Untitled NaNoWriMo - Chapter One

James I glance through the space between the stall door and the divider as I count the minutes as they pass. My watch reads 2:45 p.m, and I know that if I make it a little bit longer then I could spend some time at the water cooler during the afternoon “Consulting Meeting”. That would be another 15 minutes, then I could get away with a half an hour of catching up on emails and internet things, then another half hour at the coffee station and water cooler, 10 minutes back in the bathroom, and by then it’ll be practically punch-out time! No one works the last half hour, or at least I don’t. So I can get by this afternoon with maybe 15 good minutes of productive activity. I get up from my throne of procrastination, and flush, despite there being no reason to, appearances to keep I guess. I wash my hands in another purely ceremonial fashion, and head out the door. I spot Dave from a couple cubicles down from me staring blankly ahead while sipping water from the cooler. “Hey Dave, how’s about them Steelers?” I offer, remembering him recounting his favorite team. “Huh what?” he asks, and I repeat. “Hey Dave, how’s about them Steelers?” “Oh man, they’re up, they’re down, without a solid secondary there’s no way they’ll go far in the playoffs,” he returns, a little glow finding its way into his eyes. “Yeah, I have them as my Fantasy Football defense, and they’re killing me,” I reply. “Totally,” “Totally,” The weight of the awkward tension would bog down nearly anyone else, but not me. I’m here for the long-haul, or at least the next 13 minutes haul. I wait for him to balk, for him to waiver, and give up this social stamina contest, but his gaze goes blank again, staring at the sea of cubicles. I see that he’s a master, I’ve only been playing this game for the past three years, so I prepare to dip out to his obvious supremacy, but then he wanders away. “Well, good luck this weekend!” my words chase after him as he drags down the corridor. “With what?” he asks, genuinely concerned for a moment. “With the game,” I respond. “Oh yeah, thanks,” he says, turning back around. Man, that was disheartening, but I won the great water cooler war, and now I can spend the remaining 6 minutes without the pressure of forced conversation looming. For a second I wonder what I’m going to have for dinner tonight; I don’t think I have anything leftover in my fridge, and I definitely didn’t thaw anything from the freezer. Maybe I could grab some take-out, but I ate take-out last night. But really, what other options do I have? I wonder if that Mediterranean place will still be open by the time I get off my train. Oh shit, I have to pick up more cat food anyways, I guess I’ll just go to the grocery store, and pick myself up a rotisserie chicken or something, maybe some bread and other things for when I finally remember to start packing my lunch, instead of eating out everyday. “Hey Jimbo, how about them Ravens?” “Sorry, say that again?” I ask, and he repeats. “Hey Jimbo, how about them Ravens?” “Oh yeah, we look pretty good this season, but we’ll probably choke like we always do,” I respond. I my leave, checking my watch, and I stop by the coffee pot to grab a stale cup before returning to my desk. I see that there’s a covered platter of doughnuts on the counter with an emphatic note reading “PLEASE EAT ME”. I briefly consider, before complying, twice. I wipe my chocolate frosting fingers on a napkin that was hanging around from my fast food lunch that day. I open my company email, and then another browser tab for my personal email. I check the filter on my personal email labeled “Fantasy”, and look at my roster. All of my players seem healthy, and my pending trade for a different defense for the week was accepted. I silently celebrate my imminent victory, and close the window to check on pressing work matters. Who keeps leaving the creamer out on the counter? URGENT: Need reports in for the Consulting Meeting this afternoon Party Planning Committee requires new members! Important Member of the Owner’s Family Site Visit James, read this. I click on the last email, and begin to read its contents. Dear James, How have you been? It’s been since college that we last spoke! Well, me and Jennifer ended up getting married, it was a really small ceremony, and that’s why you weren’t invited. Lies, I saw the pictures on Facebook, and their wedding rivaled the royal one. Even the weird kid Billy that lived down the hall from us, and his odd colored hair choices were spotted in some pictures. I just wanted to let you know that we’re planning on moving into the area, and wanted to see if you’d like to grab a bite to eat. Sorry about the dramatic email subject, I just thought that it’d get lost in your work email archives if I didn’t make it sound so serious, and we all know that you just use your personal email for fantasy football. I hope all is well, and look forward to catching up soon! Cheers, Trent --- Trent Landon Associate Financial Officer - Charles Ingram Financial Trent Landon, my college roommate that ended up marrying my college girlfriend. Honestly, I don’t hate him or her anymore, but I had comfortably removed myself from their friend circle soon after they had sat me down at a small coffee shop “to have a little talk.” I begin to type: Hey Trent! You’re right, it has been a long while, too long some would say, some would, but I wouldn’t. I jam on the backspace key, and try again several times before giving up. I then open the urgent email and its attached file. I search through my filing cabinet, and find the note sheets that I had filled out during the last consultation. One of my current clients