by Daniel Parme
"I'm just saying, most bartenders would appreciate a little common courtesy. Of course, since I'm not the bartender, I don't really give a shit."
There's a nerve, somewhere deep inside of me, that has always enjoyed pushing the buttons of the over-privileged.
There is also a nerve, somewhere not so deep inside the over-privileged, that detests the pushing of those buttons.
"And who are you to lecture me on etiquette?"
I took a sip of my wine, looking him square in the eye. "Nobody special, I suppose."
"And why are you here, behind the fucking bar, if you're not the bartender?" He crossed his arms and straightened up, trying to intimidate, I imagine.
"Oh. My name is Travis. I'm behind the bar because I have no problem pouring my own drinks when I get thirsty. And yours, if you haven't noticed. And I'm assuming you haven't, since you've yet to thank me." Ah, alcohol. The quickest route to candor.
The guys behind him, both a little shorter and a lot more Italian (although I'm willing to bet they had the same sixty-dollar boxers and solid gold business card holders), exchanged a look of recognition. One of them tapped the asshole on the shoulder. "He's the young man who had the accident, Jim. He's speaking for us this evening, remember?"
He paused for a moment. "Oh. Is that so? In that case, I'm terribly sorry, sir. I had no idea." He extended a hand, dropping the snobby rich guy routine. "I'm Jim Stearns. This is Tony Conicella and Michael Cansellini."
Each of them nodded, in turn, at the mention of their names.
Tony said, "We're all very excited to hear you speak."
Michael said, "Yes. Very excited."
"And you are right," Jim held his glass in the air, "I behaved rudely. I am truly sorry. I hope you'll forgive me." Asshole or not, he sounded sincere enough.
"Don't worry about it," I said, touching my glass to his. "We all have those moments."
He smiled and nodded. "These two are right. People here are very excited about your little visit."
After this point, the conversation gets a little fuzzy. All three of them were in sales – inside, outside, who knows? All three were married, and so each had a glass of wine for himself and one for his wife.
It's difficult to say about much else. I hadn't really been paying attention. I was still a bit overwhelmed by the sight of these folk, by the feeling that something was amuck here, and all the wine wasn't making it any easier, either.
I nodded my head and offered those little nuggets of sound that pass for conversation when the conversation is one-sided. And this was definitely a one-sider. Some people just don't have it in them to stop talking. I think those people feel like they have to justify their very existence every time they open their mouths. It must be exhausting.
This exhaustion must have been why they were all quiet and staring at me like I had something they wanted. Maybe some insider trading tip or something.
Conicella shifted his weight to his left leg and said, "Well, what do you think about it, Mr. Eliot?"
It seems that one of them, or maybe all three of them, had asked me a question. "Oh. Sorry, guys. I sort of zoned out for a second there. What do I think about what now?" Sometimes, you just have to be honest about not paying attention. It’ll be ok. Most people don't really care if you're listening anyway.
"About tonight's menu?" Stearns was all wide-eyed excitement about it.
I, however, was unaware of any menu. I suppose I could have guessed food was to be a part of the evening's festivities, what with all the tables and place settings and centerpieces.
The three of them eagerly awaited my opinion. The food at these things must have been great.
"Sounds great to me." I know I should have asked what was being served, but I really didn't care. I was getting bored with these guys and hated the thought of having to hear them say anything more. "I don't think I'll be staying for dinner, though. Places to see, people to do, you know?"
They laughed. Stupid bastards.
Cansellini thought I should know what it was I was missing. "That's too bad. The chef is head chef at a wonderful little place downtown. The man is an absolute genius in the kitchen." He looked like he just remembered something, spun around to look at the crowd, and then turned back to me. "I should really get this wine to my wife. She's probably waiting."
The other two nodded.
Stearns. "Yes. Alana isn't exactly a patient woman, either. I should get back over there." He shook my hand again. "It's a shame you can't stay for the food. I'll remind Synchek to pack a doggie bag for you."
