Our Militant Observer heard the soft clinking of dishware, in turns as ambient prelude and irritating bustle, listening to it rather than the pecking chatter in front of him. A range of integral subjects was queued in the glib minds of each player, save within the Militant Observer’s, who otherwise could have been at home doing something less inane. Forced solicitousness guided the thoughts of this one seated among a prepped-out crew, some of whose fluttering pretensions were disturbed by his presence, like a staggering old dog, which might receive a word and a pat, entering a room of cat lovers who’d rather not have to pretend interest. Unlike that dog, the MO’s consciousness fired rapid and devastating judgments, darting to and from each of the others, crippling their every word, breaking them mid-air like crispy breadsticks. If he couldn’t control his thoughts, he could at least control his expressions; not a suggestion of these judgments would be expressed on his face. But to no effect; his face was grumpy and tormented, twisted and ornery. He carried on in silent appreciation for the comic irony he tried to admit (aggression sometimes worked to confuse them) and ignore (that worked too) in the course of what limited words he contributed—or had been heard. He wished very much they would perish, reduce to ash, then and there. Then, he could be left alone to wade home with his thoughts, with the early summer breeze and a singular consciousness, leaving behind the babbling nothingness of theirs. Instead, they lived.
“So, Ernest, what do you make of the election?” They laughed egregiously at the devilish presumption Theo managed to piece together, knowing full well that Ernest, or Ernie, hated to discuss his work. But Ernie laughed too, to join the humor and to relish the circuitous laughter, passed from each to each like approval, which honored the insider experience they all fantasized he had. It helped them regard their own status with renewed awe. Surely there were no better fellows in town.
The server approached with drinks. “Two spicy Bloody Marys?”
“Here,” Mica said without looking up, a slight hand raised to indicate placement. The other consumer of tomato-laced spirits ignored the call; likely he was annoyed the server couldn’t remember such an easy distribution. The server remembered but wanted them to work too.
“He has one there.” The Militant Observer pointed, displeased at the snobbery of the brunch boozers.
“And one Smirnoff blueberry juicer?”
“That’s me.” Willis directed his smuggy mouth toward the man.
“And coffee, grapefruit juice, and one mimosa.”
“Right here, thank you.” Ernest was polite.
“Have enough to drink there, Ernie? I hope the restroom is nearby in case your incontinence kicks in. I’d hate for you to leave a trail of piss all over your crisp new khakis.” The server smiled but turned back, seriously repulsed.
The snob gave a hearty, somehow thin, bwahhaha. Mica said, “A geezer trail” and gave a masculine-made smile, and the Militant Observer just looked at them all, seething inside.
“Kind of like the time you had ecstasy-induced colitis in St. Tropez there, buddy?” Ernie reminded him. The impertinence of this remembrance sprung each from their seat a few inches, barely containing the beverages inside their tightening lips.
“Bwahahahahaha,” went the snob, tickled by their social vagaries.
This was 2008, but you might have thought it was a scene from 1988, which was a meme of 1978, that a mime of ’68, and before that ’58, and before that that that that that. In any event of age or decade, these things continue with strikingly little improvements on originality. It’s the child’s wish for adulthood finally given its due, something which seemed so originally fabulous at eight or nine or ten can be grabbed, taken, redone, embodied—for what? Certainly not to satisfy any gustatory preferences since the Benedict which was roundly ordered offered store-bought muffins, a questionably made hollandaise, and too-perfectly cut circles of ham.
