The Cooler

Awhile back I received an invitation to a high-rollers party, a sort of pre-Oscars thing where the beautiful people gather to look more beautiful and the power people go to find people they can control. Which, interestingly enough, tend to be beautiful people.

Why it was I was invitied to this shin-dig remains a mystery. At least to me. I am neither a power person nor a beautiful person, so why my presence at this affair was desired, well, from the moment I received the invite I determined there was no way, no how I was going.

Here's the thing: I got distracted by a number of writing projects, the invitation fell behind my desk, and I forgot to RSVP I wasn't attending.

Which meant, when the telephone call came, confirming my attending, my response, through a pencil in my mouth, was, 'Arghr?'

Which, interesting enough, was taken as meaning I was attending.

Now I suppose I could forgotten to attend but to blow off efforts such as this one without valid reason and cause has been known to become reason and cause for one joining the Witness Protection Program.

In other words: Don't do it. Don't chicken out. If you agreed to attend, attend.

So I did. But with a promise to myself I would scoot for the nearest door as soon as possible, thereby keeping most of my self-respect intact and, basically, fulfilling whatever obligation I might have to this crowd.

I was in the door maybe ten minutes when a woman dressed in something resembling black plastic wrap came over, hooked my arm, and informed me she was going to introduce me to some 'very important people'. When I tried to beg off by saying I had a bladder infection and needed to make an immediate trip to the facilities she held onto me, saying that the introductions 'wouldn't take more than a minute'.

Thirty minutes later, as I listened to a large-breasted blonde prattle on about how films and movies nowadays just leave a body unfulfilled, a man I first took as a waiter interrupted, telling me I had a telephone call.

I was surprised by this announcement, and was about to say I wasn't expecting a call, when he shook his head to interrupt. Fortunately, I was paying attention, and quickly came to realize that what he was really saying was that he had a way out for me from this particular torture.

When we had managed to gain a safe distance from the blabbermouth I started to say 'thank you'. But before I could the would-be waiter held his hand up to interrupt. No need to thank me, he said. That's my wife.

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