I was amused at the sound of such a rich, snobby fucker saying the words 'doggie bag', and I laughed aloud. They all gave me kind of a sideways look, but I was fairly certain they didn't know what I was laughing about. They walked away with their wine. With their wives' wine. They walked away in single file, back to the pow-wow near the coffee machine.
I stood dazed for a moment, trying to process that whole conversation, but not really getting anywhere. It was going to be one of those nights, I thought, that I'd be able to talk about later, but only the way I can talk about some movie I saw once, a couple years ago, and I was so very high.
I stepped out from behind the bar and studied the group, which was a little intimidating. These people, they should have been on Wall Street, or maybe Mars. Stearns and Co. had rejoined their friends, and many of them were now turning to get a look at me as I took my sweet old time weaving through the dining area.
I don't know how real celebrities do it. All these people looking at me all the time was something I still couldn't get used to. I can't imagine what it's like to be Brad Pitt, Mr. Pomegranate himself, trying to sit and enjoy a meal or go Christmas shopping at the mall, swarms of looks flying around his Sexiest Man Alive face, little girls and grown women alike shrieking and crying and screaming, "Can I have your autograph? Your picture? Your babies?" Shit. It's like that all over the world for him. The poor bastard.
Me, well, I was only sort of famous and not even once has a crowd of girls gone bat-shit crazy as I walked down the street. It would have been great to have been able to sign at least one breast. But I was merely a Pittsburgh celebrity, which only really counts if you play for the Steelers, or if you happen to find yourself at a meeting with a bunch of people you don't know, who want something from you that you're also unaware of, so they can get their rocks off about something they won't let you in on.
Just the same, I did get a bit of a thrill from knowing that I was the buzz, and the buzz was only growing louder with each step I took. Of course, the buzz may have actually been the most-of-a-bottle of wine flowing through me. Either way, the nerves were settling and their energy was given to what was beginning to take shape as excitement.
If you stop to give it a little consideration, it's really quite amazing how little time is needed for a change in outlook. Or maybe it's inlook. Or even attitude adjustment. Whatever it is that changes, it's big and astoundingly quick.
In the twenty or so steps I'd taken from the bar, I'd set down my discomfort and dropped my apprehension. Somewhere along that path, I'd stumbled across a heaping pile of self-confidence, and conveniently next to it, a pile of fearlessness. It was one hell of a timely find, even though I can’t give you a scientific explanation for its sudden appearance. It was like that wine bottle secretly housed a genie or something. It’s all about the wine.
"Hey folks. How's everybody doing?" My cheeks were burning, but my smile cooled them nicely.
And then these rich people, they were all over me. Hello's and Hi's and Nice to meet you's. Handshakes and nods of the head. The chaos was that of the hive stirred by a little boy with impeccable aim, and they all buzzed for me.
There were so many of them that I can't really remember meeting any of them. When I try to picture one face, it never fails to morph into the most generic face you've ever seen. Grey, even. Like the walls in the morgue waiting room. The kind of face you can only st
ereotype, much in the way that people describe extraterrestrials as having egg-shaped heads and large black eyes.
I know I shook more than one prosthetic hand, though. That was a new experience for me.
Well, I do remember one face from that crowd, I suppose. And, as should always be the case when you can remember only one of many, this face was striking. Beautiful, slap you in the face kind of striking. She had fair, smooth skin, huge (and I mean HUGE) blue eyes, and full pink lips with curves like a real woman's hips. When she got close, it was slow motion like the first Nikki Sinopoli walked into my third grade classroom, guaranteeing me a life of heterosexuality.
But she didn't stand out because she was lovely. There was a sort of innocence somewhere in there that didn't seem to fit in with all these other people. The rest of them had the look of someone who had stolen something and didn't feel the least bit bad about it. I doubt she'd ever taken so much as a boy's well-meant sweatshirt on a cold day.
We didn't get the chance to exchange hellos, but I did get to look her in the eye and shake her hand. It was a good start.
