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Real
By
Kemble Scott
Edward wished he’d brought an umbrella. It was only a short walk from his car to the party, but the light nighttime sprinkle on the drive over had turned into a torrential downpour the moment he parked. There was no rush. He’d just sit until a break from the worst of it. He’d looked forward to seeing Stephen all day. Another few minutes of waiting wouldn’t matter.
A tall red-wigged transvestite trotted by the car. Caught in the sudden drenching, she held a soaked copy of the
Chronicle above her head. It was useless. Her heavy eye make-up dripped down her cheeks like melting ice cream.
It sucks to be a drag queen in the rain, Edward thought.
When the shower seemed to slow, he bolted from the car to the house. 355 Noe Street was just half way up the block. By the time he got to the gate his shirt was dotted with large splatters. Damn! The blue silk Versace he wore to look hot for Stephen made every tiny rain drop seem huge. Now he was a sopping mess.
The gate was unlocked and the front door slightly ajar, opening to a staircase that reached up to bright lights and the noise of dozens of people talking over one another. Edward hesitated. He wasn’t much for crowds, especially where he didn’t know many people. He was Stephen’s guest at the party, hosted by some friend of a friend Edward didn’t know.
“My god! You’re soaked to the bone,” shrilled an emaciated blonde. She nearly spilled her Cosmo as she pointed at the spots on Edward’s shirt.
“Actually, it’s just this shirt. It tends to show every little…”
“And who are you?”
“Uh. I’m Edward. I’m here with Stephen.”
“Stephen? Who’s that?”
Edward peered into the adjacent room. The landing opened onto a large den that stretched through an archway into a dining room. It was a classic Victorian flat. Edward sneered at how modern renovations had obliterated all the old ornate charm. Was he the only designer left who loved extravagance? Everything these days was so spare. So, ugh,
Pottery Barn. He panned the crowd. No sign of Stephen.
“Well, I don’t see him.”
“No matter,” grinned the blonde. “Gloria loves meeting new people. Even wet ones.” She took a gulp from her drink and wandered away without ever introducing herself.
This is just great, Edward thought. I look like a waterlogged freak and the only person I know at this party isn’t here. He wandered around until he found the bar set up on the kitchen counter. He poured himself a gin and tonic, heavy on the Bombay Sapphire. Just something to take the edge off.
***
Deborah regretted being at the party almost as soon as she arrived. The rain made it miserable to get there. She forced herself to go. Socializing seemed all about forcing herself these days. Her therapist said it was vital she begin to “meld.” What a stupid fucking California thing to say.
“Dumb bitch,” Deborah mumbled under her breath into her glass of Pinot Noir.
“Excuse me?” the man said next to her.
“Uh, nothing.” Deborah forced a smile to try to defuse the awkwardness. “I was just thinking out loud.”
The man furrowed his brow and turned back to the conversation he was having with an unusually tall redhead. Deborah thought the woman had very mannish features, and her eye make-up was a runny disaster. Musta been caught in the rain.
Deborah turned her attention back into her glass of wine. Meld? Stupid fucking therapist. What’s wrong with being alone and miserable? She’d earned it.
It wasn’t her idea to move to San Francisco. Ronnie wanted to. It was a bad decision from the start. New York was her hometown. No matter how many earthy-crunchy spa treatments you get, you don’t just crap Manhattan out of your system. This hick town was in bed by 10! What she wouldn’t give for a decent goddam bagel.
Ronnie figured it out after only three months. He ditched - back to New York on the red eye. Some bullshit about loving the
idea of her, more than the real her. He should bone the therapist, Deborah thought. They’d get along just great.
Now the bank said it would be a year before they’d give her a transfer back. Part of her wanted to quit and just start over, but at forty she’d be a moron to walk away from her benefits. By the time she vested somewhere else she’d be elderly. She was trapped.
Deborah looked around the room. Not a familiar face in the crowd. Where the fuck was Sheila? Sheila invited her to this thing, the least she could do was actually show up. It sucked to be at a party where you didn’t know anyone.
***
Still no sign of Stephen, Edward lamented after downing his second drink. The booze was finally getting to his head, but it was still too little to make him fearless enough to start a conversation with a stranger. Instead, he meandered, sizing up the home’s artwork with one-word reviews in his head.
Tacky.
Tacky.
Tacky.
And the one above the fireplace. Dreadful.
Who were these people? They must have bought this junk at one of those oil painting sales advertised at the Holiday Inn.
Thousands and thousands of original works of art! Edward giggled to himself as he remembered the horrid TV commercial. The paintings were more hideous than the large-eyed children and dogs painted by Keane. Keane was Picasso compared to this dreck!
