Smooth Operator

Laughter sounds, a sop reverberating off floor and wall. It belongs to an older generation, a socialite generation. Air whooshes from lungs: wheezing, hiccupping, struggling to pass the epiglottis. It's a plural crowing, like air releasing sloppily from a hundred rubber balloons. There’s plenty of eccentricities to guffaw. Tonight is the 34th Annual Premier Pre-Holiday Season Dinner Party.

Mother and Father host. For months they sweat the guest list, conjure names, and weigh past faux pas. Any history of reference to the party fiasco of 2026 or styrofoam use is cause for formal disinvitation. Grandmother and Grandfather, the previous hosts, send non-negotiable reminders to invite the "who's who." Firmly they say, "Under no circumstance is Freesia Wilczek to come onto the property." Bitter Freesia is the perpetrator of said party fiasco.

There's a militaristic ranking to such an event. Color-coded name tags are required at all times, and name tag swapping is strictly prohibited. Naturally, I'm the only person underage because minors "are tactless brutes." My name tag boasts a jazzy, blue hazard symbol to alert others to my social shortcomings.

For ease, I use a code key:

The laughter is replaced by smattering and idle talk as the uniformed staff begins to circulate food trays. The party evolves into an open bull session over h'orderves.

In one corner of the library:

"Glad to be in on the party this year," Orange Name Tag says, "I was telling Rodney I missed last year because it was the same weekend as Eduardo Suarez's poetry reading tour. I saw him in Dallas. Phenomenal," Orange Name Tag bites into spicy pecan casu marzu.

"The weekends are a conflict of interest. We should petition to move the party from Saturday; nudge it to Wednesday or Thursday," Yellow Name Tag chimes in, chewing a Mongolian boodog and chorizo sausage ball. "Monday may be a nice change, a chance to kick off the workweek."

In another corner:

"In fact, Robert and I have been talking about hosting another seminar within the next few months," Red Name Tag gnaws a jellied moose nose and horseradish popper.

"Before President's Day?" Pink Name Tag asks, nibbling on the civet coffee crumble.

"Definitely before President's Day."

I spare myself the titillating conversation and escape to the bathroom. Locked inside, I feel relief from the partygoers. I feel relief in my bladder.

The bathroom is decked for the occasion with small party favors lining the vanity. I peep inside gold foil tissue to see Figue Noire Mad et Len potpourri. Many bags remain, so the bathroom hardly smells of a heavy-traffic toilet. The only off-putting variable is the white crepe paper streamers spiraling from the ceiling, profoundly resembling toilet paper.

Another decoration rests on the counter. It looks like a book, small and black. There's no spine, no lettering on the cover. I wash my hands before handling the oddity. It feels like a book. Inside, the paper is between sky blue and robin's egg. Gridlines are unequally divided across the page, creating space for self-reflection and journaling. Some gaps are filled.

14008 | 09/20 | Lunch at Salvatore's | (-87.60) | 144,232.11

14009 | 09/21 | Weekly Maid Service | (-290.00) | 143,942.11

What a strange, little diary.

Now knowing this book is a personal effect and not a decoration, I continue to flip through the oblong pages unashamed. A new format arises. There are more blanks for making grocery lists and larger sections for gesture drawings. There are bolded words demanding information about "Dollars" and "Pay to the Order Of." I analyze the booklet, the text. From what I can tell, it's an antique... that should not be left in a bathroom. I nab the book, slipping it into my jacket pocket to be examined later.

The only obstacle is a houseful of guests (and strangers) expecting me to provide mediocre repartee.

As I emerge from the bathroom, dinner is announced. The horde of attendees stampedes toward the grouping of long dining tables. Amidst the chaos, it's no challenge to find my place. It's the only spot without a glass of wine present, as wine is thought to compound “obtuse, adolescent behavior.” There’s also color-coded name cards to coordinate with the color-coded name tags. The only blue card is belly-up in a fishbowl of green. I figure if I am to be indelicate, banning strangers is painless. Works for me.

Once everyone is seated, the same uniformed staff begins to deliver the first course plates. Tonight's creations are fashioned after baseball park food ("make it chic"). The salad features sunflower seeds, and pretzels replace croutons. A young waiter, a potential blue hazard, jokes, "The dressing is baseball-samic vinegar." No one laughs; to be sure, joviality revs up by the time the second course arrives. It's pizza potage.

