Attending a tedious cocktail
party from which Billy D finds himself pinned in a conversation from which there is no relief. Standing there, minute after minute, taking it all in and wanting
nothing more that to be home in bed; he feels his stomach turn and tighten,
cold and
sweat outline him, he wants out; his Gucci suit minimizes. His scalp itches and hots up suffocating under the conversation and the
people. Suddenly, a well-groomed accountant next to him barks out, "Current data from my data extrapolated to further the outcomes on the Harrington Report confirms a speculation that the market trend should ..." At that point, Billy D. has his Dickens’ moment; his steamed brain snaps. A growling hum exits his thorax inexplicably. The accountant eyes him -- a dik dik to an approaching lion. Billy D. holds the accountant’s eyes way too
long in primeval contact. He raises his eyebrows up and down as the masturbator in Dostoyevsky’s famous novel . He wanted the floor; he wanted to express something real; now he had the floor and total control; they were fixated. Then he let go the phrase that would end his tenure at the conversation hell-school of life and liberate him from their hold now and
forever. He gave it up, loud and proud in rainbow fashion, "Well,
spank my
butt and call me Nancy." And that was it. It was all over. Their grip on him came crashing down. What he was in others' eyes now permitted him to leave the group without question or guilt
forever it would be different.
