8. Mordant

“Another cocktail party,” some guy said to the reflection of Bartholomew Smith, who seemed to say the exact same words at the exact same time. “More like another cock-of-the-walk-tail party.” The two winked in symmetrical unison.

When Bartholomew Smith, who is some guy, exited the bathroom, he had a semi-moist towel wrapped about his waist, another wrapped around his hair, and still two other hand towels, each wrapped around underarm hair. He walked into his bedroom and when he came out, he was wearing black slacks that had been washed but not ironed and an ill-fitting, dusk-blue dress shirt that billowed gently in all directions no matter how deep it had been tucked.

A 42 dollar cab ride to the city of the city, a bottle of wine that cost half that much, and a sudden series of deep breaths – Bartholomew stopped, mid-flight, on the indoor staircase. “Cock-of-the-walk-tail party? What was I thinking?” Wishing he had a mirror with which to consult, he reluctantly continued to speak out loud, “Damn it, Bart, you gotta do better than that tonight!”

Local TV Show Host, who was the host of the tonight’s cocktail party, opened the door to her apartment, answering Bartholomew’s elaborate knocks upon it.

Pleasantry-Exchange. Mild-Embrace. Acquaintanceship-Renewal.

Then: a room full of people: conversing, c0mingling, drinking alcohol.

“Oh, how sweet,” Local TV Show Host said as she noticed and grabbed the bottle of wine from Bartholomew’s out-stretched hand. “You shouldn’t have.”

Professional Homosexual Blogger leaned in, read the label and said, “Oh, honey, you reeeaaally shouldn’t have!” A cloud of innocent laughter surrounded the joke, prodding a follow-up from its author. “Please, get it out of my sight before I faint. I’m already feeling light-headed!” The cloud dissipated for the most part.

“Perhaps…” Bartholomew licked his lips and cleared his throat. “Perhaps it’s because of all that thin air up there on that high horse of yours.”

A newer, more dense cloud of laughter, one with potential for adiabatic expansion, hovered above those near the door and appetizers.

Imported Cheese Critic raised his voice to say, “At least Professional Homosexual Blogger knows not to spend more money on the wine brought to the party, than on the outfit worn to it, I might add.”

The cloud was turned a shade darker, colored in by collective, Oh-hoh-hohs that signified a “low blow.”

“Yes, you may add, Imported Cheese Critic. You may even ad hominem when you least expect it.” There was a wave of pressure inside Bartholomew that undulated with each uncertain beat and successful sentence.

The laughter was a tad sparse here, yet the volume of each haughty giggle saw to the cloud’s growth.

Monocle Salesman stepped in to what was becoming either a public forum or a boxing ring, and said, “Prepositions and nouns be damned! If you think you are allowed to make any phrase a verb, perhaps your poetic license should be suspended before you hurt someone….”

How true the Monocle Salesman’s former clause was, though no one was to know it quite yet.

And so it went that, much like the quickdraw legends of 19th-century gunslingers, everyone from far and wide in the living room seemed to want try their wits against Bartholomew’s. It was inevitable that fatigue should set in for Bartholomew, who struggled to keep the cloud growing until the unleveling of his head turned his wit mordant, and the cloud grew so thick and black that it moved Upscale Male Timeshare Prostitute to open a window for ventilation.

When almost all visible light had been blocked out by the thundering cloud, Bartholomew and Child Actor were trading bitter yet biting “yo mama” jokes in the dark. Suddenly, lighting struck the arugula-garlic aioli and a showering of purple and green raindrops fell, stinking of metal and salt, onto all the young professionals – and onto Bartholomew too.

Scalps sizzled. Hot fluids bled out from pores and orifices. Skins split to reveal muscle and fat that soon bubbled before disintegration.

The steam and smoke from the burning of hair, flesh, and bone began hissing and pouring upward toward an opaque cloud of screams.

Bartholomew Smith’s Obituary: Some guy.

 

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