The Life of the Party(a Study in Description)
First, an iron-clad rule in any parties: Never invite a writer. Or to be more specific, never invite a fictionist. Second: never trip twice on a same mistake, for on that fateful warm summer night, when birds were sleeping snugly on their nests of dry twigs and the rest of the country was busy watching the evening telenovelas, enduring the hot humid nights of the tropic, a mistake was made. A mistake the oblivious hostess of a garden party will not know of but would ultimately pay the price --- she invited Steven King.
Steven sat in a chair by the corner table, silently munching his catch from the buffet which consisted mostly of one piece each of every dish served on those stay-warm metallic chrome plates. He winced at the texture of young corn, now at room temperature, clashing against what appeared to be a mixture of caldereta and roasted beef in mushroom sauce. Why don’t they give out lunch plates with one of those tiny separators, he thought to himself. It would be more practical that way, with the grease from lechon cleanly isolated from the fruit salad they served without my consent, so as not to appear as if he’s eating high-yield animal feed. He drank his soda from a wine glass to drown his disgust. He smiled, a thin smile which would have scared the roving waiters had they seen it. Appetizer has been served. The main course was about to begin.
As a writer of several books both in fiction and non-fiction, the non-fiction part being nowhere near a book but a collection of gossipy tales compiled from a celebrity magazine with him as the editor, he had developed this perverse nature of objective voyeurism, looking not for naked grace and equally bare beauty most of his kind hunt for to satisfy their compulsion. No, he is not sick that way, but only much worse: he seeks out the flaw in every detail of the human character. And parties, being full of his quarries, were his favorite crime scene.
Steven winced as the hostess of the party approached his table. She reminded him of big. bloated marshmallows when you forget them bursting inside the microwave oven. He closed his eyes and tried his best impersonation of a celebrity on the hot seat, ending each sentence with po and opo.
“So how do you find the food, Mr. King,” inquired the hostess, her dentures clicking just decibels below hearing level.
“Good,” replied Steven with a smile. “You have such a fine taste for dining, Mrs. Arillo.”
“You’re so kind.”
“ I should hope to invite you sometime to a lunchtime with Cathy.”
“Ah, you’re wife!”
“I’m alone and single, Mrs Arillo, but she’s special to me. She’s a little picky with her fish though.”
The bewildered hostess, being showered full of gracefulness and a natural lack for humor, quickly recovered her composure and proceeded with introducing the other people in the table.
“Mr. King, I would like you to meet Senator Casiete, with his friend Mr,” the hostess hesitated.
“Pamien,” corrected the muscular guy in dark sweatshirt. “ Just call me Ricky, for short.”
“I see,” said Steven with an understanding smile. Every minute of this evening proved to be more interesting than he anticipated. He knew Mr. Ricky Pamien here is a male commercial model who opted for a sex change in Thailand. Being deficient of financial prowess and general failure to adhere to the prescribed one-year estrogen therapy required for such a delicate procedure, he ended up with two sets of gender parts courtesy of a rural optometrist claiming to be a plastic surgeon. Talking about enjoying both worlds, Steven thought; nonetheless with the help of the honorable Senator, he suspected.
“So Senator,” blurted Steven, shifting his thoughts to the politician. “How’s the bill coming?”
“It’s doing fine now that it’s done,” replied the politico with much self-importance. “The Food Subsidy Bill will be the answer for our nation wallowing in pitiful poverty.”
“Well that makes me feel secured. My taxes are indeed, well-spent.”
“I can assure you, Mr. King. I am not the usual Filipino politician.”
“I gathered as much. You freak-out, so to speak, those who corrupt us.” replied Steven suppressing a laugh.
The hostess, moments before pulled a vacant chair to join the conversation, finally realized his unusual guest’s cruelty and went the other way.
When the Senator and his friend decided to engage their own conversation to audible whispers of endearment, Steven moved on to deliver his coup-de-grace to other guests of the party. One particular couple who caught his interest was on the next table. His former, aging professor in Theology, Mr. Dela Cruz, PHD, was sitting across him, with his crumbing fingernails curling against the smooth knees of a nubile, young teenage moviestar. He knew this teacher of his was married, seeing that Mrs. Dela Cruz is on the carpet dancefloor dancing with a teenage boy to the tune of London Bridge as played by a sleepy band; and based on the preference of teenage girls plotted against the age of men, this particular moviestar is a high-class hooker. He had vivid memories of sedated hours induced by God-shall-smite-thee-if-ye-sinneth type of lectures. He is a pedantic, pseudointellectual egomaniac who don’t know squat about God even if He sends him to Hell, Steven muttered to himself.
“Your great old Professor is here,” declared the returning hostess, interrupting his thoughts. “I saw him doing an interview with Boy Abunda. How was he in class?”
“He’s a pedantic, pseudointellectual egomaniac who don’t know squat about God even if God gives him sulfur to gargle,” replied Steven, realizing too late he was thinking aloud.
“Mr. King! You disgust me!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Arillo. Did I irritate your sensibilities.?”
“Right you are, young man!”
Most of the guests nearby heard the commotion and started approaching the table where it all started. After a while the band stopped playing, the crowd thickened around where Steven were, now standing calmly in front of a visibly flushed fat female of forty.
“You uncultured, evil-tongued blasphemer,” yelled Mrs. Arillo. “You who do nothing but trouble the guests I have here.”
“I was only being candid.”
“To think, I invited you to this party!”
“I thank you. The menu sucks, by the way.”
