Dinner and a Wedding (A story about people who think they are friends)
by Maya McClure, 3167 Valleydale Dr., Atlanta, GA 30311

THE DINNER

Some days it just doesn't make any sense to be a decent person or care. Some days it just makes better sense to be a sociopath. Then it can all be excused. Then you don't have to make sense of something you can't even explain. I want to be a sociopath. But I'm not a white girl.

White girls are the only ones who get to go crazy and then live to tell about it. They can get rich off the shit, if they keep a diary. But everybody else is punished for the things white girls get to glamorize. Well, maybe not everyone, but I know that this little black girl can be as crazy as a loon and no one is going to find that in the least bit worthwhile. This is a truth. This is a complete truth that will set you free if you just believe. I'll show you:

In some starvation induced moment of insanity I invited three friends to meet for dinner. All were former high school classmates. I planned the guests as carefully as any chief mixing the perfect chiffon. Mitchy, one of my best girls from high school, for warmth and down to earth good humor that would make me feel sophisticated and cute. Aldwin, for the cynical attached male perspective that would take the edge off my own jaded and bitchy attitude. And Pooh, because he adored me and would spend the evening unabashedly flirting with me for all to see. Add ambiance, turn up the conversation and it was supposed to come out as the perfect evening with me as the centerpiece.

I jumped into my Jeep precisely fifteen minutes before I should have met everyone, intending to be a comfortable fifteen minutes late. The drive with traffic was about thirty minutes, I estimated. And I'm not driving fast. I mean, I need to put on my make up, you know?

I'd suggested meeting at this little seafood place on Cheshirebridge. Mitchy had mentioned it to me like a year ago but we had never been able to get together for lunch there because the restaurant was an inconvenient distance from our Downtown offices. Cheshirebridge, however, was very cool for dinner. Especially when you didn't want to be over recognized by the ATL petite bourgeois bullshiters in Buckhead, or snow blinded by the white on white on white baby boomers in Midtown. It was the almost centrally located section of town where you really could sit down and have a nice meal and good conversation. I was really looking forward to my meal and my end of the conversation when I waltz in to restaurant door at exactly seventeen minutes late.

The Red Snapper looked like a kitchy little place left over from the early eighties, with cheap paisley printed cotton curtains and bloody colored shag carpeting all accented by a East India meets Northern Maine ambiance. It was the kind of place where the waiters wore clip on ties, but gave you excellent service to make up for the unimaginative meals served on the overpriced menu. The bar was uninhabited, so I looked around hoping my friends had snagged a good table. The place was damn near empty. I had arrived first.

"Wooda you like the table?" I hope the food isn't as greasy as this waiter.

Well, at least I had time to think. What was it gonna be like to see the old heads again? This wasnÕt our first get together since the reunion, weÕd hung out and had drinks several times already. But all we talked about was The Reunion, high school, College, the past, blah, blah... Tonight, I decided, would be different. We would not turn our eyes backwards down the path of yesteryear. Our dinner conversation would boldly face the present and look into the future Ð world issues, current affairs, relevant literature, theatre, and the arts! At age twenty-eight I would finally sit among old friends and have a truly adult conversation. "Wooda you like the drink?"

One toxic level Cosmopolitan later, I was more than pissed. I listened with one ear to Rondi, the shiny waiter/ bartender, enthusiastically explain his personal theory correlating Tupac's assassination and the rise of high tech stock options but my eye was on the parking lot. I suspect Rondi hardly gets even half an ear to listen to his shit too often. I also guess that he believes because I'm Black that I give a fuck. I don't, but it was kinda interesting and I do what I can to help East Indian and African ÐAmerican relations.

Just when I was about to dig in the Kate Spade for the cellie, I saw a gold Explorer roll into the lot. "Pooh!" Cool, at least I'll get a few minutes alone with my still sexy high school sweetie before the rest straggle into dinner. I knew M.A.C Lip Glass served a purpose in my life.