was this up-and-coming cell phone app that allowed people to post pictures of their meals and would be matched with people based upon their similarities. They were workshopping the name, but currently it’s called “Heart Through The Stomach”. I hate it, but my job is advertising, so I have to make it sound like its the next instagram. I watched T.V. shows about marketing and advertising when I was in school, and it seemed so sleek, so cool. Episodes considering the immense responsibility it was to come up with the perfect slogan for a brand. Swirling expensive bourbon while inappropriately hitting on tight-skirted secretaries, and planning happy hour drinks with clients that looked always like movie stars and never like overweight businessman. The smell of mahogany and cigars practically oozes out of your screen while you watch these shows, and they never have florescent lighting in their immaculate corner offices. I quickly search the name of our client’s app on the internet, and note the first few links that pop up. Nowadays this game was about internet searches and keywords; “all about those clicks and downloads.” my boss had said during the last consultation. I found it hilarious that he couldn’t even make it sound remotely clever. The slogan truly is dead I guess. The company that had contracted us had bought the app from a couple of entrepreneurs had no plan for the app beyond three years, and was hoping to resell it to one of the big companies before the end of the year. I swirl the sad coffee in the bottom of my “Hardly Working” mug, and look at my administrative assistant, a nice college grad from the local university named Ted. Ted likes dogs and reality T.V., and doesn’t care much for sports. We haven’t exchanged many words since our initial meeting. I reach my hands to the ceiling and open my mouth wide, sucking in air and hopefully energy. I briefly stand up from my Officesmart Econo-comfort Chair, and see a dozen other people over the cubicle walls doing the same thing. I smile for a moment, thinking of a science channel special I had watched some nights ago about prairie dogs. I spot middle management getting off the elevator, and signal to the others to get down before we were spotted. The clock reads 4:00, and I prepare myself for my next bathroom break. I unlock my top desk drawer, and retrieve my personal cell. I also grab a fun-sized candy bar. I give my polite goodbyes and little jokes about the grind to my office companions as I left. Tough crowd, but they can’t help it. I gotta try to bring a little light into this place. The first train is bustling, and I wasn’t able to get a seat. I stare blankly at my phone, despite its serviceless state. I scroll through my screens of apps, some personal and some demos from potential clients. I grab a copy of today’s paper to read while waiting in between stops. I notice a young man pondering over one of the station maps. I consider helping him, but I hear my train pulling in behind me. I get off at my stop, I buy a bag of nuts from a street vendor, and stop to give them to Chuck the homeless guy that lives a couple blocks from my place. “How about them Steelers?” I ask him. “Same shit, different names, they’ll be alright though,” he replies. I walk a couple more blocks before I get to my building. It’s an older model, but has been taken over by 20-somethings and bohemians. I don’t really care, because I don’t spend much time there anyways. All I know is that within the three years I’ve lived here, two different coffee shops, and a microbrewery/used bookstore have sprung up. I put my key into the lock of my small studio apartment, and remember that I had forgotten to go grocery shopping. I look at my watch, and decide that it can wait another day. Take-out at this time would take another hour, and by then I am hoping to be at most half-conscious on the couch watching a show about how gumballs are made or something. The door swings open and Trig, my cat, brushes my leg, and looks up at me expectantly. Breaking my heart with every molecule in his little feline being. “Shit, sorry dude, I totally forgot to buy you food, and much less importantly myself any food,” I tell him. I open my freezer, and grab a bag of frozen chicken thighs and run them under water in the sink. Once they’re thawed enough to get out of the bag I put them on a plastic plate and in my microwave. I contemplate actually calculating the amount of defrosting it should require, but I end up frustrated, and just hit the comp-u-defrost setting trusting that the magic of technology will help me. I sit down on my rundown old couch, the same couch that hid ping pong balls and quarters during my college days, the same couch where I had first met Jennifer, and the first couch that I had to move up flights of stairs into my own place. I mean to turn on the T.V., but I wake to the sound of my microwave chirping at me. I remove the rubbery, half-cooked chicken, and then toss it in a frying pan with some salt and pepper. I start boiling water for rice, and grab a can of salsa from my refrigerator. The chicken is already practically cooked, so it doesn’t take long in the pan. I take a thigh out for Trig, cutting it into very small pieces, and smash some rice into a paste for him. He digs in without hesitation; I remember reading about cats that are picky eaters, and then pet Trig, suddenly feeling more appreciative to have him. I eat as procedure, to fill a necessity, and the metal clang of my fork hitting the bowl marks the end of my meal. I catch an hour of T.V. before looking at Trig and asking. “Well, bout that time eh?” I make sure my alarm is ready, and pick out a tie for tomorrow.

