Empty glasses accompany empty champagne flutes. The paper plates all have the same floral pattern that match the curtains that match the carpet that match the flowers on each table. Men in white coats carry trays of ridiculous combinations of deep fried hors d’oeuvres. From the window you can see a parade of lights down below on the tiny city street. A sound system sits under the bar. It connects to large towering speakers that hang from high posts and a random selection of predictable music stays on rotation.
Smiles line the room. Forced smiles.
The people laugh, they stuff their faces, they do it all in a very tame and professional manner as if they are following some set of rules that have been posted outside the banquet hall doors.
“I’ve never enjoyed parties like this,” Mary says.
“What’s not to enjoy?” Mateo asks. “You got deviled eggs, veggie dips, at least a half a dozen different beers on tap, not to mention all these classy, charismatic individuals to keep your attention all night.”
“That’s just it,” Mary says, “I’ve been to party after party, the same people every time. The same food, the same conversations, the same boring music.”
A group of younger men sit in a circle of fine cushioned designer chairs. They all puff on fat, relentless cigars, and hold them high as they speak to each other. The smoke drifts throughout the room and doesn’t seem to bother anyone. A couple of them hold snifters of brandy.
Mary adjusts her stance. “These people give me a headache.”
Mateo sips his scotch. “You work with most of them?”
“They wear exactly what they wear to the office,” Mary says. “The same tweed suits and cotton shirts, blends, blouses fresh off the racks, matching leather handbags, flawless heels, polished loafers—all high profile. All gelled, styled and taught. They never stop working. Please, please, please. That’s all they live for.” Mary turns her head toward the bulk of the room, “I wish a disaster would strike.”
The elevator music reaches its crescendo and fades out. The next song makes a few people dance in place. The glass sculptures parade from the water fountains. The overhead lighting gives the impression of a sophisticated cave. Mateo empties his glass and reaches for the bottle of readily available single malt. “You’re saying they aren’t genuine? What, they just come to these parties to suck up to their bosses?”
“They think if they constantly work to impress,” Mary says, “sooner or later the powers that be will look past all the brown nosing, the backstabbing, their pseudo interest in doing their jobs and grant them more financial stability, pat their heads, and push them into the front of the line, only furthering the way they leech off society. They’re not making anything better. They think they are. It makes me sick. Its no wonder the economy has lost its nerve.”
Mateo cocks his head and says, “You’re pretty judgmental.”
She smirks. “I’m intuitive,” she says.
“I’ve seen intuitive,” he says, “You’re a different kind of animal.”
Mary smiles. Finally, someone with something behind the eyes that isn’t based around the dollar value and the reaction it gets from the passersby. Although, his looks could fool anyone in the room. His pinstripe coat pours down over his trousers in a perfect line. The solid red tie sets the deep navy of the suit off and his finely starched white shirt holds it all in place. Even his movements are finely executed. Mary watches him fill his glass and place the bottle down in a practiced way only early classes in etiquette can teach.
“I don’t know how I do it,” Mateo says in a sarcastic tone, “How I always end up with the one who wants to run for the door.”
Her smile stays. “I know the game,” Mary says. “It becomes a second nature around these kinds of gatherings. After a while you grow accustomed to expecting the repetition.”
Mateo sips his fresh drink. “Yeah?” he says, “What about that guy over there?”
Mateo turns Mary’s attention toward a man standing off near the tall potted plants, stirring around the room with a lack of confidence that seems to be hovering over the rest of the party. His hair isn’t gelled to his scalp; his white socks are showing at the base of his flooding pants. His actions are rigid, like a corpse in the throes of a slow moving death rattle.
“Does he work with you?” Mateo asks.
She rolls her eyes, then her head. “That’s Roger Clement,” Mary says. “He’s been with this company for over ten years.”
“He doesn’t look like the regular run of personnel you’d expect to see in a place like this.”
“You want to talk a different kind of animal, Roger’s been diagnosed as being clinically depressed. He tries to hide it. He thinks no one knows, but when he’s away that’s what everyone talks about. He shrouds behind a well-balanced and highly medicated diet. He shows up to these because he’s convinced everyone will forget about him.”
Mateo glances at the clusters of business-sickened individuals and their plates and drinks. “I’m sure most of these folks around here are depressed. Especially when you talk about their need to please the higher ups, their brown nosing…. ”
“Not like Roger,” Mary says.
Mateo pops a stuffed jalapeno in his mouth in a quick, calculated motion. “I take it you like to talk about Roger too, then?”
Mary leans in, and with suspicion on her lips she says, “He collects mannequins.”
Mateo stops chewing for a second. “Mannequins?”
Mary nods very slowly and her eyes widen. “Mannequins.”
Mateo finishes the jalapeno, wipes his mouth. “Where did you hear this?”
