Seconds And Irregulars : 1

A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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“Anyhow, he gives large parties,” said Jordan. “And I like large parties.
They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”

– F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

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Camille loves a good party the way a mermaid loves water. It's her element; where she lives and moves and draws delight.

Tonight's party is especially delightful. Mark and Laura's house is the perfect setting: open, expansive, spread out over many backgrounds, levels, vibes. It's beautiful, yet comfortable. It's photogenic, like a house from a architectural magazine, and yet it's welcoming and easy. You instinctively, immediately, feel free to wander anywhere, from the raised area above the living room, out through the French doors to the ample patio outside, onward and outward to lush backyard beyond, or directly downstairs to the dance floor in the basement.

So many guests! Such a mix of known and unknown faces! You might spy an old friend across the room, and spend the rest of the evening trying to make your way over to them, only to find yourself waylaid at every step by a familiar or half-familiar face. Despite the crowd, despite the mill and press, it was (almost magically) an environment where you could easily step into a quiet corner and talk for hours with a single soul, if that's what you wanted. Or... you could bounce – as Camille's husband Ozzie loved to do – floating through the crowd like a pinball, hitting every bumper -- where the bumpers are little groups of people and their small conversations. Ozzie would ping over, interrupting one conversation after another, tossing off greetings and one-liners, then moving on with faux regrets ("sorry! can't stay!").

While Ozzie danced across the surface of the partygoers, the way a water-bug zig-zags impossilby over a pond, Camille did her best to dive in, again and again, connecting as best she could. Her heart was set on catching up, renewing acquaintances, squeezing hands and arms, kissing cheeks, giving and receiving hugs...

She wasn't overwhelmed. Not in the least. She loved every moment. It gave her energy. Running her hands over the warp and weft of the social fabric renewed her. Rubbing elbows was her way to recharge.

Still, even mermaids every so often need to catch their breath. Which is why she spontaneously found herself at the top of a short flight of stairs, her hand on the railing, collecting herself as her eyes danced over the crowd below.

There and then, for the first time that night, she frowned.

Camille loves her husband, Ozzie, but right now there was nothing she wanted more in the world than to give her man a hearty smack! on the side of his foolish head.

He'd done his ricochet from one conversational node to the next, until he finally ran out of people to bump into. He stood in a bare patch of floor, unaware of Camille's eyes upon him, in that brief moment unsure of what to do with himself. But only for a moment.

Ozzie is (quite unconsciously) a not-quite-comical character. He could be amusing and fun if only he quit trying to be charming. Right now, at that very moment, he saw himself as utterly suave, completely irresistible; the local embodiment of Bond, James Bond.

On the contrary! In spite of being clean and well-dressed, Ozzie looked like nothing so much as a hobo who'd just climbed down from a well-worn, wooden boxcar: a hobo who'd found a rumpled suit and a suspiciously clean white shirt, and dressed himself in them. His bandy legs bowed and rocked; his lanky frame settled to his left, following the tilt of his oversized head.

Ozzie had – if we can continue for a moment the image of the man as a well-dressed hobo, a hobo who'd spotted a fresh-from-the-oven, god-bless-America apple pie cooling on a window sill, a hobo whose mouth watered with anticipation – Ozzie's "pie" in this circumstance being a young woman, a member of the catering staff, who was currently engaged in looking for champagne glasses in need of topping up. For that purpose, she held a towel-wrapped bottle with two delicate hands at the height of her chest.

Ozzie stood behind her, cocking his foolish head this way and that, estimating, admiring, considering... imagining his chances (which, objectively speaking, were nonexistent at best). Whiskey glass in hand, he leisurely took in the view from behind: studying the young woman's legs, her derriere, her trim waist, and last of all her hair, which hung in loose, frizzy, untamed curls halfway down her back.

Ozzie's ogling was a as unwelcome a sight as a dead fly tumbling down from the sky to land with precision on a pristine dish of vanilla ice cream – in this case, Camille's metaphorical ice cream. Without meaning to, she let out a loud huff of disapproval – which Ozzie was too far off to hear.

Laura, the party's hostess, rolled up alongside Camille and followed her gaze.

"Don't worry, hon. It's harmless," Laura told her. Without meaning to, Camille shot her a half-offended glance, so Laura quickly added, "At least, that's what I always tell myself."

Camille shook her head.

"Men are like dogs..." Laura began.

"Right," Camille agreed. "They are. Ozzie's looking that girl over, as if he was going to buy her. Like she was a horse or something."

"She's not all that," Camille commented in an unkind tone. "She's just young."

"Don't be catty!" Laura teased, with a smirk and a gentle elbow. "Anyway, Ozzie hasn't got a chance. I know for a fact that that girl has a boyfriend any woman would drool over. I'll point him out to you later."

Camille answered with a sigh. She wanted to turn away, but at the same time couldn't close her eyes to her husband's foolishness and potential embarrassment. She glanced at Laura and realized that – at the same time – she didn't want to appear too concerned. She didn't want to give the impression that she and Ozzie were having "issues." And so she tried to tweak the conversational direction; at least a little. She aimed to give it slightly less personal tone.