Accidentally Finding Humanity

I sank into my worn, gray, computer chair; the chair I had bought at Goodwill for fifteen dollars. It was the chair that held me as I wrote paper after paper, mere minutes from their deadlines, the chair that moved with me from dorm to apartment, to apartment again, and, finally, back home. I had just bought a plane ticket to San José, Costa Rica from JFK in that chair. The plane left in two days. I was going by myself, and I don’t speak Spanish. I took a large bus to NYC from my small, college town. I was planning on staying at my longest standing friend’s place for a night before my plane left in the morning. I gave him less than a day to save me from a night on a cold park bench, and he came through. We spent the better part of the night talking about life, growing up, and figuring out what sort of shoes I should buy to blend in to NYC. "A rule of New York City is that you don't stare," says my resident friend as I tag along on his morning subway commute. I immediately think that's dumb and continue to watch as people focus intently on their phones. We're underground, so I know they don't get service. But they'd rather stare at their unconnected devices than try to connect to these people. I thought that was dumb, but now I don't. You see, if your stare lingers too long, your passing glance becoming a brief moment of eye contact, you might start to actually see the people around you. Your mind might notice the worry lines, the smile lines, the blemishes, the scars. Your mind might realize the certain way they hold their bookbag - close to the chest, or their shoes - well worn and faded. Your mind might turn over stories that explain them, the family that created the person in front of you, friendships and relationships that created those worry and smile lines. Adventures past that left blemishes and scars. You might stumble upon their humanity. And if you should do that, it's hard not to fall in love. Not necessarily romantic love, but empathetic love. Then, the voice booms over the loudspeaker and you watch these people weave out of your life, likely never to be seen again, and you realize why everyone is so devoutly attached to their little bubbles. Because people can only take so much heartbreak in a day. I made it to JFK, and then to San José, and then to the farm I was staying at, and then around a couple other cities, back to San José, and then back to NYC. I survived with only a few key words and lots of wild gesticulation. That goes for both my travels abroad and NYC’s public transit system. I was beaten, worn, and looked like a homeless farmer. I didn’t match the dress code for a couple of restaurants, and the one I finally sat down in didn’t give me a menu. I’m pretty sure the waitress was just thinking of a nice way to kick me out once she thought that I had sufficiently warmed my ol’ hobo bones. When I got back on the subway to go home, I stared. Accidentally, I fell in love with every single person, because in that short time we shared something sad, beautiful, and pure - humanity.

The Girl Behind the Bar

“No thanks,” she politely states, as if declining seconds on a gracious meal, when a young tech entrepreneur worked up the courage to ask to buy her a drink. The music floats in the background, and she sits with her legs evenly crossed, and her white, cotton, blouse unbuttoned to the exactly correct button to allow her gold crucifix to show on her pale skin, just above the subtle curve of her breasts. Her eyes scan the room, in only a lateral sense, never in an up-and-down sense. Someone suggests loudly over the growing bass notes to get someone behind the long mahogany table that was serving as the bar that night. All of the waiters and waitresses still in their work uniforms gaze at her expectantly. She sits up, smoothing out her navy blue skirt that flirted with going to her knee, but never quite reached. She pulls her undyed blonde hair back into a long, straight ponytail, and rolls up the sleeves on her white, cotton, blouse to the exactly correct length to allow her elbows full movement. She moves with practiced ease with a sugared rim and limes, with a bottle of Old Forester Birthday Bourbon 1994, or that dark Château Ducru-Beaucaillou 1996 bordeaux. Her gaze is strikingly blue. When someone would stumble to the bar, to order she looked them in the eye without shame or apology. She did not repeat the order that the patron would make, but instead gave a polite nod and a rehearsed smile, as she dipped back into her sanctuary that smelled of bitters and mint. People wander in and out, but moreso the former. People are crowded, and can no longer avoid talking with the people around them. The tempo of the music rises; heavy bass notes start to get people tapping their toes and snapping their fingers. A bout of genuine laughter breaks the small talk silence, and people start to let the alcohol affect them. Suit coats and handbags are dropped on the strategically scattered couches, along with apprehensions and polite “No thank yous”. The tech entrepreneur is now dancing with a college girl in a waitress costume. The whites of smiles dot the crowd of expressively colored fabrics in the dancing crowd. The bartender stands behind the bar with her legs crossed at the ankle. She dips her head as she thanks the party’s host. She says her goodbyes with a rehearsed smile. People halfheartedly beg her to stay - all the while knowing that their words mean nothing. The heavy door swings behind her, and she tucks her hands into her knee-length, navy blue, wool coat. Her breath hangs in the air as she walks away from the crescendoing scene behind her. 

