I stood for a moment, dazed, trying to process that whole conversation, but not really getting anywhere. It was going to be one of those nights, I thought, that I’d be able to talk about later, but only the way I can talk about some movie I saw a couple years ago.
I stepped out from behind the bar and studied the group, which was a little intimidating. These people, they should have been on Wall Street, or maybe Mars. Stearns and Co. had rejoined their friends, and many of them were now turning to get a look at me as I took my sweet old time weaving through the dining area.
I don’t know how real celebrities do it. All these people looking at me all the time was something to which I still couldn’t get accustomed. I couldn’t imagine what it’s like to be Brad Pitt, Mr. Pomegranate himself, trying to sit and enjoy a meal or go Christmas shopping at the mall, swarms of looks flying around his Sexiest-Man-Alive face, little girls and grown women shrieking and crying and screaming, “Can I have your autograph? Your picture? Your babies?” Shit. It’s like that all over the world for him. The poor bastard.
Me, well, I was only sort of famous and had not once had girls going completely batty as I walked down the street. It would have been nice to be able to sign at least one breast, though. I was merely a Pittsburgh celebrity, which only really counts if you play for the Steelers or if you happen to find yourself at a meeting with a bunch of people you don’t know, people who want something from you that you’re also unaware of so they can get their rocks off about something they won’t let you in on. Up to this point, they might as well have blindfolded me.
Just the same, I did get a bit of a thrill from knowing that I was the buzz, and the buzz was only growing louder with each step I took. Of course, the buzz may have actually been the half-bottle of Merlot flowing through me. Either way, the nerves were settling, and their energy was given to what was beginning to take shape as excitement.
If you stop to give it a little consideration, it’s really quite amazing how little time is needed for a change in outlook. Or maybe it’s inlook. Or even attitude adjustment. Whatever it is that changes, it’s big and astoundingly quick.
In the 20 or so steps I’d taken from the bar, I’d set down my discomfort and dropped my apprehension. Somewhere along that path, I’d stumbled across a heaping pile of self-confidence, and conveniently next to it, a pile of fearlessness. It was one hell of a timely find, even though I couldn’t give you anything scientific to explain its sudden appearance. It was like that wine bottle secretly housed a genie or something.
“Hey folks. How’s everybody doing?” My cheeks were burning, but my smile cooled them nicely.
And then these rich people, they were all over me. “Hellos” and “His” and “Nice-to-meet-yous.” Handshakes and nods of the head. The chaos was that of the hive stirred by a strong wind or a little boy with impeccable aim, and they all buzzed for me. For a moment, I wondered if I could get them all to sting for me, as well.
There were so many of them that I can’t really remember meeting any of them. When I try to picture one face, it never fails to morph into the most generic face you’ve ever seen. Gray, even. Like the walls in the morgue waiting room. The kind of face you can only stereotype, much in the way that people describe extraterrestrials as having egg-shaped heads and large black eyes.
I do remember shaking more than one prosthetic limb, though. That was a new experience for me.
Well, I do remember one face from that crowd, I suppose. And, as should always be the case when you can remember only one of many, this face was striking. Beautiful, slap-you-in-the-face kind of striking. She had pale, smooth skin, huge (and I mean HUGE) blue eyes, and full pink lips with curves like a real woman’s hips. When she got close, it was in slow motion, like the first time Kevin Arnold met Winnie Cooper in Wonder Years.
But she didn’t stand out because she was lovely. There was a sort of innocence somewhere in there that didn’t seem to fit in with all these other people. The rest of them had the look of someone who had stolen something and didn’t feel the least bit bad about it. I doubt she’d ever taken so much as a boy’s well-meant sweatshirt on a cold day.
We didn’t get the chance to exchange hellos, but I did get to look her in the eye and shake her hand. It was a good start.
I could tell I was some form of entertainment to the rest of them, but something about her face (or her aura, or vibe, or whatever) led me to believe she wanted something else from me. What that something was, I couldn’t tell you, but such is the way it goes with angels.
As I was about to speak to her, Synchek appeared at the podium and asked “if everyone would please take a seat, everyone please.” In the scuffle to get to the good seats, I lost her. It was like being thrown into an adult version of musical chairs.
And I was left standing near the coffee table, a mostly empty wine glass in my hand and an obviously struggling look on my face. People don’t run for their seats like that, I thought. They meander toward them. They take their time. They’re polite about it.
What is going on here, in this warehouse banquet room, with all these demons and only one angel?
