It's almost April. My, how time flies when you are having fun.
I want to grow a moustache. I like to pronounce it MOUUUSSEEE-STAAASSSHHH. But, like George, I also need to get a job.
"No matter. It all comes to the same thing in the end. A little sooner, a little later...."
--Caligula.
This is what a recession looks like.
Easily my favorite hour of the night. I set the plastic card down in the middle of the round dinner table while motioning at the waiter with my left hand raised slightly above my head. Every move is calculated; exact.
I steal a quick glance at Todd Jordan, wondering if he will object to me paying the bill. No, of course not, he is canoodling with his bride, Tessa. Through the candlelight, I watch him touch her, slowly pushing dark hair across her face, away from her eyes. She laughs, keeps her head down, and looks at the seat cushion. She is flushed from the wine and smiling, her eyes only barely open. Todd's other hand is on Tessa's upper thigh, kneading at her silk dress. They lean closer to each other and kiss, softly.
I blink hard. Ungrateful bastards. Neither of them seem to notice my credit card in the middle of the table. Six months ago Todd would have spoken up as soon as my arm gave the slightest twitch towards my wallet. That was a different time, I guess. He had recently started seeing Tessa, and not a Friday would pass by where he didn't put up some stink about the bill. One night in particular, when we were out with friends of ours from Morgan Stanley, he actually pulled me aside in the bathroom at Butter and pleaded with me to let him pay for dinner. It was a big tab, too. Our friends, their wives and girlfriends, Todd, Tessa, Cynthia, and myself. $1500, or more. And yes, at the end of the night, it was Todd who smacked his card down on the table. The Morgan Stanley guys resisted, but Todd was insistent. I remember Tessa clutching his arm while he happily shook off their protests. He wouldn't hear them. His treat, he said. His grin that night made my stomach lurch.
Not tonight. No, don't even look at the card, Todd.
--Caligula.
This is what a recession looks like.
Easily my favorite hour of the night. I set the plastic card down in the middle of the round dinner table while motioning at the waiter with my left hand raised slightly above my head. Every move is calculated; exact.
I steal a quick glance at Todd Jordan, wondering if he will object to me paying the bill. No, of course not, he is canoodling with his bride, Tessa. Through the candlelight, I watch him touch her, slowly pushing dark hair across her face, away from her eyes. She laughs, keeps her head down, and looks at the seat cushion. She is flushed from the wine and smiling, her eyes only barely open. Todd's other hand is on Tessa's upper thigh, kneading at her silk dress. They lean closer to each other and kiss, softly.
I blink hard. Ungrateful bastards. Neither of them seem to notice my credit card in the middle of the table. Six months ago Todd would have spoken up as soon as my arm gave the slightest twitch towards my wallet. That was a different time, I guess. He had recently started seeing Tessa, and not a Friday would pass by where he didn't put up some stink about the bill. One night in particular, when we were out with friends of ours from Morgan Stanley, he actually pulled me aside in the bathroom at Butter and pleaded with me to let him pay for dinner. It was a big tab, too. Our friends, their wives and girlfriends, Todd, Tessa, Cynthia, and myself. $1500, or more. And yes, at the end of the night, it was Todd who smacked his card down on the table. The Morgan Stanley guys resisted, but Todd was insistent. I remember Tessa clutching his arm while he happily shook off their protests. He wouldn't hear them. His treat, he said. His grin that night made my stomach lurch.
Not tonight. No, don't even look at the card, Todd.
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