I'm a Flirt.

I'm a flirt. It's something I haven't always been, but definitely something I've grown into. It started off almost as a defensive mechanism. I was unconsciously afraid of talking about things I actually cared about, so I would play games and use words to have fun, to lighten things up, and to keep myself protected behind a wall of flirt.

I soon realized something, the random strangers I was approaching were starting connections with me, and I also found that I established amazing dialogues with people that were able to play the game with me. I use humor to connect with people; to flirt. So immediately people are ready to judge - and here's the thing - I don't think they should be judged for doing so. We all make these spot judgments, and I can only hope they're not condemning. So when I'm seen, I'm sure a rush of confused perceptions come into peoples' minds - especially when I open my mouth - and I immediately want to dispel as many as possible.

(Someone once told me that you should have pictures to break up your text)

Humor - making intelligent things stupid - talking in a very serious manner about how I think that Joe Biden should be the next Democratic Presidential Candidate over Hillary at a Young Democrats party; how the biggest environmental problem today is the show Pawn Stars; how I think very passionately that everyone should dance regardless of rhythm or skill; or how it's okay to talk about my race. But all of these things have basis in me, and my worldview, and what I care about. It's not entirely fluff, but it's not so heavy that it'll drag whatever poor soul is with me into a deep intellectual hole.

I think that flirting is - in some way - effective communication. It's breaking down barriers, and establishing a sense of comfort and trust, but doing it in an easy and quiet way. That's part of the big secret of effective communication. I'm not saying that we should all just dissolve our senses of privacy and reservation, but rather make it funny and comfortable, because everyone has a sense of privacy and reservation. I regularly joke that I have the emotional capacity of a rock, and the romantic perception of a slightly smaller rock. It's joking, but it's saying "Hey, I don't talk about that stuff too much, but if you wanna, I'll try to."

I'll try to, and I think that's another big secret. It's caring. Caring is kinda dumb and hard to fake, but genuinely being interested in what that person is talking about is key to communication. The best feeling for me, is getting someone to talk about something that they're passionate about. You can talk about jobs, or majors, or the Heat, or whatever, and see the life flow out of their sad sad eyes, but then you bring up something like the new high-speed disc golf drivers from Innova Discs, and the spark returns (I love disc golf). So tricking people into throwing away the small talk, and the courtesy, and all that incessant bullshit that has been socially conditioned into us should be our operative motive in communication in order to get to something constructive.

(Circleville Disc Golf...ask me to play, and I'll show you the ropes)

There's going to be some sort of tension between a male and female interacting (or whatever your matched pair, or triple, or whatever may be), and while it not be wanted, it's there. So flirting is just making it okay to talk about that, or at least somehow sort of acknowledge it. And hell, acknowledge that the person isn't just a dress and some shoes, but rather a thinking, feeling, person. Breaking down barriers and all that high, lofty, stuff. And maybe it'll turn romantic, likely it won't, but maybe it will.

Sure, I might never see that person again, and that's fine. And many people would ask "Why invest that time and effort if that's it, if it's just an isolated incident?" To that, I ask, why not? We have the capacity and ability to learn something from anyone, everyone, that we come in contact with. So we can stay in our comfortable little bubbles, or we can reach out and see if there's something cool or fun to hold onto for that hour that you're together. And hey, maybe that person is your best friend or love of your life? If not, then it was a fun conversation, and that's better than staring into the bottom of your glass.

So we dance with our words and our thoughts, play this game that is fun and easy, but also so revealing and meaningful. If they walk away, they walk away, and I know that they're not playing the same game as me. I'm happy though, happy that I reached out and tried to connect. They might have read my intentions as something unsavory, and I can't blame them; that's mostly what people flirt for. I just want to connect and learn. It's odd, it started as an exercise to keep myself distant from those people I would talk to, but now it's an excuse to affect and be affected.

