good natured doctor agrees. To oohs and aahs and light applause the cake is wheeled out. A nauseating chorus of happy birthday is led by old pal Barbara, Sheryl cuts the cake, gets a dab of crème on her nose and comments on how fantastic the cake is. Someone mumbles something about why there are no candles…. Dan and two others, with extraordinary effort move the mysterious black-draped corner table to the center of the dining room. There is silence.46

The shrouds are snatched away. The things beneath are unveiled. Everyone gasps in admiration. Someone actually says: “awesome!” Someone else, on my left, whispers: “what is it?”47

Dan is an artist…this is his sculpture. It is his gift (along with the surprise party) to Sheryl. She too is awed, mouth agape. “It’s beautiful.” Applause.48

But everyone continues to stare at the creations. On a pair of square, black bases, two shiny brass protrusions emerge, reaching skyward. They resemble fish, essentially, but with no detail. They are more like slabs, or fins…each going in opposite directions. The guests continue to stare at these shining examples of quintessential modernism. Brasshimi? No one dares look away.49

The initial bites of the hangar steak are not going down.50

Sheryl rises to the occasion and lauds the talents and undying love of Dan.51

Everybody eats cake. The coffee arrives late and is rapidly cooling from luke- warm to cold.52

As Tracy, Leslie, Ashley and Kimberly mingle with Sheryl and Dan, and Joan and Barbara, we begin to meander in hopes of seeing whether we can unearth a ride. People are already taking their little designer bags at the door. There are no rides to be had with anyone going uptown…except for one. What luck. She is the spinster neighbor who smiled affably at the start of the cocktail hour: a lovely lady, (though a bit heavy…and undeniably unfeminine). She is alone and generously offers a ride home.53

She drives a handsome, extravagant Lexus. “Why not, she says, may as well spend it!”54

In the car, I peek in the favor bag: scented products and various colognes from an exclusive perfumer. Sniffing one of the samples discloses it is replete with the heavy, lingering, contemporary overwhelming miasma of industrial perfume’s latest creation for the department store set, Oak Moss. And I can’t seem to get it out of my nose.55

One month later I see Walter leaving the building. He doesn’t recognize me at all. Passes right by. Surprise.56
 

Reviews

[Valentine]

Gary..I see you have a comical side. I was born in a big city and lived near it in Michigan..That is about how life is..You do not really know your next door neighbor or if you see them in a store or something they act like they do not know you,I cracked up about the woman that had plastic surgery and this was her coming out party and thought of Barbara Walters..As for the sculpture..I paint and work with clay and I would have loved seeing it. Dan is an artist..my brother I lost recently was named Dan and he was a well know artist in Mi..God bless..Valentine

[lilain]

I'm so glad I had a break in the workday to read this. Perhaps I am just a very similar minded person as the narrator, but I swear I've been in situations much like this. I really appreciate overall tone which comes across eloquently. The whole time the narrator is at the party I want to leave... the people are grating.

BTW, the paragraph where Dan announes a laundry list of wonderful things about Sheryl is hilarious. I really appcreciate the underlying joke about it being a 'surprise'.

Might I ask a question, though? I noticed you use sentence fragments to emphasize or isolate a point. I like the style very much. Sometimes worrying about a subject and verb are so boring for the reader and the fragments are an excellent stylistic tool. However, coming from a university where proper grammar is - no fragments accepted - is the only way an author should write, I don't know what kind of freedom I have. So, the question is it appropriate when sending out a project to potential publishers to take such liberty?

Oh, and another thought. I like the use of the first person. I have been working on this novel where I use the first person for the lead character, but it became a challenge with telling the whole story. I've since eliminated it. But my point is that I like the first person, but it seems limited, eh? Any thoughts?

I am showing my knowledge about the writing world, which is nothing. ;-) Forgive me for that.

Thanks!
lilain