“Fred Chance told Mary Struthers that he once saw Roger out behind a Macy’s dragging a beach-posed female mannequin by its foot to his car. He saw Roger remove its limbs and place them gently in the trunk. Fred saw him there again a week later. This time he saw Roger carrying two different colored mannequin-torso’s; one under each arm, to his car. Then Fred followed him. Then Fred confronted Roger. Turns out, Roger likes to sneak these fiberglass figures from department stores when no one’s looking.”
Mateo watches Roger. Roger is wearing a brown sports coat with elbow patches. His glasses seem to keep falling to his nose. He reaches up and pushes them back.
“He steals them?” Mateo asks.
“He’s been doing it for years,” Mary says.
“What kind of mannequins?”
“I’ve heard all kinds—from the tall slender women to the modern businessmen, the kids and the eunuchs alike. Black, white, beige, damaged, broken, all kinds. He has a floor plan of most of the department stores around here. He knows which entrances are more accessible, when certain service desks are occupied or not, when security is there and when they’re in between shifts. He eludes all cameras. He’s never been caught.”
Mateo’s intrigue in the stranger increases. He sips his drink and watches Roger. “I wonder what he does with them.”
“He takes them home and dresses them up,” Mary says. “He projects his own desires and personalities upon them. Names, origins, habits, their likes and dislikes—every last one of them gets labeled and cared for. Each one has a history, a made up back-story, and Roger organizes them into groups, families, whole communities.”
Mateo watches Roger. “Interesting…. All inside his home?”
“Fred said Roger has close to a hundred in his apartment.”
“How does Fred know?”
“Roger showed him.”
“Did Fred say why Roger does this?”
Mary gently says with minor fascination, “Roger, is a collector.”
Mateo nods understandingly. “A collector of friends that won’t forget about him.”
Mary returns the nod, and suddenly it all clicks. “His abandonment issues, his fears of never being remembered, exactly.”
Mateo imagines the world that stands beyond the door of Roger’s home, maybe some cramped little apartment in the hills, away from the traffic and the noise of modern day. Mateo imagines a work desk with various glues and epoxies to restore broken noses, to mend fallen ears or to rebuild a chewed hand.
Mateo stands there and silently dreams of a torso sitting atop the work desk, blankly staring ahead, and Roger holding a pallet of watercolors, carefully painting in washed away features, giving new life to the statues that children had climbed and kicked, the ones people had stuck their gum to when they couldn’t find a garbage can. Once Roger finishes, Mateo imagines him attaching limbs to the torso, carefully standing it upright, dressing it, and then gently placing the mannequin in the crowd that adorns his place of living. Mateo can see the ocean of friends Roger has awaiting him everyday when he returns from his job that holds onto him without much recognition or praise. Mateo wants more. “Is Fred here tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Mary says. “I haven’t seen him yet. But the night’s young, he may show up later.”
Mateo leans in, signals the crowded room with a jerking move of the neck, “Lucky him, right?” Mateo winks and Mary laughs.
Mateo observes Roger take notice of the music that has kicked up, some old funk number. He watches Roger hesitate, then attempt a dance move, a spin and stagger, then right himself to survey anyone paying attention. “So, Roger doesn’t have any family?” Mateo asks.
“No one knows,” she says. “But if he does, his family has to be living somewhere else.”
Roger wades around the beautifully displayed array of dips, carrots, and broccoli, all laid out in a bouquet across one table. Roger scowls at the beluga and salmon heads with cream cheese and cracker sides. He sips a flute of champagne and his face cringes.
“Do you know how old Roger is?” Mateo asks.
Mary shakes her head. “He could be anywhere from early forties to mid fifties.”
They watch Roger take a handful of cherry tomatoes, cup them in his hand, and gently pop them into his mouth, one by one; chewing in a circular motion, a look of suspect on his face. Roger eyes the bedazzled dresses and stiff slacks mingle. After the tomatoes he reaches for a napkin and globs two scoops of spinach dip into his palm. He works at it for a while, wiping his mouth with the napkin.
They watch him tongue the dip like he’s a rare wild animal that they have been tracking for weeks, and now they have spotted him in his natural habitat—an upper-scale business party. They speak in a whisper about him, their fascination bringing their bodies closer together, leaning, watching, learning, discussing.
Mateo smiles. “If only the rest of us could approach the world in a manner such as he does.”
“What do you mean?” Mary asks.
“His paranoia, his heightened awareness, keeping the walls up at all times, never letting in those around him, only keeping them at bay by feeding their curious little imaginations.”
Mateo looks at Mary.
Roger licks the spinach clean from his palm.
Mary says, “He’s had a crush on that one in the red dress, the one by the elevator talking to the vice president. He has no idea what she’s really about.”
Mateo aims his glass in the red dress’ direction, “Her?”
“She’s slept with over half of the firm’s staff to get where she is, both men and women, investors and secretaries. It’s pathetic. Everyone knows except Roger, and the ones she’s been with feel no sorrow for her.”
Mateo leans back. “Sorrow?”