That being said, maybe this is why I have the romantic perception of a small rock; I never assume romance, because I'm a flirt. And it of course has implications in relationships, but that's a different chaotic blog post. Also, I know that socializing doesn't come as easy to other people, but maybe that's the point too.

Whoever you are, wherever I know you from, talk to me about this, I am genuinely, truly, actually, interested in what you have to say.

(Yeah, I just thought this looked cool while walking around campus at 3 a.m.)

Ignite - You are not an island.

I will never see any of you again. This is not by choice, but rather by the flow of life. I will leave today with rosy memories, but then I’ll be forced to consider the immediate. Thinking about where to stop for gas, then the next exit to take, and then the next chapter of my life. I will pass hundreds of other people on the way home, more people that I will never see again.

We cannot think like that. Our sanity cannot possibly bear the possibility that every face that we pass on the street, or every car on the freeway, could have been our best friend or spouse in some different life. I am just a small insignificant blip on their radar, and them mine, but we will both go on to weave an extraordinarily complex and meaningful life, completely devoid of each other.

So I don’t consider that, and neither do they. But they do consider some things. Much like I do consider some things. I know that these thoughts I am having aren’t necessarily all that revelatory, or unique, but that’s the point.  

I will stop at a gas station, buy a shitty coffee from a stale pot, make a quick joke for a fleeting smile from the cute cash register girl, and then leave. The bell will mark my departure from that gas station, and her life. I’ll wonder if she’ll ever think about me, likely not, but likely I’ll forget her as well. But neither one of us will immediately cease to exist or have existed when that door closes.

She cannot consider a possibility of our future, and most of us condemn her. She’s a gas station register girl, what went wrong in her life? Maybe she had to take care of her father who had cancer, and that stole time from her schooling, and upon his eventual death the girl was forced to take up the reins of responsibility far too early, so now she’s balancing raising her siblings and his insurmountable medical bills.

Maybe not, maybe she’s a meth addict. But even that should not be condemning. Perhaps she fell in love with the wrong guy, and who can blame her for that, and he told her

“Just give it a try.”

He left her, but it didn’t, so now she’s trying to kick her habit and save enough to go back to school.

Judgement is not bad or avoidable, but it should never be condemning.

We often confuse ourselves by thinking that we are unique. Our entire lives have been experienced through ourselves. So, it is natural for you to think that you are the center, because everything has always been focused on you. The chair is under you, the sky is above you, there are people around you. This is the natural way we think, but we are always presented with the choice to think differently.

We have these natural tendencies to think that this world revolves around us, and that we know certain things about people. We don’t, but we have the ability to learn. We have the choice to not close off people, and instead excite something out of them. People want to talk about things they care about, and all they need is an interested audience. So be that interested audience. You are an exciting and inspirational individual, and so is everyone around you.

There is always more to the story. It is easy to write people off based on spot judgements, or a couple of damning characteristics. We are all products of our upbringings and experiences. That seems like a banal expression, but think about that for a second. Even the people that you will never see again, or that kid who bullied you in high school, or the people on death row, are products of their upbringing and experiences.

It’s easy to point and say “You’re evil, and you did evil things, because you’re evil.”

Questions of morality and ethics are really just questions about choices. It is natural for people to act in ways that seem best. Be that for themselves, for those they care about, or for the world. So in most situations the intention is following one of those things.  

We are not so different. We choose to think about ourselves as islands, remote and distant from other islands. We are not. We can continue to focus and condemn based on what separates us, or we can make the choice to consider that they are a different person that is responding to the same feelings, emotions, and thoughts that we all have, and find connection in that. All it takes is that moment of reflection to stop, and think about the way you think.

This is not an exercise in the pointlessness of these moment long connections, but rather a celebration of them. These are fireworks, short-lived, but incredible and beautiful. I did not take the path you travelled in life, and you did not take mine, so we have something to talk about, and learn from each other. Seize that opportunity.

Dinner Party

Dinner Party

“I think a good citrusy Chardonnay would pair nicely; something that won’t overpower the spicing,” states a woman looking through petite half-moon reading glasses.

Her fingers run over dust covered labels, pausing every so often to further investigate a bottle. The wine cellar is dimly lit as to not prematurely age the wines, and there’s a certain chill to the room. She clutches her knit cardigan tight against her chest. Her gold bracelets clink against each other and against the antique bottles; the hollow clink reverberates against the brick walls of the cellar. A streak of artificial light breaks the dark and dust swirls in the wake of an opened door.

“Are you still choosing a damn wine? The meal is almost on,” a man shouts down the stairs

.