"Donna!" That voice. That nasty nasal voice. In a matter of milliseconds I streaked through my mental Rolodex matching the voice with the only person it could have possibly been -

"Carmen!" Arms open wide, head held back, and with a faux smile I greeted the one person I knew I had not invite to dinner tonight, Carmen Yvonne Carter. What the fuck was she doing here?

"Mitchy said come, so I came, because I just never get to see any of y'all!" Reminder to self: subtract 100 dollars off cost of Mitchy's shower gift. It's not that I had a thing against Carmen Carter. She's easy to look at; her breath is okay, which is good, because when she begins to talk, all of the talk will only be about Carmen Carter.

Alpha female that she is, Carmen's conversation strategy seems to employ a slash and burn methodology. She begins by cutting off whomever has the audacity to speak before her. As that fuels her self importance, she advances on to the field of any established ideas, planting land mines to finally blow up all issues voiced, until all that's left is a small charred piece of a demolished conversation. At that point the troops have retreated to silence leaving CarmenÕs red flag of victory flying high over the wasteland.

Clamping Carmen's mouth became somewhat of a sport at our high school lunch table with me as the reigning champ and Mitchy the notorious loser. It seemed that no matter what Mitchy brought up, Carmen could one up her. Actually with her bitch credentials Carmen could have done the same thing to any of us at the time, but I stuck up for myself. IÕd call her bluff or straight up claim that she was lying. Lying was something Carmen did with no conscience. I don't even think she knew she was doing it half the time. Poor Mitchy never understood that. Carmen's elaboration teamed with her icy delivery would implode Mitchy's self esteem with the same diabolical ease usually reserved for developers in historically Black neighborhoods.

That's why it surprised me that Mitchy was responsible for inviting Carmen to my dinner. Or had Carmen bullied an invitation from that spineless friend of mine? Anyway, I knew I'd have to stand my ground or I'd be sitting uncomfortably on charred bricks all night.

Carmen was barking her drink order to Rondi while he was shoving us to a table.

"We'll need seats for five now, Rondi."

"Five? Four! Only four."

"You're not staying?"

"Me, you, Mitchy, and Aldwin. Four!"

"And Pooh makes five."

"He's not coming! He is not coming! I called him and he's not coming. I want a Sutter Home Ziffendale! That's by the glass, right?"

What the fuck? She called Pooh? Who set this up anyway? Now who would adore me? What was this bitch doing to my dinner?

* * * * * * *

What luck, meeting up with Donna this way! I've always liked her. She's spunky Ð the only one in the muck of public school friends I had to make do with who was the least bit intellectually challenging. I just love Donna Donna! I just thought that she'd be doing more with her life by now. I'm not saying that being a little cartoon producer isn't interesting, but she can't be making any money. What in the world is she wearing?

"Honey, you look so cute!" I figured I'd try to make her feel good. "I like all those... colors and things."

"Yo, thanks, Carmen. I snatched it Up Top... um, in New York." Donna needs to stop speaking all that gutter slang. She was once a Toastmaster champion and now sheÕs talking like she's being interviewed on B.E.T. How does she expect to ever get a real job talking like that? Or a man?

"So, uh, how are the wedding plans with you and ... Bennie?"

"Benet, honey, it's Benet. French, you know. The other side of Haiti, I know what you're thinking. Well, his father imports wicker; its good business! A lot of people don't know how popular, how strong, Haitian wicker really is. It's so practical. I can get you a great discount on some custom pieces. Do you have a house, yet?" Sometimes I just donÕt know what to say to Donna. She has always been a little funny. There would be days when we were younger, that she'd just blow up over any little thing. Something small you know. I remember once I was sitting at the lunch table just chatting with the girls about my debutante ball. Mine was different from theirs, because my family is not originally from Atlanta, but Savannah. It's a well-known fact that the oldest African - American debutante ball started in Savannah, where my family is from. All the women on my mother's side went and it was my turn and I was excited about it! I had simply mentioned it when Donna just huffed all up, started talking about bourgeoisie establishments and women's rights, which have absolutely nothing to do with debutante balls, and I declare, it turned into one big mess. Donna can be so touchy at times.

(To be continuedÉ)

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