And then it was explained to me, at least partially, by Synchek, who was now addressing his army.
“Hello, friends. I’m glad to see that so many of you could make it this evening. As many of you know, this is the 200th meeting of PEP, which I’m proud to say is something of a milestone.” And a milestone it must have been, judging by the applause.
“We are lucky to have with us this evening a special guest, Travis Eliot, who is going to tell us first-hand about his unfortunate accident and the harrowing tale of his survival.”
I was beginning to tire of this whole “harrowing tale of survival” crap, but that was hardly Synchek’s fault. It was the right phrase, at least for those who had never gone through anything like it. Personally, I’d have gone with “hellish tale of pain and despair,” but it wasn’t up to me.
“Mr. Eliot is also kind enough that he has agreed to take a few of our questions once he has finished. And, as per usual, dinner will be served at 9:30, followed by drinks and a few hours to socialize. And with that, my friends, I would like to introduce…”
Me. Little old wine-drinker me. Bewildered, lost, confused and any other adjective that might be used to describe, let’s say, a 6-year-old looking at a calculus problem.
Me. The most famous bloke in the room.
Me. The guy who ate his best friends.
Me. The guy who couldn’t get it up without picturing a dead girl.
Weren’t these people lucky to be in my presence, eh?
I didn’t know where to start my story, but I figured I couldn’t just stand there with a glass of wine in my hand and a curious urge to piss myself, so I decided to walk up to the podium. They were all watching me walk. They looked like they wanted to tear me apart, but not necessarily in a bad way.
So I got to the podium, grabbed the sides and rested my weight onto my elbows, and I began to speak.
I have to be honest here. Public speaking has never been high on my list of entertaining activities. I hated it when I was a kid, giving book reports about Charlotte and her web, and had grown only slightly more comfortable with all eyes and ears on me by the time I finished college. I’m not saying I would vomit or break out in hives or anything, but I’m sure more than one person had noticed the nerves rattling around in my mouth like marbles.
But this time was different. No nerves. No panic. No triple-checking to make sure my fly was properly flied. And, most importantly, no sense that everything and everyone in the room was closing in on me.
This time, I controlled everything. I could have brought the ceiling down with little more than the mention of my desire to do so. I had become powerful up there, in front of all those suits and diamond-studded heels. I felt it in my fingers, wrapped over the edge of the podium. I felt it in the small of my back. I felt it in my lips, throwing words like solid balls of epiphany at the ears of all these strange strangers. And I felt it in my eyes, open and cold and blue, turning them to stone as though I were Medusa.
My eyes, which locked for at least a moment with every other pair of eyes in the room, could have driven those people to any point I wished. I knew it halfway through my story.
Well, I knew it about all but one of them, anyway. My tiny little angel did not look at me the way the rest did. She was definitely paying close attention, but didn’t have her pretty little mouth agape the way the rest did. She was listening to me, but that was all. The rest of the crowd seemed to imbibe every syllable the way they did their wine, and they would have gone on drinking this oft-repeated tale until their bodies could hold no more and it spilled out of their mouths, noses, ears.
She would have her fill after just a sip. Just for the taste.
The rest were obviously excited. She, though, seemed saddened.
And her sad face snapped me out of my Hitleresque state of mind. Something about the way she was looking at me made it clear to me that something was seriously wrong with the way everyone else was looking at me. They should not have been listening with so much intensity. They should not have wanted so much from me.
I should not have given it to them so freely.
I stared at her through the last 20 minutes of story time, which ended with what I felt to be an inappropriately enthusiastic round of applause, and then the hands went up. It was time for the Q & A.
“When and how did you finally come to the decision that you had to eat your friends? And how did you convince yourself that it was OK, given the circumstances?”
I took a deep breath. “About 10 days after I ran out of food, which was about two weeks after the wreck, I realized it was very possible I would starve to death. So I had to eat them. There wasn’t really a decision to be made about it. I would have died. That’s why I thought it was OK.”
“Do you think your friends would have been OK with it? Would you have done the same if you knew they wouldn’t approve?”
I had been a little nervous about answering the questions, but these didn’t seem too bad. “I think they’d have been OK with it. Even if they weren’t, how would they have stopped me, right?”
“Did you enjoy the taste?”
That one shook me a little. It’s hard to believe, but nobody had asked me that question yet. Not the doctors, not the interviewers, not my friends. I guess everyone thought it might have crossed some sort of line, asking that question. And I didn’t really want anyone to ask that question because, “Once I let myself forget they were people… yeah, I guess it tasted pretty good.”
