Feast

The fat cats think they are “job creators,”

but there are no fat cats without the workers.

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A banquet of self-serving billionaires is not a good place to look for democracy.

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Feast

The chandeliers blazed, flags draped the balcony, roses wilted under their own perfume. We lined up with trays, shoes polished, eyes forward. Walking out on this horror was unthinkable. The pay was crumbs, but losing the job would starve us.

The donors swept in like royalty at a coronation, sequins and flag pins glittering. They saluted one another with cocktails as if pledging allegiance. The congressman with the plastered-down hair and the blazing dental job boomed, “We’ve all sacrificed”—and demanded we give him extra lobster. A Versace-clad woman complained about homeless people, then pushed away her untouched oysters. The grease on their mouths made it easier for them to praise faith, freedom, and family values.

We circled them with platters: beef bleeding into butter, lobsters sprawled like splayed red cadavers. Whole courses came back untouched. We scraped them into bins. The speeches roared louder—virtue, thrift, patriotism—while knives sawed and forks stabbed. A billionaire raised a toast to the president, slopped wine down his shirt, and ended with, “Freedom isn’t free!” He licked the wine from his sleeve. Applause rang out over the clattering.

We looked at each other as we worked. At least we were dignified in our subservience.

At dessert, whatever pretenses the donors maintained about their superiority collapsed.They lunged at the cake before the dessert silverware arrived, gouging trenches with forks and fingers. A woman smeared frosting on her pearls screaming, “We are the backbone of this nation!” A man planted a flag-toothpick in the wreckage and saluted. Another stuffed half a dozen macarons into his pocket—“for the troops,” he bellowed.

Then the valedictory: the square-jawed, faux soldier rose solemnly to utter some patriotic bathos, but crumpled before he could get out a word and dove face-first into the cake. He came up sugar-masked, blinking like a clown. Cheers exploded. Someone scooped a spoonful from the crater and held it aloft, shouting, “Still good for America!” The laughter wouldn’t stop.

By the end, the flags sagged, the roses drooped, the tables tottered under the ruins of the feast. The donors staggered out congratulating themselves on their dedication, their ruthlessness, and their tax deductions. We turned up the lights. They had gone; we stayed behind to clean up. The hall reeked of garbage and grandiosity. The smell clung to our clothes.

We could get frosting off the floor, but we could never make the stench go away.