Detour : Jim Wile's Version by Jim Wile |
It isn’t the police who announce their presence with a bullhorn, but I’ll get to that shortly.
Pandemonium ensues as food is flying everywhere. Lea, who hasn’t yet gotten down from my back after our entrance together a half hour ago, moves up to my shoulders to raise herself above the fray, but now we are top-heavy, and I begin teetering. As I start to topple, I shout to her, “We’re going over, Lea!”
I end up face-planted in a bowl of cocktail sauce in the center of a round platter of shrimp. I expect that Lea may have been hurt in the fall, but I can’t find her anywhere. As I stand wiping the sauce from my eyes, I see a pair of feet dangling in front of me. They belong to Lea, who grabbed onto a chandelier and is hanging there. I help her down. She grabs a few shrimp from the platter and begins wiping the sauce from my face and popping them into her mouth. She offers me one too, and it is fabulous.
The food fight has escalated, as everyone seems to be getting into the act now. Though most appear to be enjoying it, Rachelle and this strange, whiny lady wearing the same dress seem determined to kill each other. I’m not about to try to break up this cat fight, but I know someone who would have no problem with that.
I get out my phone and call Lancellot. “Lance, this is Jim. I know you’re not up here because you’d arranged for a couple of hookers before the invite came, but we could really use your help about now.”
“No can do, my friend. I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed you were into that sort of thing, but, uh, we need a strong, assertive type up here now to break up this melee. Do you think you could ask them to untie you, big fella, and could you get up here immediately? I know you may find fault with some of us from time to time, but we love you and respect the hell out of you, and I can’t think of anyone else who could do a better job of breaking this up.”
“Thank you very much.”
“So, you’ll come then?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m coming… right about now…! Oooo!”
I didn’t hold out much hope for his appearance, but he surprised me when, five minutes later, he stepped out of the elevator. He was wearing only a hotel bathrobe.
I make my way over to him and explain the situation.
“Okay, let me see if I’ve got this straight,” says Lance. “On the one hand, we’ve got this orange-haired writer who everyone knows and who has done good work in the past. And on the other hand, we’ve got this person who we’ve never read before with a nasal, whiny voice who has nothing to show for herself but only criticizes the orange-haired one. There’s something about this that seems vaguely familiar. I think we should settle this the good old American way; we’ll put it to a vote.”
“I like it, Lance. Maybe they should have to campaign first, like, uh, they could each write a poem and read it. Then we could vote on the best one, and the loser would have to leave. That ought to settle things down.”
“Hmm, for once, I like your thinking here, Jim.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Alright, let’s get everyone’s attention and announce the plan. EXCUSE ME EVERYONE!”
“It’s too noisy in here, Lance. Nobody heard you. Let me try whistling for attention.” I raise my thumb and forefinger to my mouth and let out a piercingly loud whistle—a new skill I learned recently—but again, nobody seems to hear it.
“You’re an inventive guy, Jim. Why don’t you make us a bullhorn out of something?”
I scrounge around for some materials. Dolly lends me her earrings, Neonewman lends me a nostalgic pocket comb he can’t seem to part with, and Wayne Fowler lends me that gizmo he came to the party with. I gather a few more items and fashion them into a rather serviceable bullhorn and hand it to Lance.
“ALRIGHT FOLKS. LISTEN UP. LET’S SETTLE THIS LIKE THE MATURE PEOPLE WE ARE.”
The bullhorn is effective, and the wild rumpus comes to a screeching halt. No longer needing the bullhorn, Lance speaks to the crowd in a normal voice.
“We’re all writers here, so let’s settle this like writers. On the two sides, we’ve got our orange-haired hostess, Rachelle, and the nasally whiny one whose name I don’t know.”
“It’s JAAAAAAAAANE, for crying out loud. Who the hell are YOUUUUUUUU?”
“I rest my case,” continues Lance. “Jim and I think each of you should write a poem, and we’ll all vote on which one is best. The loser has to leave the party.”
I find a couple of pads and pens in a desk drawer and hand them out to Rachelle and Jane. Lance tells them they’ve got 10 minutes to come up with a poem.
Rachelle begins to scribble furiously. The ideas are flying out of her head and into her fingers. Jane sits and thinks for a while before slowly getting to work on her poem.
While they continue working, the rest of us pitch in to help each other remove food out of hair and off clothing. I happen to see Gretchen Hargis crawling out from under a table with not a bit of food on her. Smart woman. I nod to her as she heads over to whisper something in Rachelle’s ear, all the while pulling a lobster claw out of her hair. Rachelle begins furiously writing again.