The conversation changed or merely shuffled to parties—men of interest, hated men; adored women, men and women who were fat, women who were beautiful but annoying; men who had problems, men who were excused, men who had money and lots of attention and the jealousy felt for them. Some were dismissed as sociopaths, others insane; others dismissed for a lack of intelligence or cultural sensibility; others, including our MO, dismissed for a perceived lack of prestige in the attended college or university—just a simple side eye to the MO, especially from the snob who never listened when the MO spoke and fluttered his hand like a butterfly’s wing if he did. In short, all manner of habitude and presentation were critiqued as if somehow clearing the way for the supremacy of this crew. Critical, despising gossip rose and fell among repressed expressions of anger (a large toothy smile), distaste (a sneering but pitying imploration to the contrary), intrigue (fidgety seat shifting) and self-loathing (ghastly denial). All but Ernie shared in these devotions. He had a distaste for gossip, which sprouted from the realization that power is not given to gossips because of the innate goodness it’s meant the hearer to feel about themselves. Power is given to them because of the harm it causes others. When Ernie attempted a disparaging word, the others leaned in (except the MO, who sat back to observe him better) and waited eagerly for a morsel; this was usually toward a person Ernie perceived to be a clear enemy and might prefer it if it the message were actually delivered to the man in doubt. The snob proved his loyalty to Ernie—utter doggy devotion—and would, likely weeks later, drop Ernie’s missive down the ear canal of some unsuspecting but connected other who would transfer the message further. It was all very innocent, simple talk. The Militant Observer flashed his eyes threateningly at the snob, but with a smile so as to confuse and bewilder. They were on their second round of brunch beverages.
“You know what your problem is, Mica?” This was more a statement from Willis than a question. “You are too caught up in all the going out crap.” Mica, drink bent toward his forearm, shot a shocked, outraged, scared, humorous look—unsure which to project—to the rest of them. “Look at your clothes; everything is so clean and neat and ridiculous.” The snob laughed at what he thought was irony; Willis couldn’t possibly be criticizing Mica’s great style. “You look like all the rest of them with their upturned collars and their drinks curled to their chests.”
Ernest smiled a police officer’s cautionary smile, then looked to Willis with repressed contempt-cum-mild-disappointment. “Here we go,” he said with a chuckle, a message to the others to arrange shields for the incoming slings and arrows. The talk was going south.
There was an awkward pause after Willis said, “I hate guys like you, guys who dress up like roosters just to go to the grocery store. They’re the worst, right? Not you personally, Mica, you know what I mean.” He finished compassionately, his hand reached toward Mica like he should know exactly what he meant and not take it any other way.
“What are you talking about?” The snob highlighted the absurd condescension.
“Well…” Willis sat back smugly. He had gotten their full attention, his favorite fuel, and stared around at all of them. “I just mean I hate guys who are like that.”
“Pompous guys?” the MO asked.
“Yes,” he said definitively. “Yes. Pompous guys.”
“So, you are saying Mica is pompous,” the MO continued.
“No, don’t put words in my mouth.”
“The only thing in your mouth is vodka.” The snob laughed. He laughed at everything Ernie said even when the delivery was toneless, and it was clear he hadn’t meant to make a joke.
(There was another friend of a friend at the table who said nothing the entire time but had a stupid smile on his face. The Militant Observer tried to engage him in a side conversation, but he just nodded and smiled stupidly.)
The snob was hot, becoming anxious, and perspiration condensed on his upper lip. He dabbed it with his napkin.
“Humid, isn’t it?”
At this point, another group of men approached, a group known to this crew but as an adjacent social circle. Only a few overlapped, but each was known to each; some were antagonists, some social whores who talked to everyone. The snob knew them all, and as they approached, they focused their attention on him. They all wore different colored khakis: one was pink, one powder blue, one navy, and one yellow with little American flags like polka dots running the lengths of each leg. All wore short-sleeved, button-down shirts, which were white and heavy, and expensive metallic watches; one wore it on the right wrist, the other three on the left. All wore thick, dark sunglasses like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.
Some of the sitting crew said nothing to them. Ernest said hello to one of them, the one at the point mark for speaking, the other three behind him, shifting their heads away from awkwardness. Willis sensed their discomfort and immediately started speaking to them instead.
“How’s all the lobbying going?” he said to one.
“It’s fine.”
“All that whoring around must make Saturday brunches all the more re—, re—,” –-he sat up straighter, “—relaxing, I guess.”
“Yes.” The lobbyist was curt, like on the edge of a fight.