I avoid contributing to the conversation. I'm more interested in disguising myself through listening. The couple opposite me recounts the difficulty of finding certified custodians for their empire of cinemas. "You would not believe the interview process for candidates. We go through so many unqualified janitors who think they can just wipe down screens willy-nilly." I smile at intervals to camouflage my awkwardness. It's not needed: everyone can see my name tag.

The black book feels fleeting in my pocket. Out of sight, out of reach. I'm not patient; I'm not old enough for that. I can't wait until after dinner to thumb through the pamphlet, even if the main course is about to be served. With all the grace I can muster, I dab my mouth, recline back, and say what I rehearsed in my head.

“If you will excuse me, I have indigestion.”

I retreat from the dining hall and scuttle outside toward the veranda. I pass a few platter-carrying garçons and, by a stroke of luck, no one else. Once I'm sure I'm alone, I withdraw the small, black book to have another peek.

Alone at last.

"What've you got there?" A voice surges from the shadow of the house. Footsteps follow. There's a wrinkled hand, succeeded by a coat sleeve, a sparse head of hair, a glint of silver glasses, a black name tag. The body emerges, bathed in the strand lights hanging from the pergola. It's Great-Uncle Gene.

At this moment, I am a caveman frozen in a block of ice. I am unable to move, unable to speak. Great-Uncle Gene approaches, eyes locking onto the book clamped in my brutish hands. He smiles.

"Ah," he woofs, "and here I thought I'd lost the little devil." Great-Uncle Gene is beside me now, reaching for the booklet, which is rightfully his. "Do you know what this is?"

I shake my head, signaling no.

"It's a record for old people, called a 'checkbook,' but Generation Alpha wouldn't know anything about one. It's all this online money you kids are crazy about, money you can't see." I'm still rendered incapacitated by Great-Uncle Gene. I've been caught red-handed at my parent's famous dinner party event. I could receive a formal disinvitation...or worse: a formal disownment.

"To tell you the truth, I'm glad you have it. These things aren't so hip anymore. A lot of people here tonight would consider it tasteless I still have one. What's worse, they could look through it and see I still eat fast food. That would ruin me." Great-Uncle Gene huffs, "You know these dinner parties are great. Your mom does a fantastic job with all the planning and hiring. You can work the room, hobnob all the Dicks and Harrys. Everybody needs an attorney, but no one needs an attorney past their prime. They want it like a courtroom drama, a real smooth operator calling the shots, winning over the judge and the jury. Smooth operators don't eat Big Macs.

"Writing checks is not cool anymore. It'll get the ABA on your back; that would be a right sorry mess. Paper money's got a way of offending people like never before. It used to be so much simpler; everything was. Now we have people and their feelings interrupting other people and their feelings. Sometimes, I think I'm living on Mars, you know? I don't want a lot. I want to work, be a winning attorney, buy nice things for Judy. The guys at the practice think I'm on my way out. I have some years left in me yet."

Hallelujah, my prosecution is morphing into a confessional.

“Whoa,” Great-Uncle Gene breathes, “I didn’t intend to unload on you like that. I would appreciate if we could keep this”—he waves the checkbook in the air— “our secret.” Bushy eyebrows raise in anticipation.

I nod, agreeing, asking, "How did you know I had it? How did you know to follow me out here?"

"No one your age has indigestion," he chuckles, air spurting from a rubber balloon. Great-Uncle Gene retrieves a pen from his coat and flips the checkbook open, scribbling. "You need to sell this heartburn, for you and me both. Here's some insurance." The book produces a satisfying rrriiiiiiiip. Great-Uncle Gene hands me a diary page, a check. "That's for twenty grand. Next time your parents send you out for dry cleaning, wear a cap or something inconspicuous. There's a bank next to Cachet. They're about the only ones in town that still accept checks. Tell them you want to open a new account, and do not tell your mother."

He shoves the paper rectangle into my hands. I stuff the contraband inside my clothes. "Now, come on," he says, "We missed the braised hot dog beef ragu pappardelle, but we're just in time for the crackerjack soufflé."

After retiring to bed early because of “indigestion,” I cradle the check. It's the most expensive piece of paper I've held. It's the most unnecessary, too. It would have been cheaper to tattle. I look at Great-Uncle Gene's signature: proud, interlocking flourishes. It’s classic, like him; he’s a man from another time. Great-Uncle Gene is disciplined, stoic, locked in outdated gender roles. I look at the line designated Memo.

"For listening," it says. That must be worth something.