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.
