In the Spirit of Friendship
The marbles rolling across the bare oak floor made the sound of little bowling balls in search of their pins. It wasn’t much of a joke as far as Jerry was concerned, but the laughter rising from a portion of the crowd meant something, so he congratulated himself despite his misgivings. Always happy to oblige, even if it wasn’t my idea.
When the first victim went vertical, thrown skyward by a careless misstep onto a rock-hard ball, Jerry noted with pleasure that it was his nemesis, James Friedlin, a contributing reviewer for the Times, among others. With most young writers, there exists an eternal feud with the guardians of the old-line literary establishment. Reviewers, editors, publishers and wags; there were marbles enough for all on this particular evening. Jerry’s running buddy and fellow hipster, Sam Easton, moved in alongside him beneath the double-pocket doorjamb, surveying the havoc.
“You might think me deranged, but this is the most fun I ever had at a book party.”
Before Jerry could agree, the stumbling figure of their mutual agent, Irv Konigsberg, paved his way into their space, his normal sweaty air expanded out to a salty river by the stress of the moment, flushing down past his gray comb-over and dotting his beige jacket’s shoulders.
“Gee, Irv, it looks like April showers are back. Would you like an umbrella?”
“Stuff it, Sam. Jerry, are you nuts? Your first opening and you turn it into the Three Stooges? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Jerry didn’t respond to his agent, looking over and past him into the expansive parlor of his publisher, old what’s-his-name. Beyond the obligatory walls of stuffed bookcases, the furnishings were minimal, perhaps for the occasion. Rugs of an oriental variety, probably heirlooms bequeathed by an equally wealthy aunt, patched the wood floor in random arrangement. Wood folding chairs filled the spaces between taut leather settees. Small wooden stands of various height and size held vases of various color and mass, each vase a receptacle for a specific variety of cut flowers. It reminded Jerry of a funeral parlor, the sweet floral smell blending with the decaying paper remains of dead poets and authors, and the survivors gathered together to breathe all of it in.
Jerry overheard Sam addressing Irv.
“This is nothing. Last Mother’s Day, he sent his mom a male stripper dressed like an FTD delivery guy. When the music ended, all he had on was a helmet, sandals and the wings on his ankles. She hasn’t spoken to Jerry since.”
The agent rattled his head, spraying the two writers with sweat. He pressed a wet finger against Jerry’s chest.
“I have to fix this, Jerry. Don’t move. I’ll make things right.”
With that, their agent waddled back into the fray, carefully stepping around the still rolling marbles. Jerry turned to Sam, frowning.
“Thanks for telling him this was all your idea, dickhead.”
“I’m sorry. It never came up.”
“And that stripper was your idea, too.”
“Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m full of ideas. That doesn’t mean you have to act on them all the time.” Sam finished shrugging off any responsibility with a smiling puss that forced his beleaguered friend to smile back.
“You’re right. I should know better by now.”
They both stopped smiling as Irv negotiated toward them through No-Man’s-Land with old what’s-his-name in tow. Sam tilted his head towards Jerry’s ear and spoke out of the side of his mouth.
“Did you ever notice that Irv looks like a potato in a polka-dot bowtie?”
“Not now, Sam. Don’t make me laugh.”
Initially facing off two-by-two, the numbers fell uneven as Sam retreated two steps into the foyer. The publisher, the tallest of the remaining three, glared down at Jerry, while Irv, the shortest, rolled his eyes upward. The agent tried to speak first, quickly cut off by the patrician host.
“Mister Spiegel, this is a disgraceful exhibition. I cannot fathom what could be going on in your mind.”
Before Jerry could begin to formulate a response, a loud crash in the parlor drew everyone’s attention. Another of the old guard, this one the chief editor for what’s-his-name, lay motionless on the floor, beside shards of a broken ceramic vase and the severed remains of a splintered stand, and strewn with newly orphaned daisies. Irv waddled over quickly and helped the old man to his feet while picking flower petals off his chest.
The publisher turned back to Jerry, his glare ever more menacing. The young writer opened with a peace offering.
“I’ll … I’ll gladly pay for any damage … or replace everything. Whatever you say.”
The publisher remained stern in character and leaned forward into Jerry’s face.
“The vase was junk, a knock-off. However, that stand was an antique, Japanese maple, irreplaceable and priceless.”
“So, I guess I can’t replace it.”
“No, you can’t, Mister Spiegel. What you can, and will, do is get in there and clean up your mess and find every marble in that room. When you’re done, you can apologize to the guests and try to make amends with those injured by your prank.”
The publisher stood erect and walked past both Jerry and Sam, in a direction away from the party. Sam and Irv converged simultaneously at Jerry’s spot, the entirety of the agent’s jacket soaked through with perspiration. Sam touched Irv lightly and made a sickened sound.
“Eww, Irv. Go to the bathroom and towel yourself off before you catch pneumonia.”
“Never mind that. What’s the verdict, Jerry?”
Jerry shook his head.
“No verdicts yet, just penance. I have to clean up and suck up.”
“Sam and I will help, right Sam?”