She runs her hands over the bottles in the row before her and finally settles on a bottle with a clear label; a citrusy Chardonnay from Domaine Corsin Saint Veran. Her feet shuffle and her joints creak up the stairs. The dim lights are flicked off and the door is closed. A wide mahogany spiral staircase runs up the rest of the floors like the spine of the house. She grasps the handrail with one wrinkled hand and cradles the bottle of wine with the other. Her steps are slow and measured. The sound of voices echo down the long staircase and the smell of roasting meat and vegetables follow.

The woman takes the last step off of the spiral staircase and enters the dining room. A long heartwood-cut dining table is dwarfed by the size of the room. Each seat at the table is ornately carved out of matching heartwood and accented with inlaid gold. No unnatural lighting was needed, but there is an equally majestic crystal chandelier above the table. The hall seemed more fit to gather a few dozen people rather than the five bunched at the head of the table.

“About damn time,” the man from the cellar says.

“Oh shush there Mr. Condor,” says a middle-aged woman in a conservatively cut dark blue dress.

“What is it you chose? Oh, the Domaine, what a great choice,” she continues with a matronly comfort to the much older woman.

“Don’t patronize the woman Ms. Puma; she’s been here longer than us all,” adds Mr. Bear from across the table.

The lone tone of a sterling silver dinner knife striking a Swarovski Crystal wine glass interrupts all banter. All eyes turn towards the silent man sitting at the head of the table. He did not say anything more, just simply picked up his pure white napkin and placed it on his well-pressed right pant leg. Everyone sits up straight and slides their heartwood chair legs over the Persian rug as silently as possible.

Sullen men carrying covered large silver platters swoop in like a fleet of birds gathering on a carcass. They present the course and leave as silently as they arrived. Salads are the first course, some light greens with a light dressing. The guests drink a mineral water with lemon, and pick through the greenery that none of them really care for. They’re here for the main course. The men flock back in and present the next dish, and everyone gathers themselves for what they’ve been waiting for. Mr. Condor is visibly fidgeting and watching the head of the table’s every move. Waiting for him to take the lid off of his meal. The man begins, and everyone else follows suit.

Steam rises from the dishes like the warm last breath of a dying deer in the middle of winter. The meat is flanked by roasted red potatoes with a golden buttery glaze and flaked with herbs and spices. The green beans are still sizzling from the pan they had left, thinly sliced almonds top the beans, and the same butter sauce has been drizzled over them as well. The meat is choice cut. A deep brown crust covers the flesh from where the pan seared it. A light reduction covers the cut; made from the pan’s drippings with crushed garlic and wine. The meat is lightly seasoned and barely cooked to let the meat be the main flavor. A deep red pool forms with the first cut.

Eyes roll and mouths smack and churn without thoughts of manner or circumstance. Mr. Condor gulps his Chardonnay Domaine Corsin Saint Veran without the care that selecting it took. The older lady eats in contemplation; she closes her eyes and savors each bite, chewing completely before selecting the next morsel. Ms. Puma has already finished her serving and is tidying her make-up in a pocket mirror. The man at the head of the table is finished as well. Mr. Condor is picking at his teeth, and looking at the man across the table who is just now realizing there were sides to accompany his meat.

“I’d like to see the biography please,” says Mr. Condor, picking his teeth with a toothpick.

Ms. Puma looks disgusted at Mr. Condor as she smooths down the front of her dress. The man at the head of the table picks up a simple white card printed on heavy stock stationery paper and passes it to Mr. Condor.

“Brian Desmond grew up on a farm in Idaho. He spent most of his youth doing hard manual labor, and you can tell by the firmness in the muscle. Brian also played baseball and football throughout his middle and high school years, and lettered in both sports. His social standing there allowed him to enjoy the young party scene as well, and that shows in the divine ribboning in the flank steaks. His college life was typical mostly, and he underwent a rather harsh break up with his High School sweetheart which caused him to become sedentary for a year or two. This allowed the meat to properly marble and lace some of his hard working muscle with the fat needed to make it juicy. He graduated with a degree in Telecommunications and went to work in sales for a company specializing in selling window shutters; a desk job mostly, and there was a certain loss of fitness. He never married, and died of a heart attack in his kitchen while he prepared his dinner,” Mr. Condor reads.

Everyone relaxes and drift into thoughts of their own life. What they had done to where they were. They didn’t share this with their dinner party; they were just Mr. and Ms. Generic Predator here, and that’s the way they all wanted it to be.

“I always love the ones that died alone,” says Mr. Condor now chewing his toothpick.