“She’s responsible,” Mary starts, “for two letters of resignation, a transfer, and a divorce. I heard she even caused a suicide a few years back—a hanging, but that’s more hearsay than anything.”
Mateo swirls his drink, ice clanking, then sips it. He watches the woman in the red dress with matching lipstick and pumps laugh at a joke probably older than the man she’s standing next to tell. The joke probably wasn’t funny. She’s holding a flute of champagne that has lost its sheen. “What’s her name?” Mateo asks.
“Does it matter?” Mary scoffs. “A girl like that is only good for one thing. The notches in her belt more than say it. It really empowers both ends knowing they can get what they want and not feel any guilt afterward.”
Mateo turns to Mary. “Is it a safe assumption to say that, you don’t like your job all that much?”
Mary rolls her eyes. “Not particularly.”
Mateo smiles at Mary. “Not particularly as in, you don’t like your job, or that I’m completely off base.”
“No, you got it right the first time,” Mary says. “I don’t like my job very much.”
“Why don’t you quit?” Mateo asks.
Mary sighs. “In today’s job market it’s difficult enough to make a living,” she says. “The younger generations think it helps to have an education.”
Mateo bursts, “If they only knew!”
They both laugh.
“You never told me what you do,” she says, “for a living.”
Mateo leers and strikes a magicians pose: “That would take fun out of my mystery then, wouldn’t it?”
More laughter.
The music shifts to a mellowed symphonic ballad. Mary’s eyes thin down on Mateo. Mateo watches Mary bite her lip and empties his drink. “You know, you’ve been holding onto that drink of yours since I first said ‘hi’ to you,” Mateo says. “Look at it, the ice has melted. I take it you don’t like scotch?”
Mary shifts her footing. “I was waiting for you to notice.” She holds out the glass, “How about a Vodka Shirley?”
“What’s a Vodka Shirley?”
“It’s like a Shirley Temple, but with vodka added to it.”
Mateo raises an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” Mary laughs.
“Fair enough,” Mateo says. He takes the neglected drink from Mary’s hand, downs it, and points at her as he walks away, “Vodka Shirley.”
Mary smiles as she watches Mateo make his way through the crowd toward the bar. While he orders her the new drink Mary feels a strange presence behind her. She turns and sees Roger Clement standing there.
“Roger,” she says, “It’s, um, we were just…. How are you doing tonight?”
“You know,” Roger says with spinach in his teeth, “It’s not all true, what they say about me.”
“What?” Mary asks, “What do you mean Roger?”
“I can hear you over here talking about me,” Roger says. “It’s not all true, what everyone says about me, you know. You people like to sit back and talk about me when you think I can’t hear what you’re saying.”
“Oh, well, Roger—”
“You people will always find the outcast, someone who stands out because he likes his privacy, someone who doesn’t fit into the flow of things. It’s attractive to people like you, that’s why I still have a job here. And while you live out the banality of what you call a life, running around after your superiors, catching their crumbs while falling on your faces, you wish you could know about me, because I don’t chase after these things. You find excitement in speculating about me, wondering about the life I live, but your imagination is so dismal, so limited, and it only leaves you standing around in your premeditated outfits holding a warm drink.”
“Look, Roger, I—”
“He’s gone, you know,” Roger says. “He’s not coming tonight.”
“Who?” Mary asks.
“He liked following me around. He thought he was so clever. He even chased me. He threatened me. And it wasn’t just one time that he had tried, either. You know how most animals people are afraid of are only dangerous when they are cornered or if they are threatened?”
Mary starts laughing. “Roger, you’re a little too serious about it all. It’s all in fun, we’re just—”
“You’re just, huh?” Roger steps close. “That’s all you are: Just. That’s all you ever will be . . . Just.”
Mary’s face winces with confusion. “Okay, now you’re starting to sound a little—”
“Fred Chance,” Roger says, “He’s not here. He won’t be coming here tonight.”
“What about Fred Chance?” Mary’s laughter settling, “What are you talking about Roger?”
Rogers eyes stare harshly into Mary’s. Mary feels a chill and tries to ignore it. She turns away, tries to leave, brushing Roger off, and Roger grabs her by the arm. His grip is like a vice rusted shut. Mary stops laughing. Her eyes shutter. Roger moves right on top of her and says, “No one will ever see Fred Chance again.”
Roger releases Mary’s arm and is gone, vanished behind the walls of socializing suits. Mateo pays for the Vodka Shirley, leaves a tip, and walks back towards Mary. Her smile is gone, and she just watches the crowd with a kind of distant veil cast over her eyes. She looks for where Roger went, where he is going, but there is no sign of him. The music overhead changes to an instrumental pop catastrophe.
Mateo joins Mary in a graceful stance. “One Vodka Shirley,” he says.
Mary looks towards the elevator, and sees the woman wearing a red dress with matching lipstick and pumps is gone.
Author: Lawrence Goodwin
