He was talking on his phone to someone else, but sitting next to him on the bus, I was subjected to his half of the conversation.
“Yes, it’s a dinner party and of course you’re invited!” he insisted with such verve anyone within earshot couldn’t help but hear what he declared to whomever was on the other end of the line. “It’s open invitation. Everyone who wants to come, can.”
A momentary shock froze me; I’d never heard the likes of it, wondering how they could pull off a dinner event without a clear number of expected guests. Within moments, idle speculation, speckled with frosty snowflake skepticism, marched headlong into the emotionally tinged area of my cognition where fascination resides. Circumstance had just opened up a whole new avenue of captivating possibility even though the conversation wasn’t directed at me.
The next thing the man uttered—recited, really—was the address. I was taken aback! Just three blocks from my apartment in a gated community up the road! This was madness, even as it dawned on me I had erred in attributing circumstance as the cause of my presence on that bus just then—kismet was the true culprit. An open invitation dinner party; I had to see how that worked for myself! Maybe in some hoity-toity circles this kind of thing was common, but to me it sounded nothing but weird. Cleaning the remaining smears of dog shit from the soles and sides of my shoes was going to have to wait as curiosity’s tether yanked with relentless urgency to my attendance.
Mingling with the crowd shortly after arriving, Scotch and soda in my hand, I purveyed the group in the large hall. Had my neighbor from the bus arrived? I didn’t know, for in truth I’d paid stricter attention to him with my ears than my eyes as we sat astride each other earlier in the day. Perhaps, if I heard his voice again I’d recognize it, but in the din of all those people milling about, the chances of being able to single him out dwindled to near-zero.
Having passed through the security checkpoint at the community gate, I’d been given explicit directions to the address—a great many of the buildings’ exteriors looked the same from the street. Then, walking inside after having crossed the garden that adorned the entryway, I’d felt a swoon at how immense the space behind the front door really was, its enormity belied by its exterior. The din of voices coming from further inside had reassured me that I wasn’t one of the first to arrive, and that had settled my disorientation some, my attention diverted.
So now, moving only my head and eyes as my feet remained stationery, I heard a nearby woman talking to another about her son, Tino, and was a little shocked to hear that name. In my youth, a guy named Tino had been my best friend, but the woman who spoke looked nothing like his mother. I hadn’t heard from him in years.
“…strange destiny. He came into the kitchen and kissed me on the cheek, telling me he was going to a party,” she told her companion. “That probably meant a lot of pot smoking and heaven-knows-what-else, but I was used to it. He did like to party, that boy.”
My breath hitched. She was, without knowing it, describing my friend to a T, but I was sure Maria, his mother, was at least four inches shorter than this woman and had an olive complexion and not the pale translucence my erstwhile neighbor possessed. Sliding my feet just a little bit closer to my eavesdrop, I heard, “Then nothing. He disappeared. It was years ago, but I’ve relived that night, that last goodbye kiss every single day since. Had I known it was going to be the last time we’d ever see each other again, I’d a given him a bear hug so tight, I…”
She began crying, leaving me feeling like a cad for having intruded on such a personal and emotional moment. Still, her story matched my own as regarded his sudden disappearance, and I was determined to stay there and ask a few questions.
But then, while tears still slithered down her cheeks, the butler showed up and showed me to my seat at the table. Before moving, I took a mental snapshot of the woman; I’d approach her later.
“Please finish your drink now, sir,” the finely attired butler said in a Scottish-sounding accent. “We only allow wine at the dinner table.”
With a single nod, I did as bid—one gulp—and followed him into the next room, there to be seated eight seats down from the head. Canapés were displayed all around the sprawling table and my stomach’s growl reminded me I’d had little to eat that day owing to the disaster the earlier part of it had become. My job interview had been scheduled for two that afternoon and had felt too nervous to eat before the meeting. But then, approaching the front door of the office building, I’d noticed the aftermath of an inadvertent footfall into some dog stool somewhere along the way. It not only smeared along the sole of my shoe but had wended up the sides of it in two small (and rank) balls sticking out both left and right.
Panicked—I really need that job—I’d made a frantic call to the office in an attempt to reschedule my meeting but was politely refused a second opportunity. So, disgruntled, I’d climbed onto the bus and there overheard the conversation that had brought me here to this magnificent spread. Chewing on some smoked salmon atop a perfectly toasted crostini and topped with a dollop of white cheese, a woman, already seated in a chair next to my own, started talking without so much as a cursory introduction.
“It’s a little disappointing,” she said, as if beginning her utterance in the middle of some topic she’d been thinking about. “I was reading a book of short stories this afternoon, and the first one involved some man—whose name I forget offhand—who wandered in off the street to a party, but then you know what happened?”
“No, what?”
She snickered with the polite titter of one raised in an environment where etiquette was demanded. “I haven’t the faintest clue because just as I turned the page to find out, my cat jumped on my lap and puked all over it. I tried cleaning it up, but all I managed to do was tear a hole in the paper and that not only made the end of that story illegible, but it screwed up the start of the next story as well, its first page shredded.”
“That’s terrible!” I said after having swallowed the morsel of food. It was obvious she was addressing me since the seat on the other side of her remained unoccupied.
“But I read it anyway. Story number two, if you don’t mind my continuing, involved a man—and like I said, I don’t know exactly how it began—but this man, on the way to a job interview, discovers he’s stepped in some dog poo. Kinda funny, don’t you think?”
What?!! I immediately shot up from my chair—she was talking about me! It made no sense. How was it possible that man’s story—my story—was something she’d read?! I couldn’t believe what was being told me!
Rude though it was to not excuse myself for my sudden departure, I headed out for fresh air in an attempt to clear my head. It was then that I heard a woman’s voice call my name, “Edgar”, and, turning, cocked my head to one side. I’d never laid eyes on her before. She had the kind of face one doesn’t easily forget, the kind no man would want to forget. Walking up to her, I asked, “Do I know you?”
She shook her head.
“But you just called me by name!”
“And who are you?”
“Edgar… Edgar Montaigne.”
She giggled. “Now I understand! I was talking about a story I listened to about Edgar Allen Poe, one of his fantasies. He was a little twisted, you know. Anyway, he told this tale where he’d been invited to a dinner party, much like this one, and suddenly, the host, a large man of dark skin and a deep booming voice—”
Her recounting was cut short when the chime of a wine glass being tapped echoed through the room. Suddenly, from the head of the table, a large black man stood up, his baritone voice resounding over any superfluous chatter, and said, “Welcome! It is lovely to see you all gathered around my table. I do believe the night’s festivities will come as a surprise to most of you.”
“Quick! How does Edgar’s story end?” I asked my comely companion in a whispered but desperate tone.
“Turns out, the food and drink were poisoned, and they all died. Except the host, of course—he only laughed as he watched them drop like flies.”
Running out in a panic, my throat constricted, I threw myself on a bed of chrysanthemums and stuck my fingers down my throat to vomit out the poison. I remember gagging, but I don’t think I succeeded in a full-on upchuck. Everything after that remains a blur.
All I know is I woke up this morning in my bed, not worried about how I’d gotten back home so much but wondering how the party ended. Then again, I’m not really sure I want to hear it; know what I mean?
