I'd love to tell you a slow account of how that evening went. Unfortunately, it was not memorable. What stands out is how much wine was consumed by our rival, Pete. He was the only one in the room who knew nobody else prior to this meeting. His attempts at conversation were shallow and diminished dramatically when he got stuck on describing how he likes to shave in the shower.
"Do you?' he kept asking Martin and me.
As Pete continued to suck the air out of the dining room with these nerve-wracking attempts to draw people out and prove his ease and comfort with present company, he kept drinking wine. When he excused himself to go to the bathroom, Martin leaned over and whispered in my ear, "We got dis guy beat."
I can't remember the food we ate and much about the remaining conversation. With the exception of Pete, everybody seemed rather serene. Maybe the thought that none of us would ever see each other again helped our exchanges.
When we went around the table and responded to "What do you do?" I began to wonder how much pretense would fill the room. Martin told everyone that he was a restaurant owner. True, if you count a hole in the wall juice bar as a restaurant. He never mentioned that it was a very successful and well-known Berkeley collective. I merely mentioned that I was a teacher.
"What do you teach," Susan asked.
"English and Social Studies," I said.
"Oh, I hated English and History in high school," was her follow-up.
I guess that was one way to let me know she had no interest in getting to know me. The feeling was mutual, so the only thing we had in common was that we weren't interested in each other in the least.
When Pete returned from the bathroom he inquired about the backyard of this beautiful home. We all walked outside and a view of the East Bay hills in the deepening dusk presented a welcome relief. I walked over to the edge of the yard and leaned up against a wooden fence. Sticking my thumbs under my suspenders, I feigned a pensive look and repressed the laughter welling up inside. I kept thinking, how is this evening going to end?
"Do you?' he kept asking Martin and me.
As Pete continued to suck the air out of the dining room with these nerve-wracking attempts to draw people out and prove his ease and comfort with present company, he kept drinking wine. When he excused himself to go to the bathroom, Martin leaned over and whispered in my ear, "We got dis guy beat."
I can't remember the food we ate and much about the remaining conversation. With the exception of Pete, everybody seemed rather serene. Maybe the thought that none of us would ever see each other again helped our exchanges.
When we went around the table and responded to "What do you do?" I began to wonder how much pretense would fill the room. Martin told everyone that he was a restaurant owner. True, if you count a hole in the wall juice bar as a restaurant. He never mentioned that it was a very successful and well-known Berkeley collective. I merely mentioned that I was a teacher.
"What do you teach," Susan asked.
"English and Social Studies," I said.
"Oh, I hated English and History in high school," was her follow-up.
I guess that was one way to let me know she had no interest in getting to know me. The feeling was mutual, so the only thing we had in common was that we weren't interested in each other in the least.
When Pete returned from the bathroom he inquired about the backyard of this beautiful home. We all walked outside and a view of the East Bay hills in the deepening dusk presented a welcome relief. I walked over to the edge of the yard and leaned up against a wooden fence. Sticking my thumbs under my suspenders, I feigned a pensive look and repressed the laughter welling up inside. I kept thinking, how is this evening going to end?
Comments