Sam smiled at a thought he was having and wrapped his arm around Jerry’s shoulder.
“Of course. What are friends for?”
Abstract Invention by Charlie Accetta is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
When the first victim went vertical, thrown skyward by a careless misstep onto a rock-hard ball, Jerry noted with pleasure that it was his nemesis, James Friedlin, a contributing reviewer for the Times, among others. With most young writers, there exists an eternal feud with the guardians of the old-line literary establishment. Reviewers, editors, publishers and wags; there were marbles enough for all on this particular evening. Jerry’s running buddy and fellow hipster, Sam Easton, moved in alongside him beneath the double-pocket doorjamb, surveying the havoc.
“You might think me deranged, but this is the most fun I ever had at a book party.”
Before Jerry could agree, the stumbling figure of their mutual agent, Irv Konigsberg, paved his way into their space, his normal sweaty air expanded out to a salty river by the stress of the moment, flushing down past his gray comb-over and dotting his beige jacket’s shoulders.
“Gee, Irv, it looks like April showers are back. Would you like an umbrella?”
“Stuff it, Sam. Jerry, are you nuts? Your first opening and you turn it into the Three Stooges? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Jerry didn’t respond to his agent, looking over and past him into the expansive parlor of his publisher, old what’s-his-name. Beyond the obligatory walls of stuffed bookcases, the furnishings were minimal, perhaps for the occasion. Rugs of an oriental variety, probably heirlooms bequeathed by an equally wealthy aunt, patched the wood floor in random arrangement. Wood folding chairs filled the spaces between taut leather settees. Small wooden stands of various height and size held vases of various color and mass, each vase a receptacle for a specific variety of cut flowers. It reminded Jerry of a funeral parlor, the sweet floral smell blending with the decaying paper remains of dead poets and authors, and the survivors gathered together to breathe all of it in.
Jerry overheard Sam addressing Irv.
“This is nothing. Last Mother’s Day, he sent his mom a male stripper dressed like an FTD delivery guy. When the music ended, all he had on was a helmet, sandals and the wings on his ankles. She hasn’t spoken to Jerry since.”
The agent rattled his head, spraying the two writers with sweat. He pressed a wet finger against Jerry’s chest.
“I have to fix this, Jerry. Don’t move. I’ll make things right.”
With that, their agent waddled back into the fray, carefully stepping around the still rolling marbles. Jerry turned to Sam, frowning.
“Thanks for telling him this was all your idea, dickhead.”
“I’m sorry. It never came up.”
“And that stripper was your idea, too.”
“Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m full of ideas. That doesn’t mean you have to act on them all the time.” Sam finished shrugging off any responsibility with a smiling puss that forced his beleaguered friend to smile back.
“You’re right. I should know better by now.”
They both stopped smiling as Irv negotiated toward them through No-Man’s-Land with old what’s-his-name in tow. Sam tilted his head towards Jerry’s ear and spoke out of the side of his mouth.
“Did you ever notice that Irv looks like a potato in a polka-dot bowtie?”
“Not now, Sam. Don’t make me laugh.”
Initially facing off two-by-two, the numbers fell uneven as Sam retreated two steps into the foyer. The publisher, the tallest of the remaining three, glared down at Jerry, while Irv, the shortest, rolled his eyes upward. The agent tried to speak first, quickly cut off by the patrician host.
“Mister Spiegel, this is a disgraceful exhibition. I cannot fathom what could be going on in your mind.”
Before Jerry could begin to formulate a response, a loud crash in the parlor drew everyone’s attention. Another of the old guard, this one the chief editor for what’s-his-name, lay motionless on the floor, beside shards of a broken ceramic vase and the severed remains of a splintered stand, and strewn with newly orphaned daisies. Irv waddled over quickly and helped the old man to his feet while picking flower petals off his chest.
The publisher turned back to Jerry, his glare ever more menacing. The young writer opened with a peace offering.
“I’ll … I’ll gladly pay for any damage … or replace everything. Whatever you say.”
The publisher remained stern in character and leaned forward into Jerry’s face.
“The vase was junk, a knock-off. However, that stand was an antique, Japanese maple, irreplaceable and priceless.”
“So, I guess I can’t replace it.”
“No, you can’t, Mister Spiegel. What you can, and will, do is get in there and clean up your mess and find every marble in that room. When you’re done, you can apologize to the guests and try to make amends with those injured by your prank.”
The publisher stood erect and walked past both Jerry and Sam, in a direction away from the party. Sam and Irv converged simultaneously at Jerry’s spot, the entirety of the agent’s jacket soaked through with perspiration. Sam touched Irv lightly and made a sickened sound.
“Eww, Irv. Go to the bathroom and towel yourself off before you catch pneumonia.”
“Never mind that. What’s the verdict, Jerry?”
Jerry shook his head.
“No verdicts yet, just penance. I have to clean up and suck up.”
“Sam and I will help, right Sam?”
Sam smiled at a thought he was having and wrapped his arm around Jerry’s shoulder.
“Of course. What are friends for?”
Abstract Invention by Charlie Accetta is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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