#7

              It was one of those situations where its mutually accepted that either party involved has no particular interest in talking to each other.  The kind where you don’t realize your opposite doesn’t plan on putting any stake or investment in the conversation, until it is far too late to escape.  You end up submitting into a state of horror, once its understood that neither of you are fertile for engaging conversation, at this particular moment.  Perhaps ever.  There is much floundering, hoping that against all odds, you will come out alright in the end.  The futility of your predicament is your motivation, as if to defy the logistics of captivating conversation.

              “My daughter goes to Northeastern,” says my opponent.  The intense disinterest in my soul was excruciating to manage without emitting disgust pheromones, so I acquiesced.

              “Oh.”

              Up to this point, I was able to flagellate my soul and converse with acceptable eloquence, but I had had enough.  I figured that at this point, I should cut my losses and attempt to leave with minimal irreversible damage done.  I was planning to find an unassuming corner and try to cope with my new vision of self.  Lick my wounds, if you will.  But the gods had turned against me on this particular night, as they are oh so fond of doing, and my escape was not meant to be.

              “That is Eddie’s grandpa.   That’s his other aunt, and that’s his uncle.”  She starts rattling off a list of attendees‘ relations to Eddie, and points them off in the crowd.  I begin to reflect on what I did wrong.  On how I ended up here.

              I went to the opening of my high school’s production of Willy Wonka alone.  I did not recognize many faces, other than the occasional classmate or two.  I didn’t have any friends in the show, so I had no personal stake in the show’s success.  There was little camaraderie to be had for me there.  This ended up making me quite lonesome.  I wasn’t even sure if I should go or not, until a last minute decision.  As it turns out, the deciding factor was my mother telling me that nobody will ever love an atheist.

              During the walk there, I had some reservations about seeing the play yet.  In a strange way, I felt as though I had no right to go.  More than that, it was a sense of not belonging.  I had apprehension that distinctly tasted of outsider.  By the time I arrived, about a half hour later, I was guilty about going.  As if I had intruded and dirtied something of high sanctity.  There was a sense as though I should have a fear of getting caught; of being revealed for who I am.  Of course, there was not anything as telling of the enemy’s evaluation of my presence as an accusing look.  They were nothing more than a congregation of merry people waiting to be entertained.

              Collectively, this made me quite anxious.  I now understand my anxiety at the time to be palpable, because that would explain why this poor woman decided to try her luck with me.  The audacity of small talk is quite expensive to most.

              Through talking to her, I managed to gather that she was Eddie Lynch’s, Willy Wonka, aunt.  I managed this feat because she had told me as much  In fact, she made sure to employ grandiose hand gestures and tone of voice while doing so.

              “I’m Eddie’s aunt, dontcha know?”  As a matter of fact, I didn’t.  So that was good.  We were on even ground now, knowing what kind of sense of self each other had.  But she made one fatal mistake.

              “Do you know anybody in the play,” she asked condescendingly.  She saw me as lower standing in society as she did, because the only thing that matters is who you know.

              “I know Eddie Lynch and a few others,” I lie.  I knew of him, and talked to him occasionally, but I did not know him on the same intimate, ingratiatingly deep level that his aunt apparently did.

              “Oh, you mean Willy Wonka?”  This is how his aunt decided to identify her dearest nephew.  The hilarity of her speaking mannerisms went beyond me at the time, so without much consideration, I said “yeah, yeah.”

              She then went on to say how proud she, and the rest of their family was of Eddie.   She went on for quite a bit.  After much fellation of Eddie,  she reconsiders what she is saying.  There is a deep, considered pause.  After much time, this is when she tells me of her daughter‘s attendance at Northeastern.  I guess she felt some kind of moral obligation to say something of her own offspring, as she stops speaking as animatedly.  She becomes deflated.  Nothing could ever live up to Eddie Lynch in her eyes.

              After pointing out Eddie’s lineage in the crowd, she looks at me.  It is a deep, knowing look, the pinnacle moment when we finally understand each other.  She leans in a bit closer to me, and says “We’re his friends.”

              With a shy advert of the eyes downward, she looked away, ending all conversation for the night.