When the 10 minutes are up, Lance calls out, “Stop! Alright ladies, it’s time to read your poems. I’m going to flip a coin. If it’s heads, Jane goes first, and if tails—Rachelle.” The flip comes up heads. “Go, Jane.”
Jane stands demurely in front of the crowd. She looks rather pathetic, with smears of potato salad still clinging to her face and in her hair. In a rather pleasant, though timid-sounding voice, she says, “My poem is entitled ‘Clouds.’”
Rows and floes of fettucine,
And ice cream castles not so teeny, And feathered canyons in the air, I've looked at clouds that way. “Wait a minute,” I overhear Rachelle whisper furiously to Gretchen, but Gretchen clamps a hand over Rachelle’s mouth.
She whispers back, “Let her dig her own grave.”
But now they merely block the sun.
They hail and sleet on everyone. So many things I might have done, But clouds were in the way I've looked at clouds from each side now,
From down and up, and still somehow, It's cloud illusions I remember I’m not sure I know clouds in September. I am a big Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins fan, and I recognize immediately that this is a poorly plagiarized version of “Both Sides Now” they made famous together, but several in the crowd seem entranced by this rather heartfelt-sounding rendition from Jane.
Lance says, “Alright, Rachelle. Go.”
Rachelle stands in front of the crowd, looking daggers at Jane, who remains meekly in place. The always impeccably dressed and coiffed Rachelle is a complete mess. Her red hair hangs limply down the sides of her face, as it appears someone has upended a punch bowl over her head. Her pink dress is no longer pink but multi-colored, stained by a variety of food hurled her way. She snarls out, “My poem is entitled ‘The Narcissist.’”
Jane, you ignorant slut. *
Your mouth, I wish you would shut. Loud and crass, A pain in the ass! Your head is way up your butt. Oblivious, that’s what you are.
You take everything too far. You think you’re hot stuff, It’s all merely fluff. You grate like an untuned guitar. A “low-class Dixie chick?”
That’s what you called Gretchen? You’re sick! You’re loud, and you’re rude, Exceedingly crude. You are the ultimate dick! I was enjoying this, but I scan the crowd as Rachelle is really getting into it now, and they are looking at Jane, who is standing there with her head down, appearing forlorn and pitiable. None of us know her, and Rachelle is being exceedingly cruel. This seems over-the-top for Rachelle. Perhaps she had been sorely provoked by this Jane person, but we aren’t aware of it, and it seems as though Jane is gaining sympathy for this diatribe aimed at her.
You think you’re just full of pluck.
You make me want to upchuck. Uh-oh. I can see where this is going. So can Lance, who gives Gretchen a signal of a slice across the throat. Gretchen whispers furiously in Rachelle’s ear, and she stops to listen.
“Alrighty, then,” says Lance in a loud voice. “It’s time to vote. Jim will pass out ballots, and you simply need to write the name of the poet with the, uh, best poem. The loser will leave the party.”
I tear off pages from one of the hotel pads and pass them out. The group is now faced with a difficult decision. Neither poem was very good. Jane’s was apparently plagiarized, while Rachelle’s was just nasty, though the rhyme and meter were decent. Tough choice. It’s anyone’s guess how this will pan out.
During the voting and afterwards, while the ballots are being collected by me and several volunteers, I can see Gretchen consoling Rachelle. Jane is nowhere to be found.
As the ballots come in, Lance and I begin tallying them, but before we complete the job, Rachelle comes up and says to us, “I noticed that Jane had handed a pile of ballots to one of the collectors. I think she’s stuffed the ballot box.”
We have no other proof that this is true, so we have to discount this story. When all the votes are tallied, Lance announces, “The winner of the, uh, least terrible poem is Jane by a vote of 26 to 24. Rachelle, you must leave the party.”
“Wait a minute,” sputters Rachelle. That’s 50 total votes. I invited only 40 people to this party. She cheated!”
“We have a serious accusation here, folks. Shall we hold another vote?” asks Lance.
No one cares to go through this again, and they just want to get on with the party, so Lance and I approach Rachelle, and each of us take an arm as we escort her to the elevator. She begins crying. “It’s not fair. She cheated. I should have won. They love me here. You can’t kick me out of my own party.”
As we usher her onto the elevator, I say to her, “It’ll be okay, Rachelle. Please don’t cry.”
As the doors shut, we can hear her begin to sing,
It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.
I’ll cry if I want to. I’ll cry if I want to…
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Jim Wile
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