============================== Spring/Summer 1992. FUGUE #5
mustache level; its static charge tickled my nostril hairs on down to some deep zone within me. "Aaaaaachooooo!" I said. The bouncer said: "This party ain't for ugly people. You guys aren't thinking of doing anything ugly are you?" I was holding in a second sneeze as Lloyd answered for us: "To the utmost contrary, my good man, we seek only to mingle with our coequals and perspective peers at this fine social gathering of like-minded populist-voting notables, and I can assure you that--" "'Kay, 'kay, ga ahead in; get outta here; go on in," the bouncer told us. As we shuffled through the door into the main room, Lloyd kept up his pep talk: "You see, Bates, what I was relating to you about our Big Man Tom is that ... What's the matte r? Do you have allergies or something?" I was rubbing my watery eyes and squinching around my itchy nose. "Naw," I told Lloyd, "just got nose full of the primate's rose at the door. I'm fine." "Good, my fine buddy; pull yourself together. It is high time that we mingle with the elite." We dove right into that flowing, mingling crowd of the city's giants, and Lloyd boldly entered us into many good conversations, which I couldn't help notice broke up soon after our arrival. Lloyd told me my awkward silence was turning people off, but I couldn't help thinking that, maybe, it was more Lloyd's bony shoulders--which were quite aggressive in shoving into closed groups of gossipers--that were the primary reason for our initial lack of social luck. I had my eyes on the trays of grilled sausage and deviled-eggs that kept sweeping by, and trays of gin and even champagne that circulated. But Lloyd would only let
me take one hors d'ouevre at a time, and he absolutely forbade me to drink. "Lloyd, you don't get it," I told him. "All this stuff is free." "No," he replied, "it's you Bates who doesn't get it. You must believe tonight that you have class, and you must act accordingly. We are in the vicinity of a very high level of cat, remember that." I tried to remember: Tom, a very high level of cat.
I
saw Lloyd's plan, and I must admit it was pretty impressive to watch him maneuver us towards the Big Man Tom himself, like we were waltzing from one circle of talk to the next, twirling ever closer to the center of this high-life universe. Lloyd shouldered us in and we--well, I should say mostly Lloyd-shared our views on such grave and high-minded matters as the new gambling laws, the strength of meat packers union local 505, this new supreme court nominee who was accused of several horrible perversions, the odd shifting calendar on Columbus Day, and the ever increasing crime in our city streets. This last one I actually chimed in on, because my buddy Maloney recently got mugged in his 7-Eleven by some thuggy youths. Everyone shut up and listened to me as I explained how he splashed a Coke slurpee in their face and then quickly followed with a big gulp of coffee that he had hidden behind the counter, which so diabilitated the thugs that their thieving plan was completely thwarted, because by this time Maloney was screaming his lungs out and a few curious passer-bys were peeping in to see what the ruckus was about, so the half-blinded thugs got scared and turned and ran for it. I was feeling pretty good about having finally thrown in a piece of
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