It's an Art...So to Speak...

Posted by Pinhole at 1/17/2010 9:30 PM
Categories: Language, Writing, Humor, Arts
Tags: Writing Humor

Writers have the luxury of time and self-editing, whether responding to an email or preparing a piece of dialogue.  All the “ummms” and “uhs” can be surgically removed from a conversation and the most fractional wit made to appear whole and spontaneous.  An extended absence from the human race has left me ill equipped for handling a more rapid exchange.

During my sabbatical most of my friends took advantage of the opportunity to move, or change their phone numbers.  Informed of my predicament my brother’s neighbors have been kind enough to include me in activities that give me opportunities to practice my social skills.  In the past I’ve blamed an extra glass of wine for bouts of anti-social behavior, but at a recent gathering I found I’m able to be just as offensive before the cork has ever been loosed from the bottle.  The most discouraging aspect to this discovery is that I will now have to come up with another reason to drink.

Inexperience breeds impatience, and I’m developing a permanent crease between my eyebrows while attempting to engage with the variety of customers parading through the gallery.  Most times I feel like I’m thinking “with” my feet rather than “on” them.

Inquiring if I can help a middle-aged woman find something pleasing to her eye, I hear, “Mmmph!”.  Given a couple of days, and enough breaks for several games of Addiction Solitaire, I might possibly come up with a feeble retort; but knowing my limitations I’m forced to just turn and walk away.

Later that afternoon, I make the same professional inquiry of a slightly elderly gentleman.  He asks about a particular artist, but before I can answer his question he becomes a minor typhoon of information.  Revealing more details than we have in our computers, his sermon slowly morphs into a free association fest of distantly related tales from the past, in no particular order.  I began to feel blessed that he wasn’t doing the whole thing in rhyme, possibly the only redeeming quality to the experience.

Sometime later – I’m not sure how much later, because for the better part of the afternoon I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness – he winds up telling about his “brother’s plumber’s best friend who had a boil lanced and the infection spread to his liver and his skin turned the same color as the sunset in that painting on the south wall…How much is that painting, by the way?”

While I’m busy longing for the grumpy middle-aged woman, he catches me off guard as he makes the sudden claim, “To make a long story short…”, and I find myself muttering, much too loudly, “Too late.”

I apologize in advance to my brother’s neighbors, but I’m afraid I’m going to need a lot more cocktail parties.









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