“You ingrate…”
The hostess screamed so hard her dentures broke off, obviously due to deficiency in adhesives, clanging loudly as it splashed inside the wine glass with soda owned exclusively by the senator, currently being intimate with his companion. The crowd laughed a nervous but unbridled sort of laughter as the embarrassed woman picked up her dentures and swiftly departed towards her house.
Amidst the roaring scene, Steven eased himself stealthily out of the mob and went outside the gate. His whole appearance was that of composure no matter what the circumstance, concealing his mischievous inside quivering with anticipation on tomorrow’s headline for his non-fiction gossip column: Middle-Aged Socialite Dropped Her Teeth; Writer the Life of the Party.
As a writer of several books both in fiction and non-fiction, the non-fiction part being nowhere near a book but a collection of gossipy tales compiled from a celebrity magazine with him as the editor, he had developed this perverse nature of objective voyeurism, looking not for naked grace and equally bare beauty most of his kind hunt for to satisfy their compulsion. No, he is not sick that way, but only much worse: he seeks out the flaw in every detail of the human character. And parties, being full of his quarries, were his favorite crime scene.
Steven winced as the hostess of the party approached his table. She reminded him of big. bloated marshmallows when you forget them bursting inside the microwave oven. He closed his eyes and tried his best impersonation of a celebrity on the hot seat, ending each sentence with po and opo.
“So how do you find the food, Mr. King,” inquired the hostess, her dentures clicking just decibels below hearing level.
“Good,” replied Steven with a smile. “You have such a fine taste for dining, Mrs. Arillo.”
“You’re so kind.”
“ I should hope to invite you sometime to a lunchtime with Cathy.”
“Ah, you’re wife!”
“I’m alone and single, Mrs Arillo, but she’s special to me. She’s a little picky with her fish though.”
The bewildered hostess, being showered full of gracefulness and a natural lack for humor, quickly recovered her composure and proceeded with introducing the other people in the table.
“Mr. King, I would like you to meet Senator Casiete, with his friend Mr,” the hostess hesitated.
“Pamien,” corrected the muscular guy in dark sweatshirt. “ Just call me Ricky, for short.”
“I see,” said Steven with an understanding smile. Every minute of this evening proved to be more interesting than he anticipated. He knew Mr. Ricky Pamien here is a male commercial model who opted for a sex change in Thailand. Being deficient of financial prowess and general failure to adhere to the prescribed one-year estrogen therapy required for such a delicate procedure, he ended up with two sets of gender parts courtesy of a rural optometrist claiming to be a plastic surgeon. Talking about enjoying both worlds, Steven thought; nonetheless with the help of the honorable Senator, he suspected.
“So Senator,” blurted Steven, shifting his thoughts to the politician. “How’s the bill coming?”
“It’s doing fine now that it’s done,” replied the politico with much self-importance. “The Food Subsidy Bill will be the answer for our nation wallowing in pitiful poverty.”
“Well that makes me feel secured. My taxes are indeed, well-spent.”
“I can assure you, Mr. King. I am not the usual Filipino politician.”
“I gathered as much. You freak-out, so to speak, those who corrupt us.” replied Steven suppressing a laugh.
The hostess, moments before pulled a vacant chair to join the conversation, finally realized his unusual guest’s cruelty and went the other way.
When the Senator and his friend decided to engage their own conversation to audible whispers of endearment, Steven moved on to deliver his coup-de-grace to other guests of the party. One particular couple who caught his interest was on the next table. His former, aging professor in Theology, Mr. Dela Cruz, PHD, was sitting across him, with his crumbing fingernails curling against the smooth knees of a nubile, young teenage moviestar. He knew this teacher of his was married, seeing that Mrs. Dela Cruz is on the carpet dancefloor dancing with a teenage boy to the tune of London Bridge as played by a sleepy band; and based on the preference of teenage girls plotted against the age of men, this particular moviestar is a high-class hooker. He had vivid memories of sedated hours induced by God-shall-smite-thee-if-ye-sinneth type of lectures. He is a pedantic, pseudointellectual egomaniac who don’t know squat about God even if He sends him to Hell, Steven muttered to himself.
“Your great old Professor is here,” declared the returning hostess, interrupting his thoughts. “I saw him doing an interview with Boy Abunda. How was he in class?”
“He’s a pedantic, pseudointellectual egomaniac who don’t know squat about God even if God gives him sulfur to gargle,” replied Steven, realizing too late he was thinking aloud.
“Mr. King! You disgust me!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Arillo. Did I irritate your sensibilities.?”
“Right you are, young man!”
Most of the guests nearby heard the commotion and started approaching the table where it all started. After a while the band stopped playing, the crowd thickened around where Steven were, now standing calmly in front of a visibly flushed fat female of forty.
“You uncultured, evil-tongued blasphemer,” yelled Mrs. Arillo. “You who do nothing but trouble the guests I have here.”
“I was only being candid.”
“To think, I invited you to this party!”
“I thank you. The menu sucks, by the way.”
“You ingrate…”
The hostess screamed so hard her dentures broke off, obviously due to deficiency in adhesives, clanging loudly as it splashed inside the wine glass with soda owned exclusively by the senator, currently being intimate with his companion. The crowd laughed a nervous but unbridled sort of laughter as the embarrassed woman picked up her dentures and swiftly departed towards her house.
Amidst the roaring scene, Steven eased himself stealthily out of the mob and went outside the gate. His whole appearance was that of composure no matter what the circumstance, concealing his mischievous inside quivering with anticipation on tomorrow’s headline for his non-fiction gossip column: Middle-Aged Socialite Dropped Her Teeth; Writer the Life of the Party.
No comments:
Post a Comment