"I wish men could have that experience," she said. "... of being looked at like a piece of meat." She managed to keep the edge of resentment out of her voice.

"That wouldn't work." Laura responded. "It wouldn't help at all. Men would *love* being seen like meat, being treated as sexual objects. In their minds, it would work in their favor."

Camille smiled in a distracted way. She'd blundered into a conversational dead end, and she didn't like it there. Laura, seeing this, sensing it, gave the conversation a decisive turn: still about Ozzie, but not about Ozzie on the prowl. "Has Ozzie spoken to Mark at all tonight?"

Camille shook her head. "Not that I've seen."

"Is he avoiding him?"

Camille shrugged.

"Is Ozzie still working in that same–"

"Yes," Camille cut in.

"You know that Mark has a great job that's just waiting for Ozzie. It'd be perfect Ozzie; Ozzie would be perfect for it. But Mark's gotten tired of offering. At this point Ozzie's got to do the asking. But that's all he's got to do! All he has to do is ask, and the job is his."

"I know," Camille said.

"It would mean more money, a better commute..." Laura tempted.

"I know," Camille said.

"Then why won't he take it? Why can't he ask?"

"It's his stupid machismo!" Camille answered. "I'm so tired of it."

Laura nodded, "Yeah, I know what you mean. I figured as much."

"He's so friggin' obstinate! It's idiotic male pride, you know?"

Laura smiled. "Believe me, I get it. Ozzie is so competitive! If he worked for Mark, he'd feel as though Mark had beaten him somehow; as though Mark had gotten the better of him."

"Right."

"He's always tried to compete with Mark, even in things he wasn't good at!"

The four of them, Mark, Ozzie, Laura, and Camille had been through high school and college together. Ozzie and Mark were both athletes: Ozzie, football; Mark, basketball. Even though they played in different arenas (literally and figuratively), Ozzie always felt that any achievement of Mark's undermined his own.

"Remember when Mark joined the chess club?"

"... and Ozzie tried to learn chess just so he could show him up?"

"But he had to give it up when he couldn't win against the thirteen-year-old girl next door."

The two shared a quiet laugh. They sipped their drinks.

Then Laura offered, "You know, you could get a job at Mark's company, yourself. If you want. It's great money."

Camille blew out a long-suffering breath. "I can't. Ozzie's pride."

"It covers you, too?"

"Unfortunately. There'd be no peace at home if I went to work for Mark."

At that moment, the young caterer sensed Ozzie's intense attention. Or perhaps she picked up the subconscious telegraphy between the three women. In any case, the young woman realized that someone was standing behind her. She turned, and caught him before he had time to cover his naked leer with a mask of conviviality. Having no other prop or protocol ready, she lifted the bottle of champagne toward him, as if offering to fill his glass. He responded by raising his whiskey glass. He shrugged, as if to say I've got the wrong kind of glass, can't you see? He smiled, in the firm belief that women found his smile beguiling.

Instead, the young woman – not in the least beguiled (nor even mildly charmed) – nodded politely and treated him to a flat, professional smile. Then, without the slightest apparent haste, she stepped through a gap in the crowd. It closed behind her, and she disappeared from view. In the meantime, Ozzie only got as far as opening his jaw, not-quite-ready to deliver some hackneyed, unconvincing pickup line.

"Wow," Laura chuckled. "I'm impressed. I wish I knew how to vanish like that when I was young."

"When you were *young*?" Camille echoed with a laughing smile. "What are you now?"

"Oh, you know," Camille replied, waving her hand dismissively.

"No, I don't know," Laura countered. "You haven't hit thirty, yet. Don't start waving the white flag!"

"I've already hit 31," Camille pointed out, lowering her voice as she spoke.

"And so?"

"It's worse than thirty! I expected a crushing crisis when I hit the big three-oh. Instead, it was nothing! The crisis came a year later. Thirty-one really gave me a sense of the years slipping away from me." She shook her head.

Laura laughed. "You're crazy! Take a look at yourself! You haven't got a wrinkle! You haven't changed a bit since college! I'll bet you can still fit into your cheerleader uniform, can't you!" Camille looked away, hiding a smile. Laura followed up with, "You can, can't you! You still have it, right? Don't tell me you don't try it on, every now and then!"

Camille responded with a look, a smile, and a twinkling eye.

Laura rounded it up with: "One thing I do *know* you still have, is that all-American, young cheerleader look!"

As the two women traded banter, they didn't notice Ozzie approach. Just as he entered the outer edge of overhearing, Camille confided, "I don't know about young cheerleader look, but I do know I can still fit into a size 8."

"See? That's what I'm saying!"

"And you," Camille continued, "You obviously have NO trouble slipping into a size 6 – that's what you are, aren't you?"

Laura chuckled, "If you only knew!"

Camille didn't think there was much to know about it: Laura seemed to have poured herself into a slinky sheath dress, the color of milk chocolate, overlain with the subtle image of a orchid flower, done in lighter browns and dark muted greens. Even her slightest shift from one foot to another made all her curves shift as well, from her toes to her shoulders.

Ozzie, by this point, was part of their circle. "What're you two talking about?"

