Note to self: Wear cammo to next dinner party
While at a recent dinner party, I was trying to blend in with a large, bushy plant that took up most of a corner in the large ballroom. Without wearing camouflage, I was having trouble disappearing into the scant vegetation. Suits and ties simply don't work when trying to become invisible in a room full of people dressed in suits and ties.
Oh, I know what you're thinking. Every other guy in the room was wearing what I was wearing, so I should have been able to blend in with them. And you're right.
But for some reason it seemed that I was a target for those wanting to talk about subjects that were destined to get me in trouble.
Yes, that's what you do at dinner parties, but I couldn't just talk with the guys I know. I had to visit with people I'd never met.
Looks like I'm talking myself into a hole, doesn't it? Listen, I'm not antisocial. Far from it. I like to visit with people and engage them in conversation, but there must have been a full moon on this particular night. Ask any cop, any emergency room nurse or doctor or any paramedic: A full moon brings out the bizarre in folks.
Or it brings out bizarre folks.
The first person to discover me in the corner was the wife of a very powerful politician in our city. She's a bunnyhugger who hates hunters.
"Are you the person who writes those horrible articles?" she asked, backing me further into the corner. A leaf poked into my right ear.
"They're not that bad," I said, trying to find somewhere for my eyes to light. "They're supposed to be funny." Her garish makeup forced my eyes to seek a more comfortable view. Painted-on eyebrows, strange teeth, glassy eyes and deep wrinkles half-filled with makeup caused me to want to look away. I settled on the mole between her eyes.
"They're about killing animals," she said.
"They're about my experiences in the outdoors."
"But you kill animals."
"Do you think we'll have steak for dinner tonight or chicken?"
"Chicken, I hope. I'm trying to lose weight."
I didn't suggest that she cut off her head to save 10 pounds. That would have been juvenile.
Someone I'd been trying to avoid then joined us. Ben Bryant is one of those guys who has no concept of personal space. "I bought a new shotgun last week," he said, breathing heavily in my face.
I backed as far into the potted tree as its branches would allow. Another leaf joined the first in my ear, and a third tickled the back of my neck. Thankful for the change in conversation, I turned my attention to him. Unfortunately, he was so close that I couldn't focus through my trifocal glasses. Trying to keep my eyes from crossing, I gave up and examined the drink in my hand.
"Have you met Mrs. Smith?" I asked.
"What are you going to do with a shotgun?" she demanded of our new arrival.
"Shoot things."
"He's going hunting," I said. "He hunts every weekend."
She inhaled in shock, long and loud. "How could you shoot animals?"
"You usually have to lead them ..." he began.
"Hunting season isn't even open," I added, just for the enjoyment of what was about to come.
"Criminal," she snapped and launched into a long diatribe about her opinions toward hunting and fishing.
Stunned for a long moment, Ben stared at her like a gaping fish. She stopped for a breath, and he spoke carefully.
"I only wanted to talk about my new shotgun," he said, looking at me for help. He wanted to discuss chokes, pattern spread, powder weight, shot size and all the minutia that comes with those who love guns for guns' sake. I hate all that stuff, to be perfectly honest about it, so I just shoved him further under the bus.
"She's not a vegetarian," I said.
That small crack in her armor was all he needed.
"Well then, do you want to talk about firearms or meat?" Ben asked her.
"You know what I'm most concerned with," I said. They turned their attention back to me. "I worry about recycling and landfills. For instance, that plastic glass in your hand there, ma'am, probably won't be recycled and will go into a landfill. I think we need to use something different."
"Paper cups," she said immediately. "They decompose."
"But aren't you concerned about logging?" I asked. "Paper cups are made of paper, which comes from trees."
"I am," said a newcomer to our group. He was a gentleman I'd never met, but I knew his face. "We need all the trees we can get to clean the air."
"Recycled paper and crop trees," my painted lady said. "That's the ticket."
"Wildlife is impacted when the trees are logged," still another person said, joining our group.
"I don't like the idea of all the pollution from the paper plants," a newcomer added, joining us.
I could finally take it no longer and excused myself. "Just think about it," I said, heading for the table and the salad waiting at my place. "Everything we do impacts the planet or causes distress to something else. In fact, I just heard the other day that plants have feelings and the Swiss government opined that killing flora is morally wrong."
"Did you hear that, Flora?" one of the men across the table asked his wife as I sat down. "You're safe for a while longer."
And while the corner erupted into a vicious argument, Flora, her husband and I, crunched our way through a crisp salad, content in our positions at the top of the food chain and not worried that asparagus might have feelings.
• Reavis Wortham's e-mail address is r.wortham@tx.rr.com.
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