The MO and Ernie smirked. Theo looked appalled. The silent one smiled stupidly.
“Pull up a chair and have a drink!” Willis kept on.
“No, we have a table over there.” He point obscurely in front of him.
“You know, I hope you don’t talk to congressmen with that icy tone; you won’t get very far.”
“Uh-huh.”
The snob sensed the impending danger at Willis’s attentiveness, so he made his final goodbyes and they were off to be seated. The host stood behind with a plastered-on smile for the whole few minutes of their visit.
Willis, now fully loaded with the punch of alcohol and seeing he was unsuccessful at luring new targets, turned his attention to the MO.
“How’s that novel you’re working on over at chez toi?” He would sometimes say French words in mimicry of a French accent. “See, I can speak French too,” he said to Theo, who was oblivious to the double mockery, which overthrew subtle irony and landed with a splat of vulgar self-regard.
The MO flinched at being recognized to speak. “Me?”
“I don’t think anyone else at the table is writing one, or perhaps Mica is working on some sordid account of his grossly indulged childhood.” He turned to Mica. “Ranting on about your parents and how they left you for afternoons playing golf and drinking mint juleps while you stayed home and jerked off to your brothers jock strap?”
Mica had to spit out a mouthful of drink. Ernie laughed. The snob sort of wrinkled up his nose and said, “Uh, that’s gross.”
“My novel, yeah, it’s coming along I guess. It’s tough.”
“Sick of writing about yourself?”
“No, no.” The MO hesitated when he said this, a show of humility from a being otherwise obsessed with his secret genius.
“What’s it about again?”
“My college years, a sort of lampoon of my desperate college years. I want to use irony to show the incongruity between the millennials’ standardized high self-regard and their inability to function in real jobs that bore them.” As he talked, the others looked around, stared at watches, the menu, other tables. He stopped.
“That sounds tedious and boring,” Willis replied. “Good luck with that.”
“Thank you.” Only irony can combat irony.
It was moments like these when the MO’s self-concept and the blank reality before him butted heads. To regard oneself as a closet genius who had yet to be or might never be discovered or acknowledged is serious business. It is a preoccupation of thoughts and social strategies, planning the outward behavior as cover to humiliate the genius within who was carefully nurtured to think he must remain closed off and untouched by the taint of real life. Nothing could persuade him of his destiny and the work he would produce, eminent for the ages. None of them seated at the table needed to believe or even know this; it was beyond them. One day though, one day they will know, they will know even if they deny me. I will trounce upon their arrogance and break their confidence with my heralded, illustrious work. That’s what every secret genius believes. A fuzzy little promise from their best selves which keeps them up at night, wondering, waiting, hoping, planning. The MO was staring in the distance and, like a sitcom echo, heard his name pulling him back from the brink of his delusions.
“Are you there? Did you hear what I said? asked Theo.
“He’s imagining the future,” Ernest shot back. “Give him a moment.”
“Yeah, what did you say?”
“I said…never mind; it wasn’t important.”
By now the Benedict had been consumed and replaced by staggering words of drunken fatigue. Ernie had used the last chunk of savory muffin to sop up the yolk smeared around his plate, swirling it around and in the final circular swish, tongue out, shoved it into his mouth. The snob had barely touched his food. The others had finished a reasonable amount of such a large breakfast portion, oblivious to the waste of food, which could have served to satisfy some hungry beggar who was instead beggared once more; perhaps the restaurant offered up the scraps in the back to a tiny humpbacked hoard, Mica suggested.
A few more rounds of brunch booze bloated the stomachs of the crew—all except the MO who abstained, and it went unnoticed. The server worried that they were overserved and determined to deny another round. But this was unnecessary since the final round was hardly sipped and the previous round only half empty. Ernie stood to use the restroom and unfortunately missed a few steps and wavered, unbalanced, toward the patio door, which led there. One of the hosts was standing by looking miffed and anxious, but smiled as Ernie straightened himself and walked as tightly as he could through the door to the restroom.
