Synchronicity
A telephone call: "Max, I've got three tickets to [name omitted]'s reading tonight. Would you like to go heckle him?"
Thrilled at the prospect of pointing my pipe when I pipe up and ask pointed questions, I donned a blazer and began preparing a few notes on index cards. Little did I know that within the next hour, Annabelle, my limpid-limbed love, would leave me forever, trailing clouds of unpleasant inevitability as she went. Her excuse: I am not destined for greatness. I believe her exact words were, "Max, you'd be sufferable if you were actually a good writer, but as things stand, I'm wasting my time putting up with this preposterous act." Cut to the core, I retired to bed (after a drink or two), completely forgetting about the pleasant prospect of insulting my fellow man in a public forum.
It was not until a few minutes ago-and it is now hours after I was supposed to show up at a downtown hotel where readings are often held-that the synchronicity of the thing began to line up nicely. Two messages:
"Max, I'm outside the [downtown hotel]. Hope you're on your way, this thing starts in a few minutes, and [caller's devastatingly attractive, if rather vapid paramour] is already here with me. Call me back."
And then:
"Max, listen, it's me. I've got a bit of odd news, old boy. I just inspected my press pass for this thing, and it seems I've got a plus one, not a plus two as I suspected. Hope that you're not on your way, old man -- I figured you'd understand. Anyway, [d.a.i.r.v.p.] and I are going in, but we'll call when we get out."
The gods do not make many arrangements in my favor, and if I had to pick, I would probably have asked them to prevent Annabelle's precipitous parting, rather than exempting me from this little event and saving me the embarrassment of simply not showing up. However, if it's the best you guys can do...
Thrilled at the prospect of pointing my pipe when I pipe up and ask pointed questions, I donned a blazer and began preparing a few notes on index cards. Little did I know that within the next hour, Annabelle, my limpid-limbed love, would leave me forever, trailing clouds of unpleasant inevitability as she went. Her excuse: I am not destined for greatness. I believe her exact words were, "Max, you'd be sufferable if you were actually a good writer, but as things stand, I'm wasting my time putting up with this preposterous act." Cut to the core, I retired to bed (after a drink or two), completely forgetting about the pleasant prospect of insulting my fellow man in a public forum.
It was not until a few minutes ago-and it is now hours after I was supposed to show up at a downtown hotel where readings are often held-that the synchronicity of the thing began to line up nicely. Two messages:
"Max, I'm outside the [downtown hotel]. Hope you're on your way, this thing starts in a few minutes, and [caller's devastatingly attractive, if rather vapid paramour] is already here with me. Call me back."
And then:
"Max, listen, it's me. I've got a bit of odd news, old boy. I just inspected my press pass for this thing, and it seems I've got a plus one, not a plus two as I suspected. Hope that you're not on your way, old man -- I figured you'd understand. Anyway, [d.a.i.r.v.p.] and I are going in, but we'll call when we get out."
The gods do not make many arrangements in my favor, and if I had to pick, I would probably have asked them to prevent Annabelle's precipitous parting, rather than exempting me from this little event and saving me the embarrassment of simply not showing up. However, if it's the best you guys can do...