"I can't find it."
I have my gibson martini half-way to my lips when I hear Theo's plaintive whine sound from the vicinity of the drawing room. Theodore rarely, if ever, ventures into the drawing room, because it is where I retreat from both television and phone conversation and he finds the practice abhorrent.
"What is it you're looking for darling?" I inquire, raising my voice so I don't have to raise my ass from the leather divan. He doesn't answer; this is his little game, his little control ploy, simply waiting until my curiosity gets the better of me. "Theodore?" I call a little more loudly. I try to sound authoritative. Don't laugh; it's worked in the past.
Still there is no response. He is really pushing the limits of my tolerance now, for if I have to stand I will undoubtedly jostle my martini and there is nothing worse then a perfectly stirred martini that gets a good sloshing. I decide to wait him out; it is high time I broke him of this annoying little habit. I tap my fingers on the arm of the divan and strain to hear what he might be up to.
There is also the possibility that whatever it is he's seeking, I have hidden. Several of his more questionable possessions have somehow found their way into the ether never to return. The least among them some wretched noise he called music on a CD with the odd acronym N*SYNC printed across the front of it. It was rather heartbreaking to see his devastation at its loss, but the peace I enjoyed afterwards soon rendered any guilt on my part obsolete.
I uncross my legs and cross them the other way, sink a bit in the chair in a most undignified fashion, and then I realize my martini glass is empty. I fling myself to my feet with the unbridled determination of a man who is going to spy on his lover and march down the hall, tongue sharpened and ready for battle. We collide in the doorway of the drawing room, the martini glass goes flying but I do not, as Theo wraps his arms around me and keeps me upright, grinning.
"Theodore!" I huff, "didn't you hear me calling you? What on earth are you doing in here?" I try to see around his broad chest and defined shoulders; he quite fills up a doorway and I do not find this a bad thing.
"I was waiting for you," he says with a wink and easy smile that leaves me a bit breathless. "You just took longer that usual," he purrs.
"What were you looking for?" I'm trying to maintain my haughty exterior even as his fingers work slow circles on my back.
His eyes twinkle as he leans forward to touch noses with me. "My shame," he says with a devilish grin, "but I think maybe it's gone for good."
I swallow and Theo kicks the door closed.
*****
This is not the worst moment of my life.
I would prefer to save that for something completely malicious. An action or thought or carefully-schemed plan that only a true mastermind could envision. Only then will I have met my true nemesis. At one point I thought it might be Margie.
The sublime nature of the consanguinity between author and agent has long been whispered in the dark places of the great publishing halls. Words bandied about like flies to honey and between their evil chuckles and four-dollar coffees, they make small wagers as to who shall succumb first.
They liken us to great predators, marking off our territories and eyeing each other with wary malevolence, waiting for an opening to strike. Phone calls are made and ignored. Messages are taken and forgotten and email goes untouched as the game of cat and mouse ever escalates. Outings become haphazard affairs of dark glasses and scarves, and hurried intent strides, head down and blinders worn. Parties are skittish affairs with the constant glancing over one's shoulder, wondering if for the regalement of the guests the host invited not one but both.
An author with a deadline is a hunted man.
I prefer to think of myself as fashionably late in any endeavor I choose. My muse is sometimes a bittersweet boy who charms me for a while until another takes his roving eye. During these dark times only a mai tai and Theodore's bare bottom are any relief. One would think I would learn from the experiences and, as a learned man, be vigilant and dutiful to my art or be better at maintaining a low profile and hiding in plain sight. Theodore once offered to me that if I wore denim and flannel I might go about as I liked and no one would recognize me. As absurd as the notion seemed at the time I have often thought about it. But then again, I laugh to myself, as if anything could mar my natural radiance so as to render me unrecognizable. The very thought.
It is only these inner musings that allow me to keep a calm exterior in the wrath of the Margie scorned. The very fact she would brave a pool party to sink her claws into me should impress me at least. She is ever so fetching in her yellow short set with the white daisies and white flip-flops and drooping straw hat. Her stockings are rolled just below her knees in the most charming manner, no doubt as to save us all the shakes from viewing her varicose veins, and she is carrying her pocket book in the crook of her elbow. It must be more comfortable for her, considering she stoops a bit from her hump. As I start to open my mouth to perhaps utter a word or two in my defense, she draws herself up to her 5'2 stature and launches into yet another carefully memorized tirade, from the Book Of Margie, Volume 53, chapter 9, "Why Nigel is ungrateful and will soon be attending her funeral due to his plebeian ways and his heavy influence on her dependence on vast amounts of gin."
I glance across the pool at Theo. He's rolled onto his stomach and worked his tiny little Speedos down just enough to make god consider crying. He's very vain about his tan line and prefers people to think he doesn't have one at all. Tapanga, our gracious hostess, told Theodore that he was more than welcome to sunbathe nude. He has shown either vast amounts of restraint or modesty. Virtues which I am surprised he has and rather dubious of him cultivating. Margie has followed my line of sight. Her suddenly sardonic chuckle gives me shivers up my spine.