“He’ll be gone fer a-our,” Willis mumbled. “Theo, you’ve not say mush, what’s t’mat,”—he drew a deep breath—“with yoo?”
Theo just looked at him.
“I thaw tha yoo…” He breathed again, trying to help the words, but he trailed off.
“What was that?” the silent one with the stupid smile questioned loudly, suddenly. The others looked at him, put off by the noise. Willis just bobbed his head up and down and wiggled his hand in the air to dismiss it. A sardonic chuckle dribbled out of his contorted mouth.
“You can’t hardly talk!” he continued and laughed. He turned to the MO and spoke again as loudly as before. “He’s been going on and on about whatever and now he can’t even talk!”
“It’s hardly can,” corrected the snob, unamused.
“Talk? I can talk. I talk all the time. This one over here talks too much if you ask me! He’s a dick if you ask me. And you all just let him talk. I can’t believe someone would act like that at brunch!”
“He’s drunk,” said the MO.
“And so am I,” said the now loud friend of a friend, though no one seemed to know to which friend he was attached. They had all arrived at the same time and it wasn’t pointed out. He held up his beverage and cheersed the sky.
“Salute!” he yelled, brought down his arm and took another sip.
The silent one was now the loudest one, and this made Theo nervous. The snob excused himself “for a moment” and walked over to the table of the group whom they had greeted about thirty minutes before. He was welcomed and sat down in the empty chair among them, looked over at the increasingly abject group he had brunched with. Ernie returned. No one had seen him struggle back but noticed a huge swath of wetness, in drops and patches, running down the side of his khaki pants.
“Oh my God,” said Theo, who seamlessly pushed his sunglasses back onto his face, slid out from the table, got up, and slinked out the exit. Mica sat in his seat drinking his final round and smiled at the MO, who bemusedly observed his nonchalance. The MO stared at him for a bit until Mica said, “What?”
“Nothing” and a shake of his head settled the dispute. Mica reached back for his drink and continued sipping then looked around at the scene and smiled at a woman staring from the corner table. Willis was pointing to Ernie, who was trying to blot the trail of piss on his pants, but Willis couldn’t find the words or the breath to say what he wanted to say. He struggled to speak through inaudible laughter, at which point he jostled himself up and headed for the other table where the snob had sought refuge.
The snob saw him advancing and his mouth dropped. One of the others in the pink khakis looked to his left at the staggering mess approaching and said, “Oh Jesus.” Horror amplified their faces. Willis kept on like a crippled dog, pawing his arms and hands in the air, his face contorted in what looked like pain but was hideous laughter; tears and spit flew toward them. He was trying to get their attention.
“He…he…”—he pushed out noises like a cat drawing out a hairball—“he… he… he ‘as p-piss on his p-pants!” With that, he tripped and fell head and body long onto the center of the table, crashing it to the patio ground.
Everyone within three tables leaped up and dispersed. The manager standing watch rushed over, hands up, yelling at Willis to get up and leave. “Right now, get out. Get. Out!” But Willis could barely understand and was borderline unconscious from the head blast. The men from the other group picked him up and walked him by both arms to the exit. The snob followed behind, head in his hands.
“Let’s get out of here,” a sobered Ernie suggested to the MO. The stupid, loud one was in a slurred chat with Mica and the server, who was trying to negotiate payment. Ernie handed her his credit card and continued to blot his pants with ice water.
“You should leave,” he said to Mica. “You too,” he said over his shoulder to the loud one.
“But I still have some left!” he yelled. Ernie stabbed him with his eyes. “I just paid the tab and now it’s time for you to go home.”
“I’m going. I’m g-OH-ing!” The emphasis drew out the “o” like drunks do.
Staff flitted around, some picking up broken glass and plates from what looked like an explosion; others stood in front of their patrons to reassure and to block the view. The MO sat there happily, sipped his drink, and was contented by the distinguished humanity which surrounded him. The early summer breeze fluffed his hair, the conversation peeped to silence, and he sat there smiling, mindlessly content.