Laura offered, "I was just saying that Camille still looks like a college cheerleader."

"Oh my God!" Ozzie exclaimed, "You both do!" (Missing an obvious opportunity to pay his wife a compliment.)

Then, sticking his foot deeper in his error, he asked, "Do you two still have those outfits? You've got to try them on! Especially you, Laura! Oh my God, that's a sight I'd pay to see!" And as if suddenly remembering his wife was standing there as well, added, "The both of you! Yeah! That's what I'm talking about!"

Getting no response from this, Ozzie took another tack: "Hey, so, you two were just saying... talking about... numbers? What was that? Well, anyway, how about this: you're a pair of tens, the both of you! Huh? How about that?"

Camille responded in an even tone. "We were talking about dress sizes."

"Huh?"

Laura explained, "She's an eight and I'm a six."

Ozzie's eyes danced back and forth, the movement underlining the difference in height between the two women. The poor man felt out of his depth now, so he asked, rather absurdly, whether there was a women size seven at the party.

Camille responded drily, "I wouldn't know."

Ozzie: "Hmmph." If he had any social savvy, the poor chump would have simply wandered off at that point, with or without a pretext. He could have quit while he was still ahead. Instead he opened his mouth again and made things worse.

"It's a great party, Laura, a great party. You and... Mark... really know how to do it. But you know what would kick it up a notch? If these servers, these wait-people, if they could wear something, you know, a little more form-fitting? Can I say that? That's okay, right? I mean, like, tight t-shirts and short shorts, or miniskirts. And the men, the male wait-people, wait-men, whatever you want to call them, you women could decide. Maybe the same? Tight shirts, short shorts?" He laughed, slack-jawed. "Not my area."

Again, the women didn't respond.

By now, even poor clueless Ozzie realized that he needed an exit from the scene, so he drained his glass and held it up to show that it was empty.

"What are you drinking?" Laura asked.

"It's whiskey," he replied. "Called Yellow Dot? – never heard of it before, but it's great stuff."

"Yellow Spot," Laura corrected.

"Come again?"

"It's called Yellow Spot."

"Naw, I don't think so," he responded, laughing, "Maybe I'd better go check." And with that he wandered off, waggling his empty glass by way of explanation.

"Sorry about that," Camille offered, once her husband was out of earshot.

"Nothing to be sorry about," Laura responded. She watched as Ozzie snaked through the crowd, moving with determination toward the bar.

"That thing about tight shirts and short skirts, though..." Camille began, then: "I don't think there's a skirt short enough to make Ozzie feel uncomfortable enough–"

"–or vulnerable enough–"

"–to make him understand."

The two women paused in silent agreement. Then Laura asked, "Hey, are you the designated driver tonight?"

"No," Camille replied. "But I'm sure Ozzie will be fine to drive – as long as he doesn't have to blow into a breathalizer."

"Oh!" Laura reacted, with a look of concern. "If he can't pass a breathalizer, he shouldn't be driving. You should drive, or I can call you a cab. You can pick up your car tomorrow."

"Look," Camille confided, "I know you're right, but I can't ask him – or even worse, I can't *tell* him. If I do, we'll end up arguing the rest of the night and well into tomorrow."

"What if *I* ask him?" Camille proposed.

Camille shrugged. "Give it a shot! Can't hurt."

She watched as Laura drove through the crowd, separating the multitude like an icebreaking ship, driving through the floes. She quickly caught up with Ozzie and broached her argument.

She couldn't help it, though: she groaned aloud as she watched Ozzie foolishly flirt with Laura. He was constitutionally unconscious of the fact that had no chance whatsoever. His ignorance was part of his character, a flaw or a feature, as much a part of him as his lanky, bow-legged frame and his oversized head.

Laura's husband, Mark, appeared beside Camille, at her elbow. He gestured toward Ozzie with his chin and commented, "Don't worry; it's harmless." He added, just as Laura had: "At least, that's what I tell myself." Then he laughed.

"I didn't realize my thoughts – or feelings – or whatever, were so obvious," she told him, and shivered.

"They aren't, really," he told her. "What I said – it just seemed like the right thing to say." He laughed. "Anyway, if it wasn't harmless, what would we do?"

"I don't know," Camille replied.

"I guess we'd have an affair, you and I," he joked. Or was he joking? She shivered again. "I mean," he added, "There'd be a kind of symmetry... but hey! I'm only joking! I can't see Ozzie and Laura..."

"Oh, no, of course not!" Camille exclaimed, floundering.

Mark rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it and made a gesture of pushing the topic away, with both hands.

Then: "You shivered!" he observed. "Twice! Can I get you something to wear? A sweater? A jacket? A shawl? Laura always says that shawls keep her warm, but it seems impossible to me."

Camille was confused by the changes in Mark's conversational direction, and couldn't find anything to say. She wondered whether she should make an excuse and walk away? She was saved by Laura's rapid return. "Success!" she announced. "You and Ozzie will take a cab home!"

"Great!"

"Honey, Camille is shivering," Mark informed his wife.

"Oh, hey!" Laura exclaimed with a huge smile. "I have just the thing! I have a jacket that you absolutely have to try!"