"So Nige," she rasps in her jazz singer's envy voice, "if I offer Theo a blowjob, does that mean I can get the manuscript now?" The sudden silence on the pool patio is deafening. I clear my throat. I wonder if throwing myself to the ground and playing dead might be of some use. But no, she'd only find someway to animate my corpse at a keyboard. I know when I am defeated.
Perhaps I should lower my standards as to what I consider the worst moments of my life.
*****
Well, all I have to say is that sitting me at the same table as Charlene 'Barbie' Huntcliff was a well-thought-out and carefully-laid plan to provide some free entertainment.
Despite the buffer of Theodore and Pasty Caldwell, there was still ample glaring space and enough static in the atmosphere to make the hair on the back of my neck rise. We both carefully drew our invisible battle lines and took advantage of our unfortunate cover in the guise of my lover and some poor housewife looking for a greater purpose.
It is no great secret to the Dunwoody Women's Society for Understanding and Diversity, (referred to in some circles as Dominatrix Will Suck You Dry, yes, yes, 'u' for 'y', I know it's not a proper acronym, but it's rather amusing) that Charlene and I have had our differences in the past. Our rather loud and haughty differences. It has to do with a nasty little rumor about Trevor, her husband, a bottle of Chivas Regal, myself, and a bungalow some four summers ago at Twilla's 'Much Simpering About Nothing' Inaugural Speech Bash for our most recent national leader.
How I adore these little luncheon-speaking engagements. It does my ego a hearty handshake to have forty or so prettily bored business tycoon trophies batting their eyelashes and sighing at my every word. After surrendering the podium with the knowledge nothing could follow my carefully-prepared speech on the advantages of swarthy Latino boys dominating the pool maintenance industry, I had the misfortune to wander too close to Charlene's troops in the trenches and thus found myself cornered near the token fichus tree as helpless as Imelda at a shoe sale.
From the slow bubbling and oozing center of the tight knot of Laura Ashley hell came a pink and gray viper with a carefully maintained coif and the stench of Chanel No. 5 taken to the extreme. We eyed each other over the banquet room carpet, each waiting for the other to show a momentary slip of weakness, a clamminess of the hand or twitch of the eye. Being female she had the advantage of my upbringing, ladies first.
"Well, well, well, Mr. Cavanaugh, so nice of you to come to our little gathering this afternoon; you realize you were only invited because Fabio canceled." Her smile was of the sort that, if captured, could keep frozen food fresh for years.
"It must have been heartbreaking for you, Mrs. Huntcliff, my dear, to have to listen to a speech instead of just look at the pictures," I returned with my own acuminous smile, then, to intersect a little deeper, I added, "how is Trevor? I haven't seen him around the club in ages. Keeping the leash short, are we?"
I should have realized this would invite a free-for-all. I really must learn to control my baser instincts. But then again, no, why curb my vibrant dynamism and deny the world a good time? Her voice hit a note which I'm sure her Bischon Frise knew well and her pink-glazed lips drew back to reveal her implied canines.
"You have a lot of nerve asking me about mah husband," she blustered.
Ah, here came her 'Southern Belle' accent, delightfully Georgian in the lower income way.
"Your husband is a wonderful billiards player," I countered, casting about for a waiter and a glass of Dom. "A game of sink the eight ball just isn't the same without him," I purred. Really, how do I do it? Go me.
Her dress had dimmed in comparison to the complexion of her cheeks.
"You certainly are full of yourself." She put one hand on her hip and her carefully and craftily sculpted chin in the air--I do so wish I knew the name of the fellow who does her work--and looked down her aquiline nose at me. I really must ferret out the name of this master of the scalpel at some later date. No doubt Trevor has receipts. "If I weren't a lady of breeding, I wouldn't hesitate to make a scene here Mr. Cavanaugh," She intoned with a little smirk, while her team of crack assassins milled appreciatively.
"Mrs. Huntcliff, your breeding has nothing to do with it." My teeth must have glinted because I caught the flash in the crystal champagne glass of one of her fellows. "It is merely a lack of fortitude, the same being said for your prowess in choosing a husband. Anyone can see Trevor does have a taste for the finer things in life and the good sense to camouflage them well enough for good social graces. Were he I and I he, I might have done the same thing as to ingratiate myself to daddy and his money. Nevertheless, because I respect him as a compatriot in the never-ending struggle for good taste and fine dining, I shall do him this little favor and walk away while you still have your nose in the air and your tail quivering between your legs, which is probably the only thing you've had there for some time. One wonders how you don't spin webs seeing as how the cobwebs have collected."
One is never prepared for physical combat. Oh, I do know I should have expected it, but to have a 110-pound harridan launch themselves at you, and you wearing a Christian Dior original that simply withers at the first wrinkle? Well, it is beyond comprehension. I'm not certain when Theodore became involved, but it was somewhere between 'Fucking homo home-wrecker' and 'Mary Kay caked misanthrope.' Needless to say, I was quite ruffled and had to be ushered off to the bathroom where Theo poured half a bottle of Zinfandel down my throat and fanned me with a handkerchief.
