Party Girl and boy
Saturday evening my boyfriend Jack and I attended a party in a Manhattan apartment. Parties sometimes are hard work, especially when you don’t know anyone. The engaging of strangers in small talk over loud music in crowded quarters is exhausting. Sometimes I think people take a life partner just so they have someone to talk to at parties and weddings. Jack and I are not such a couple.
The party Saturday night comprised mostly of highly educated 20-30something professionals. 90 percent of the people were there to find a mate. Not just to have some drunken sexual encounter. Both men and women were there to find the person who would eventually be their first divorce. Jack and I decided to split up and pretend we were single just for kicks.
I stood in the kitchen scarfing down pretzel sticks (you know the skinny ones that you used to pretend were cigarettes when you were a kid, not the longer fatter ones you used to pretend were cigars, or for you more edgy kids pretend they were blunts.). As men passed by I would try to guess whether they were a banker or a consultant by their garb. My theory is that business consultants don’t always tuck their starched button down shirts into their khakis, while bankers always do. I’d ask small talk questions like, “So if we're to get married do you think you’d still want to live in the city or would you want to move to West Chester?” "What do you think of the name Comicus for our first born child?"
Meanwhile Jack was on the other side of the room telling the ladies he ran a small mom and pop defense-contracting shop--without the mom and pop. He had been thinking about giving it up to go back to school, study divinity and become a minister. “But is God really worth giving up his classic 6 apartment on the upper west side?” he’d ask.
During my talks with the men I’d interrupt our conversation to ask if I could buy them a drink, then look in my wallet, and say, “Oh man I don’t have any money can you float me a few bucks, I’ll get you back next time.” The cheap bankers would say the, “drinks are free.” I’d retort, “But what about the bartender I have to tip the bartender.” “What bartender?” “Well, do you think the drinks are going to make themselves? Don’t you think I deserve some compensation for my time? I don’t know if I can move to West Chester with you if this is the way you’re going to be. Hey where are you going?”
Around 2 am Jack and I met up in the living room. I said very loudly for everyone to hear. “Hi. MY NAME IS RACHAEL.” “HI RACHAEL, MY NAME IS JACK!” Then we slovenly made-out in the middle of the party for a minute. Next thing you know Jack gets on his knees and asks, “REBECCA, WILL YOU MARRY ME.” “IT’S RACHAEL. AND YES I WILL JEFFERSON.” “JACK.” “CAN I CALL YOU JEFFERSON ANYWAY?” “SURE DARLING.” I heard some woman say, “I guess he’s not going to call” as Jack and I headed out.
The party Saturday night comprised mostly of highly educated 20-30something professionals. 90 percent of the people were there to find a mate. Not just to have some drunken sexual encounter. Both men and women were there to find the person who would eventually be their first divorce. Jack and I decided to split up and pretend we were single just for kicks.
I stood in the kitchen scarfing down pretzel sticks (you know the skinny ones that you used to pretend were cigarettes when you were a kid, not the longer fatter ones you used to pretend were cigars, or for you more edgy kids pretend they were blunts.). As men passed by I would try to guess whether they were a banker or a consultant by their garb. My theory is that business consultants don’t always tuck their starched button down shirts into their khakis, while bankers always do. I’d ask small talk questions like, “So if we're to get married do you think you’d still want to live in the city or would you want to move to West Chester?” "What do you think of the name Comicus for our first born child?"
Meanwhile Jack was on the other side of the room telling the ladies he ran a small mom and pop defense-contracting shop--without the mom and pop. He had been thinking about giving it up to go back to school, study divinity and become a minister. “But is God really worth giving up his classic 6 apartment on the upper west side?” he’d ask.
During my talks with the men I’d interrupt our conversation to ask if I could buy them a drink, then look in my wallet, and say, “Oh man I don’t have any money can you float me a few bucks, I’ll get you back next time.” The cheap bankers would say the, “drinks are free.” I’d retort, “But what about the bartender I have to tip the bartender.” “What bartender?” “Well, do you think the drinks are going to make themselves? Don’t you think I deserve some compensation for my time? I don’t know if I can move to West Chester with you if this is the way you’re going to be. Hey where are you going?”
Around 2 am Jack and I met up in the living room. I said very loudly for everyone to hear. “Hi. MY NAME IS RACHAEL.” “HI RACHAEL, MY NAME IS JACK!” Then we slovenly made-out in the middle of the party for a minute. Next thing you know Jack gets on his knees and asks, “REBECCA, WILL YOU MARRY ME.” “IT’S RACHAEL. AND YES I WILL JEFFERSON.” “JACK.” “CAN I CALL YOU JEFFERSON ANYWAY?” “SURE DARLING.” I heard some woman say, “I guess he’s not going to call” as Jack and I headed out.
Comments
I love it!