The professor was here:
It was a formal event, I’m thinking.
I think they call these wedding receptions.
So, the professor was also spicy-ed up, and I was sitting at a long table with a bunch of well-dressed persons.
Very uncomfortable situation.
(Keep in mind, I got into this event because I knew the friend of the friend who knew who they should’ve known to get in.)
And, of course, I ended up at the important table. That’s not because I’m important. It just happened. I was one of the first to enter the building. Checking for assassins, see.
They were all sipping wine (the people at the table) and I was taking off my bowtie, when the woman across from me said, “So, how do you know Tyler and Ann?”
This was a tough question. I didn’t, really. But why pick on me? I was minding my own business.
“Well…” I began, and here’s a truth: When you don’t know what to say, make it up. “Well, I first met Ann, and then I met Tyler.”
I thought that was convincing.
But they just chuckled. Vexing. Quite vexing.
Now, the sad thing was this: My bow tie was stuck. I must admit, I’m a fake bow tie wearer at times. I just don’t have the patience or knowledge to tie a real one.
The little clip thingy that attaches somewhere on the shirt was stuck.
And they were all staring at me.
The woman was about to say something, when I pulled. Hard.
I think I tore a whole in my shirt. The fellow sitting next to my female attacker spilled a bit of wine on his shirt. The whole table shook, see.
“A tremor,” I announced. “Nothing to be alarmed about.”
A fellow with greedy eyes (and a strand of purple hair) said: “A fake bow tie? How childish.”
“Who has as a fake bow tie?” I asked. “You should tell them to wear a real bow tie to an event they care about. That’s how it’s done, see.
The woman, who first attacked me, gasped.
“Oh, you’re a fiery one, aren’t you? What do you do for a living?”
She was about 70 years old, I’m thinking. And the fellow sitting next to her was maybe 40. They were married; and I think she married into money.
I tried to get out of answering the question. “I don’t—”
“Young man,” she interrupted. “I want to know. And people tell me what I want to know.”
That’s when a wicked thought came into my head. But I wasn’t going to succumb!
“Oh, that’s nice,” I said, instead.
She turned to the man next to her. Her husband. “Fred, tell him I want to know.”
He shrugged. “She’s curious. Please tell her.”
I smiled, and pointed out the window. “Look! A bird.”
The professor was trying everything in his power not to…you know…succumb.
“Now, see here,” she said, “you tell me at once. I want to know what you do. First, why are you even here? I know Tyler and Ann really well, and I’ve never heard of you. Who are you? Second, you’re odd-looking. I can’t decide whether you’re mature or not. How old are you exactly? And why aren’t you drinking?”
And I said: “The more the words, the less the meaning.”
“What do you do for a living? Or…are you in school?”
“Why so curious?”
She huffed. “Because…this is Ann’s wedding and I want to make sure a low-life hasn’t found a way in.”
That was it, gentlemen. Time to attack.
She took a sip of wine. “Now…what do you do?”
“Well,” I began. “I can tell you what I don’t do: I don’t marry people three times my age to subsist.”
She went red.
Moral: Sometimes you have to be mean to quell an attack.