Delores Fontaine, the organizer of this little adventure, knocked politely on the door and asked me if I needed more wine. She's really quite the dear. Theo assured her that I was fine, still beyond speech but my color was returning, and she left us alone to recover. Theo had a darling smirk on his face as he tried in vain to smooth my lapels.
"What is so amusing?" I asked, trying to look grim and heroically pale.
"Nigel," Theo said with a wrinkle of his nose and a twinkle in his eyes, "you're such a brute, it makes me hot." And he winked at me.
It seems I should take up sparring full-time.
*****
"How to describe this? Baroque? Prodigious? Edifying? Really, it's just beyond words. I do so hope the media is gathering."
I smile my most affable smile. So charming she is, my little Madonna of the ball, and how very prettily she blushes. Just because I prefer my Theo's attentions to that of the fairer sex doesn't mean I don't appreciate beauty in all its various forms. And I have been thoroughly entranced by this gossamer angel in a Vera Wang original.
She ducks her petite auburn head and pinks ever so fetchingly on her dimpled cheeks. If I were still a man of younger years I might be tempted to dally perhaps in Eden's fields with such a siren to lead me on. Who knows what may have become of me should I have strayed into the beck and call of society's wiles.
But I am notorious. Already several pairs of eyes have snaked their way to the nape of my neck and tongues will be wagging late into the night, much to my elucidation. With a soft sound between a sigh and a giggle she tucks her little hand in the crook of my arm and leads me along the wall displaying her latest works, all in hues of marigolds and pumpkin, and regales me with the mystery of each one, tilting her head as her sylphlike lips move, each word she utters in harmony to the next.
I can suffer the thrashings of my peers at a later date, I must keep this inamorata well occupied, not only out of respect for her talent with sable and canvas, but for my own selfish reasons as well. Theo has already danced with her twice.
"How to describe this? Baroque? Prodigious? Edifying? Really, it's just beyond words. I do so hope the media is gathering."
Anyone who would display this monstrosity needs to have his or her stupidity documented for future generations. It should be filed under 'Art: What Not to Be Snobby About.' I excused Theodore earlier as his mirth at the display was quite obvious and while I am prone to let my whimsy run about like an ill-bred child at times, I am not so impolitic to let such child nibble at the buffet and come close to snorting Bombay Sapphire gin out his nostrils.
I smile parsimoniously at the artist, a bean pole of a youth with hair that invites the urban legend of spiders nests, and try to squeeze by Emanuel Houston who in recent months has given up the battle against girth and succumbed in a most impressive fashion. If I don't take myself away from these odious effigies in stone I'm sure I will get a rash of some sort. Worse yet, I will be leaned upon by my social peers into actually purchasing one. Horrors. I skirt the wall and smile in the fashion that lets the others of same distress know I'm making a break for it, and finally make my way out of the hall of infamy and stand panting in the foyer under the track lighting and soft throes of Mozart's Rondo in C Major. I'm fairly certain the maestro himself must be blanching in the great beyond that some haphazard gallery employee changed a CD in haste. I stagger for the outer doors and glance at Theo, vibrant and flushed, conversing with Hamilton Perry and his outlandishly garish offspring Fiona. The boy has an unerring infallibility for finding trouble. I square my shoulders and adjust my tie for round two.
*****
Once upon a time in the land of Denial lived a scholarly sort who was referred to as 'Nigel.'
He was known for his gift of gab and slight of pen, and spun many a fetching tale for maiden and dame alike, fancying them his own dear fledglings and tormenters. For you see, Nigel, though being stout of heart among other bodily functions, did rather enjoy not the touch of his ladies' fine fingers but gazing for many hours toward the stables where the young knights bandied their wits and polished their armor. One such knight was a dark and brooding sort with devilish blue eyes and a shock of black hair, known by all as Theodore, Knight of Woes.
He suffered so beautifully, you see, all his many mishaps. When his steed did bite him, the crystal tears that ran like rivers would have made all of nature bow at his feet. When his chain mail did pinch him, the dulcet whimpers were enough to tickle the ears of angels. When his metal jock did bind him, his swaggering grunts would have melted even the most hardened of hearts. And when his lance wilted, the look of delicate confusion? Enough to make grown men weep like babes for their mothers.
Nigel decided after many nights of darning his hose that he should come to poor Theodore's aide. A knight of the realm he may have been, but perhaps he could use a little scholarly polishing as well. At this thought Nigel ran his thumb through with his darning needle and had to be fanned with the chambermaid's apron until he regained coherency. Nevertheless, thumb soundly bandaged, he ventured forth to yon stable for a word or two to hearten the young knight and perhaps set him on a path to glory and valor. Oh how Theodore's full lips did tremble, how his heaven-blue eyes did sparkle, this man, this worldly sage had come to offer him enlightenment. Rapture! The two sat and spoke of many things late into the night in Theodore's chambers.
When at last the sun did rise and Nigel had found his other shoe and Theodore lay twisted among the sheets, the meaning of this chance encounter did come clear.
A man may be many things, but it takes a wise man to make a Knight.