“I just care if they were active at all,” says Mr. Bear patting his protruding gut.

He and Mr. Condor laugh.

“Don’t be so callous,” says the man at the head of the table.

Everyone sits upright again, except for the older lady who is finishing her last bits of Brian Desmond.

“We mustn’t forget our humanity,” he continues. He stands, and politely excuses himself.

As soon as he’s comfortably out of earshot, Mr. Condor stands and paces at the head of the table.

“Why’s he always the big guy around here. This is my house, for christ's sake. He brought in his own staff, used his own china and cutlery, and then dictates everything to us like we’re nothing,” he says, looking at all of his companions for something to build upon.

“He started the club,” says Ms. Puma.

Mr. Bear looks away, because he knows that without him there would be no dinner parties. Mr. Condor sees that there is no head of steam building, no desire for a revolt brewing, and sits down. The older lady finishes the last of her meal and looks over the biography that Mr. Condor left on the table. She doesn’t get far into it before the man returns and brings his fleet of servers. Dessert was served. The older woman and the man at the head of the table were the only ones to finish.

“I’ll be in touch,” says the man, and leaves once again.

Mr. Condor looks at Mr. Bear and rolls his eyes. Mr. Bear doesn’t respond. They all get up and leave without a word. Ms. Puma and the older lady neatly fold their napkins and place them on the table next to their dessert plates. Mr. Bear leaves his crumpled on his chair and pulls at the back of his slacks. They each have an individual private car that will take them to the airport, from which they will depart to different cities and live separate lives until they receive that crimson red envelope once again.

Mr. Bear is red in the face with a construction helmet squeezed so tightly on his bulbous head that it looks like it’ll be popped off like a champagne cork at any moment. He’s yelling at the contractors about the paving to be installed around his latest Honey Hickory Barbeque and Biscuits restaurant. It must be accessible by motorized scooter. It’d be discriminatory if it wasn’t. The contractor is remaining calm and outlining the changes he will have to make to accompany the wider handicap-accessible ramp. Mr. Bear regains his composure and apologizes. Maybe his blood sugar is low, he claims, and excuses himself to his truck.

His truck’s suspension groans when he enters and he’s breathing deeply by the time he’s settled in the driver’s seat. He fishes out a greasy brown paper bag. It sports the name of some local fast food joint, and he rips at it without thought. He eats, but he’s miles away. The flesh of cow and pig is just a tease, a hint of what he could be eating. This cow was raised and processed in a yard with a hundred other cows just like it. He finishes it with glazed eyes, and turns the key in the ignition.

His truck rolls into his driveway at his suburban home. It takes equal effort to remove himself from the undersized cab. He unconsciously kicks balls and toys off the pathway as he makes his way to the door. He announces his arrival and hears the pitter patter of human and dog feet alike. He walks to the kitchen with a child on each leg and a dog following in tow. He greets his wife, and cuts off mid-sentence when he sees the red envelope on the counter.

Ms. Puma rises from a bed that’s not her own, and is glad to see that the other occupant is long gone. Her corporate attire is still neatly folded on the dresser from the night before. She quickly dresses, checks her appearance in the mirror and heads out the door. It’s light out and people don’t give a second glance to the well-dressed middle-aged woman walking out of one of the city’s nicer apartment complexes. She turns on her heel and heads in a direction. She doesn’t know where she’s going. She looks straight ahead. She knows the telltale markers of a tourist, and she refuses to fall into those pitfalls. She is a stranger here, but that doesn’t mean she must look it. She lets her designer handbag casually swing from the crook of her arm. She calls the nearest taxi and hops into it. She states her destination in a calm voice without unnecessary courtesy.

The airport is rather dead today, and she sits and watches as planes land. She sits as close as she can to the terminals watching people being reunited with their families and loved ones. She shuffles through her wallet to find her frequent flyer card. Upon finding it she makes her way to the desk to schedule a flight, rolls down the departures board, finds the one closest to take-off and picks it. Her phone rings. Someone has sent her a red envelope. She cancels her flight.

Mr. Condor sits back in his leather office chair while one of the interns bobs her head between his naked thighs. Looking bored, he shuffles through his Blackberry and reads the latest stock exchange news in between rounds of Brickbreaker. Seeing that it’s going nowhere, he pats her on the head and tells her to leave. He stands, pulling up his custom tailored trousers and walks back to his desk. He shuffles through whatever papers one of his secretaries or underlings had left for him to review or sign or whatever. Nothing catches his eye, just white sheets of paper.