I could tell I was some form of entertainment to the rest of them, but something about her face (or her aura, or vibe, or whatever) led me to believe she wanted something else from me. What that something was, I couldn't tell you, but such is the way it goes with angels.
As I was about to speak to her, Synchek appeared at the podium and asked "if everyone would please take a seat, everyone please." In the scuffle to get to the good seats, I lost her. It was like being thrown into an adult version of musical chairs.
I was left standing near the coffee table, a mostly empty wine glass in my hand and an obviously struggling look on my face. People don't run for their seats like that, I thought. They meander toward them. They take their time. They're polite about it.
What is going on here, in this warehouse banquet room, with all these demons and only one angel?
And then it was explained to me, at least partially, by Synchek, who now addressed his army.
"Hello, friends. I'm glad to see that so many of you could make it this evening. As many of you know, this is the two-hundredth meeting of PEP, which I'm proud to say is something of a milestone." And a milestone it must have been, judging by the applause.
"We are lucky to have with us this evening a special guest, Travis Eliot, who is going to tell us first-hand about his unfortunate accident and the harrowing tale of his survival."
I was beginning to tire of this whole "harrowing tale of survival" crap, but that was hardly Synchek's fault. It was the right phrase, at least for those who had never gone through anything like it. Personally, I'd have gone with "hellish tale of pain and despair", but it wasn't up to me.
"Mr. Eliot is also kind enough that he has agreed to take a few of our questions once he has finished. And, as per usual, dinner will be served at nine-thirty, followed by drinks and a few hours to socialize. And with that, my friends, I would like to introduce..."
Me. Little old wine drinker me. Bewildered, lost, confused, and a little drunk.
Me, the most famous bloke in the room.
Me, the guy who ate his best friends.
Me, the guy who couldn't get it up without the mental image of a dead girl.
Weren't these people lucky, eh?
I didn't know where to start my story, but I figured I couldn't just stand there with a glass of wine in my hand and a curious urge to piss myself, so I decided to walk up to the podium. They were all watching me walk. They looked like they wanted to tear me apart, but not necessarily in a bad way.
So I got to the podium, grabbed the sides and rested my weight onto my elbows, and I began to speak.
I have to be honest, here. Public speaking has never been high on my list of entertaining activities. I hated it when I was a kid, giving book reports about Charlotte and her web, and had grown only slightly more comfortable with all eyes and ears on me by the time I finished college. I'm not saying I would vomit or break out in hives or anything, but I'm sure more than one person had noticed the nerves rattling around in my mouth like marbles.
But this time was different. No nerves. No panic. No triple-checking to make sure my fly was properly flied. And, most importantly, no sense that everything and everyone in the room was closing in on me.
This time, I controlled everything. I could have brought the ceiling down with little more than the mention of my desire to do so. I had become powerful up there in front of all those suits and diamond-studded heels. I felt it in my fingers, wrapped over the edge of the podium. I felt it in the small of my back. I felt it in my lips, throwing words like solid balls of epiphany at the ears of all these strange strangers. And I felt it in my eyes, open and cold and blue, turning them to stone as though I were a sexified Medusa.
My eyes, which locked for at least a moment with every other pair of eyes in the room, could have driven those people to any point I wished. I knew it halfway through my story.
Well, I knew it about all but one of them, anyway. My tiny little angel did not look at me the way the rest did. She paid close attention, but she didn't have her pretty little mouth agape the way the rest did. She listened to me, but that was all.
The rest of the crowd seemed to imbibe every syllable the way they did their wine, and they would have gone on drinking this oft-repeated tale until their bodies could hold no more and it spilled out of their mouths, noses, ears.
She would have her fill after just a sip. Just for the taste.
The rest were obviously excited. She, though, seemed saddened.
And her sad face snapped me out of whatever world I was in. Something about the way she looked at me made it clear to me that something was seriously wrong with the way everyone else looked at me. They shouldn’t have been listening with so much intensity. They shouldn’t have wanted so much from me.
