Culture Clash in my Living Room.
© 2016 Donna Drejza
In eight minutes I’ll be having a cocktail party. From my kitchen, I scan the living room and see a line of old fallbacks and early arrivers. How did this odd assortment of characters come to be in my living room? One hails from China, one from England and one from Germany. I’m sure they have nothing in common, so in lieu of putting curlers in my hair, I’ll have to march out there to play diplomat.
Franz is the German one. He’s stocky and quiet. If one were to paint his portrait, one would use Payne’s grey to match his humor. He has an identical twin, Fritz, but he’s not here and it’s all my fault. They were both meant to go to a luncheon across town last week, but there was no room in my messy car. So Franz had to stay behind and has been sulking in the corner ever since. It must have been some luncheon, because the hostess fell madly in love with Fritz, and we have not seen him since. Franz, now waits alone by the piano, perhaps hoping someone will play some Baroque music.
Chen Wu: He’s been with me for 26 years —and will be for life. He was there back in 1994, when I was living with a sexy Danish man. The Dane eyes were watercolor green, and he had a mind of steely grey. I remember having a party when my pug Stella jumped up on Chen, and knocked over one of Dane’s prized sherry glasses. One would have thought the world had come to an end. Then the Danish man leapt up and broke Chen’s arm! He felt terrible, but after heroic efforts and a gigantic titanium screw, Chen was on the mend. That was the day I knew Danish man was not for me. I kept Chen and got rid of the Dane.
Catherine: Many people do not realize that redheads just appear in your life. You do not choose them, but they slip in the nonetheless. It was four years ago when my gay best friend Dan was redecorating my flat and came across the very Edwardian-looking Catherine. She enters a room all British and high-society, but once you spend a minute with her, you realize she’s a phony. She tries to hide the fact that she’s from a factory town in North Carolina.
But there was something about her that men cannot resist. When I asked them, they usually stammer and cough. Finally one said reluctantly, “Well, she has an absolutely perfect bottom. Not too wide, but just wide enough to be provocative. And those legs!” The man went on about how they were like a fine English lady, thin about the ankles with an alabaster sheen. I think men go on to try to cheer her up. Tragically, she was born with no arms. Just sleek shoulders with little boney knobs, which are usually draped with shawls and lace so as not to be noticed. Plus they are all busy looking at her fine bottom.
Marie-St. Claire: I had landed an apartment in Palm Beach near the ocean, which had high ceilings and gigantic windows overlooking a garden. There was Marie St. Claire standing at the Church Mouse, by the door, ready to leave. Dan and I thought she was just what we needed to add a little life to our champagne soiree. She wore a pale turquoise tropical wool weave which perfectly fit her tiny frame. Dan and I had this thing about saving poor souls. Like puppies from the pound, we had to bring people and sad things home. She made us take the convertible roof down so she could bask in the sun for the trip home.
So here I am watching the scene unfold in my living room, worried that they’ll be some sort of wine-flailing altercation. Poor sweet Catherine, sitting between the elegant Chen and stocky sulking Franz —no doubt debating between the two she has wrapped around her proverbial little finger.
Then it happens! The maid verbally clears a path for our fancy French arrival – Marie St. Claire. The maid tries to place her smack in between the two men and I can see from the distance that Catherine is displeased. As I hastily plate crab croquettes for the party, I catch a glimpse of the interactions.
But Catherine is strong and wont budge. I can tell she loves being in the strong presence of Franz who speaks no English. The maid tries again with no luck. Then she puts Marie St. Claire on the other side of Franz. If only Franz’s twin brother Fritz had come back, then maybe poor Catherine would have a chance.
Then it hits me: maybe she’s the type to get even. Perhaps she’ll use one of her delicate ankles and trip someone so they’ll spill Claret all over Marie St. Claire. Or something really tragic. Not the tragedy that befell poor Chen. Maybe she’ll trip someone and knock over a candle, and Marie St. Claire will catch on fire!
I remove the apron which had been covering my emerald green dress and march into the living room. I pour a Manhattan – a big amber one, and fish out a few maraschino cherries with a tiny silver spoon. Then I look around the room, making a careful move which could define the course of the evening. I can’t decide between Franz, Catherine, Chen — and the newcomer, Marie St. Claire. It will be important to sit on just the right chair.