He yells out a name and a rather flustered looking woman in a tight skirt hurries in. He asks about a red envelope. He had monitored the other dinner guests’ mail and they had each received one. She explains that she had not yet checked his personal mail. There had been massive company-wide downsizing, and she has survived wave after wave of pink slips. Mr. Condor turns to her and looks completely through her. He fires her. She cries. He tells her to get out of his office. He calls his house and yells at his butler to check the mail. He has a red envelope.

The older lady was never given an animal name, because she had never wanted one. She would have gladly given her real name if anyone had asked. She led her dogs to the front porch and instructed them to sit while she worked off her dirty gardening shoes. She patted each one on the head and smiled. They wagged their tails and waited for the door to be opened. She kept them sitting while she took a handkerchief out of her back pocket and wiped down each paw. The door opened slowly and the dogs waited patiently for her to go through before bounding in.

She doesn’t mind the pile of mail that had gathered on her welcome mat. She steps over it while humming a nameless tune. She goes to the kitchen and boils a pot of tea. She looks on her counter and ponders what to eat. A light salad with a light dressing. She eats no meat in this world, and calls herself “vegetarian” to others. The sound of the wind through the high canopy of the forest that surrounds her house is her background music. She starts a fire in her fireplace, changes out of her dirty gardening clothes, lays down to sleep, and dies.

The head of the table also never took an animal name. Some had called him Mr. Lion, or those with deeper senses of humor Mr. Human, but he had never adhered to them. His keys jangle in the small bowl he’s designated for them, and the single coat hook on his wall now sports his black trench coat. He walks into the section of his one room apartment which he has decided to be the kitchen and fills a glass with water. There is no refrigerator, and there is no seating. He sits on the floor and stares off into the distance. His figure is thin but not malnourished. His eyes still have the youthful optimism of a child. He has the eyes of someone who has seen no true evil in this world. He has never killed anyone in his life. The gray walls are bare, and there is no furnishing. He is surrounded by red envelopes, dozens upon dozens of red envelopes. They explode out from him like a supernova, and pool in the corners of his apartment like blood.

“I’d like to see the biography card,” says Mr. Condor, finishing up his last bite

.

“I’d like to read it this time,” says the man at the head of the table.

“Julia Linsby grew up in upstate New York, and her parents were professors: one of Physics and one of the Fine Arts. She was an introverted child, spending much of it indoors behind a book or at the piano. The lack of physical activity in the formative years has allowed her flesh to become almost veal-like in tenderness. In grade school she quietly skipped several grades and moved onto college at the age of sixteen. She studied Environmental Science and Ecology and graduated in three years. The lack of any party scene beyond the local wine-tasting club can be seen in the lean cuts and pure flavor in the meat. She went to graduate school in Maine and spent most of her time there with her soon-to-be husband. They amassed riches in their creation of an indoor hanging garden and donated their vast fortune to charity. Her late years in the mountains allowed her to trek up and down giving the flesh some of the gamey lean flavor profiles of bison or buffalo. She was a vegetarian by most accounts, and you can seem to taste the lack of mixing. Her husband died last year, leaving her alone in their Maine house with her dogs. She died of a stroke in her sleep.”

Mr. Bear, Ms. Puma, and Mr. Condor all look at the empty seat and put down their forks. The guests don’t even feign caring about dessert. The man at the head of the table eats it in its entirety. They sit in stunned silence, fiddling with their napkins and sterling silverware before the man finally excuses himself and they get are allowed to get up and leave.

Three years pass before a new red envelope comes to each of their residences. Mr. Bear nearly broke down in tears. Ms. Puma was touring Europe alone and booked a flight back to the States the day she got the word. Mr. Condor had fired twelve assistants in the three years, and had an ulcer the size of a nickel that constantly harassed him, and got the letter the day he stood on the edge of his high rise office balcony.

“I’m glad to see you’ve lost weight,” says Mr. Condor patting Mr. Bear on the back.

“Har har,” Mr. Bear responds, the fake laugh resounding in his still very prominent gut.

“Boys, I can’t say you’ve all worn your years well,” says Ms. Puma.

A knock on the door shocks them into silence. The man at the head of the table moves to open it. A middle-aged man stands at the door with a bottle of wine held nervously in his hands. He moves to awkwardly shake the man’s hand almost losing the bottle in the process.

“Here, I uh, didn’t know what paired well with uhh...” the newcomer pauses and counts the seams on his shoes.

“Human flesh,” the man finishes.

“Yeah, human flesh,” the newcomer echos.