I shouldn’t have given it to them so freely.
I stared at her through the last twenty minutes of story time, which ended with what I felt to be an inappropriately enthusiastic round of applause, and then the hands went up. It was time for the Q &A.
"When and how did you finally come to the decision that you had to eat your friends? And how did you convince yourself that it was ok, given the circumstances?"
I took a deep breath. "About ten days after I ran out of food, which was about two weeks after the wreck, I realized it was very possible I would starve to death. So I had to eat them. There wasn't really a decision to be made about it. I would have died. That's why I thought it was ok."
"Do you think your friends would have been ok with it? Would you have done the same if you knew they wouldn't approve?"
I had been a little nervous about answering the questions, but these didn't seem too bad. "I think they'd have been ok with it. Even if they weren't, how would they have stopped me, right?"
"Did you enjoy the taste?"
That one shook me a little. It's hard to believe, but nobody had asked me that question yet. Not the doctors, not the interviewers, not my friends. I guess everyone thought it might have crossed some sort of line, asking that question. And I didn't really want anyone to ask that question because, "Once I let myself forget they were people... yeah, I guess it tasted pretty good."
"Have you ever thought about eating anyone else?"
That one shook me to the core, and I froze. Perhaps the questions were a bad idea. I searched the crowd wildly for that little blonde girl, but she had somehow slipped out without me noticing. If she had been there to help me with her peaceful grace, I may have been able to avoid passing out and falling forward into the podium.
I'd fainted/passed out only once before. It had been a combination of too little food, too much pot, and too much steam in an ex-girlfriend's shower. I remember the steam. It was like inhaling some space-aged concrete that only hardened once it found its way into your lungs. I remember heading for the window, but I never made it. When I woke, naked and wet, comf
ortably lying on the porcelain, I found poor little Liz was wrapped in a towel and kneeling over the edge of the tub, tapping at my cheeks and repeating my name. She looked so scared. "What's the matter, babe?" I'd asked her. "I'm fine. But why am I laying in the tub?"
This current lapse of consciousness was a similar experience, although thank God I was clothed this time. Just the same, I couldn't figure out how I'd gotten to the floor, my head resting on a fur coat. My bewilderment was furthered by the unfamiliar faces huddled around me, murmuring, "He's awake. It's ok. He's awake."
And you know, the phrase "bewilderment was furthered" may have been poorly chosen. I should have said that the shock of this moment scared me right off the floor, my head turning violently in all directions as my heart revved into the red and my nostrils flared like a demon bull snorting evil smoke. Yep. That ought to do it.
"It's all right, Mr. Eliot. You fainted, that's all."
My lost little head, which had been so verbose and eloquent only minutes before, could only come up with, "Huh? What happened?"
"You passed out at the podium, Travis." It was Synchek, sitting cross-legged in one of the folding chairs. "Onto the podium, actually." He pointed to the splinters of wood that used to tell you who to listen to. They were all over the floor, except the few that were stuck in my skin.
My cheeks must have gone as red as the wine I'd apparently spilled all over myself. "Ooh. Sorry about that, Walter."
"Make no mention of it, my friend. I've been toying with the idea of getting a new one anyway. This is not a pine room. This," he said, with another of those grandiose hand gestures, "this is an oak room."
I noticed that everyone was still there, near my point of impact, silent and interested. The interest presumably stemmed from a general concern for my well-being, so it was welcomed. The silence, however, freaked me out.
"I think I need some air." A path showed itself in the crowd like an old friend, and I took advantage of it in much the same way. In just a moment, I was outside, cursing myself for listening to Dave and Adam.
I'd used the old need-to-get-some-air line the way it is meant to be used (that is, to get me out of a situation that had become less than cozy), but it seemed that the air had thought me an honest man. It was cool out there, amidst the BMWs and Jaguars, and just a few deep breaths managed to straighten me out pretty quickly.