There were smiles and chatter. It was weird. Nods and looks of approval. Really weird.
“Have you ever thought about eating anyone else?”
That one shook me to the core, and I froze. Perhaps the questions were a bad idea. I searched the crowd wildly for that little blonde girl, but she had somehow slipped out without me noticing. If she had been there to help me with her peaceful grace, I may have been able to avoid passing out and falling forward into the podium.
I’d fainted/passed out only once before. It had been a combination of too little food, too much pot and too much steam in an ex-girlfriend’s shower. I remember the steam. It was like inhaling some space-aged concrete that only hardened once it found its way into your lungs. I never made it to the window and woke up naked and wet, comfortably lying on the porcelain. And poor little Liz was wrapped in a towel and kneeling over the edge of the tub, tapping at my cheeks and repeating my name. She looked so scared. “What’s the matter, babe?” I’d asked her. “I’m fine. But why am I lying down in the tub?”
This current lapse of consciousness was a similar experience, although thank God I was clothed this time. Just the same, I couldn’t figure out how I’d gotten to the floor, my head resting on a fur coat. My bewilderment was furthered by the unfamiliar faces huddled around me, murmuring, “He’s awake. It’s OK. He’s awake.”
And you know, the phrase “bewilderment was furthered” may have been poorly chosen. I should have said that the shock of this moment scared me right off the floor, my head turning violently in all directions as my heart revved into the red and my nostrils flared like a demon bull snorting evil smoke. Yep. That ought to do it.
“It’s all right, Mr. Eliot. You fainted, that’s all.”
My lost little head, which had been so verbose and eloquent only minutes before, could only come up with, “Huh? What happened?”
“You passed out at the podium, Travis.” It was Synchek, sitting cross-legged in one of the folding chairs. “Onto the podium, actually.” He pointed to the splinters of wood that used to tell you who to listen to. They were all over the floor, except the few that were stuck in my skin.
My cheeks must have gone as red as the merlot I’d apparently spilled all over myself during my fall. “Ooh. Sorry about that, Walter.”
“Make no mention of it, my friend. I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a new one anyway. This is not a pine room. This,” he said, with another of those sweeping hand gestures, “this is an oak room.”
I noticed that everyone was still there, near my point of impact, silent and interested. The interest presumably stemmed from a general concern for my well-being, so it was welcomed. The silence, however, freaked me out.
“I think I need some air.” A path showed itself in the crowd like an old friend, and I took advantage of it in much the same way. In just a moment, I was outside, cursing myself for listening to Dave and Adam.
I’d used the old need-to-get-some-air line the way it is meant to be used (that is, to get me out of a situation that had become less than cozy), but it seemed that the air had thought me an honest man. It was cool out there in the street, and just a few deep breaths managed to straighten me out pretty quickly.
Good thing, too. After a few seconds, Synched poked his presidential head out the door. “Are you feeling any better, Travis? Dinner is going to be served, and you really ought to eat something.”
No way did I want to go back in there. No way, no how, partner. “You know, Synchek, I think I’ve had about all I can handle today. I mean, thank you for the offer and concern and everything, but I think I should call it a night.”
It was the first expression of anything other than pride or contentment I’d seen him pull. He looked surprisingly disappointed, considering all I’d done was to pass on dinner.
“Well, I suppose I can understand that. It is a shame, though.” He sighed and gave a shrug. “At the very least, allow me to pack up some food for you. It’s really quite delicious.”
I agreed to take some of the food — I mean, everyone had been talking it up so much that it had to be good, right? — but told him I’d prefer to wait outside, if he didn’t mind. He didn’t, and after just a few minutes, he handed me a white styrofoam box.
“We hope you’ll come again, Mr. Eliot. Everyone appreciated your story.”
“Well,” I started, knowing full-well what I was about to say, but for some reason unable to stop myself, “let me know when, and we’ll see.” I wanted to say no. Why didn’t I just say no?
Synchek beamed. “Excellent. Have a pleasant evening, young man.” He turned around and walked inside.
But I remembered something and caught the door before it swung all the way shut. “Wait. Synchek. Who was that cute little blonde girl?”
“Cute little blonde girl?”
“Yeah. Fair skin? Big blue eyes?”
He thumbed his chin. “I don’t know. Sometimes it’s difficult to know who shows up. But, if she was here tonight, there’s a good chance she’ll be here again.” He winked, which seemed unnatural for him, and went inside.