Where was Stephen to be wowed by his witty insights?
***
You’re shitting me – is that a spot? Somehow in reaching for a chip, Deborah brushed the sleeve of her blouse into the onion dip. Jeesh! What a ‘tard. It was no wonder that no one talked to her.
It might help, of course, if Sheila was there. It was her idea to come to this party. Fucking California flakes, Deborah burned. You can’t even count on the people you work with. Sheila said there would be some great guys here, that it was time to get back on the horse. After all, it had been four months. Even though Deborah agreed with her therapist that the situation with Ronnie was “deeply wounding,” she wasn’t ready to give up on men. They were all evil, selfish, maniacal bastards, of course. She’d just be more careful next time.
Meld? Meld this! Deborah headed back to the bar. It was time for a refill of red.
***
As he poured himself another gin and tonic, Edward watched the woman across the counter open the bottle of wine. Pinot Noir. The woman was mature but attractive, he thought, if you like that sort of thing. He noticed a stain on the woman’s sleeve, as if she’d dropped it in food. How embarrassing. He glanced down at his shirt to confirm that all the water spots had finally evaporated. He looked good again. Where the hell was Stephen?
As the woman poured, Edward studied the wine glass she held.
It couldn’t be.
Murano glass. Here? In this home with the awful artwork? Murano meant taste, and these people sure didn’t have any.
He surveyed the room. Everyone drinking wine held the same glasses. They were some of the largest and finest he’d ever seen. Maybe the gin was clouding his mind, but he was quite sure they were identical to those he’d seen in a gallery at the Piazza San Marco in Venice. Very expensive. It seemed almost irresponsible to have them out in a crowd like this.
If he knew who the hostess was he’d ask. Ever since his trip to Italy he’d been enchanted with fine glass. Now to find it here of all places. He’d been at the party for nearly an hour and this was the first he’d noticed. He laughed at the irony. Surrounded by dozens of people, the only thing he found engaging was an object that would never talk back. Maybe the woman pouring the wine knew. It certainly couldn’t hurt to ask.
Edward pointed to the glass the woman now held in front of her chest. “Are those real?”
Deborah was astonished. Did this jerk just point at her tits and ask if they we’re implants?
“Real? You’re joking, right?” Deborah bit the side of her lip. She could give as good as she got. “I hope they’re real. Who in their right mind would ever get any this small?”
“Small?” Edward laughed. What in the world was this woman talking about? “They’re not small at all. In fact, they’re enormous.”
Deborah sighed. The first conversation of the night, and it just had to be with some asshole destined to give her a hard time. Why was he picking on her? Her breasts hadn’t done anything but sag since high school. She was a droopy A at best. Where was Sheila to get her out of this? Deborah looked around, wondering if she’d become the butt of some cruel party prank.
“Large?” Deborah said, her voice starting to quiver with the hurt she began to feel. “You’re trying to cause trouble.”
“Not at all,” Edward quickly responded. Somehow he had insulted this woman by remarking about the wine glasses. He always seemed to say the wrong things in situations like this, one reason he hated going to parties. He wasn’t sure how he stepped into it this time. Over stemware no less! Where the hell was Stephen?
“Look, they’re beautiful,” Edward tried his best to assuage the woman. “Perfect really. I haven’t seen any more lovely. Honest. I mean, who cares if they’re real or not. I’d happily worship them with my lips any day. They’re, well, astonishing.”
His lips? Worship? Deborah thought, what type of pervert was this guy? Still, it was nice to get hit on. Even if it was a little too aggressive. Hell, she’d take aggressive. Fuck Ronnie. Fuck the therapist. If this guy thinks she has such a nice rack, maybe she’d fuck
him. Meld? Maybe that’s what she needed to get out of this funk. A good melding.
“You do?” Deborah said, now smiling. “You think they’re astonishing?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Oh,” Deborah blushed, playing it up just a little.
“Italian, right?” Edward asked. It looked like he’d finally repaired the insult. Now maybe he could figure out where to get some of those glasses.
“Italian?” Deborah smirked. “No, no, no. Jewish.”
“Jewish?” Edward was baffled. “I’ve never heard of Jewish wineglasses.”
“Wineglasses?” The joy slowly slipped down Deborah’s face. “Who said anything about wineglasses?”
Edward’s eyes searched the crowd, begging for Stephen. Still not there. How long did you have to wait before you knew you’d been stood up?
Deborah stared down into her wine. Stupid California men. Wineglasses?
Copyright © 2007 Kemble Scott
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