July 26, 2020

Cutting Out the Middleman

Allie calls me on Monday and tells me to keep Saturday night open.

I tell her that whatever it is, I am not interested. Because you know, that’s what I do.

She tells me she is having a dinner party.

Now I like dinner parties.

They are my favorite type of parties.

But the thing is, Allie’s dinner parties aren’t really dinner parties. They do have the requisite elements for a dinner party: food, wine, dessert, guests seated around a dining room table which has been lengthened by an extension. But Allie’s dinner parties are really only a prelude, or a pretext, for the actual reason for the get-together - a music jam.

Now, I love music. I believe my music and concert-going bonafides have been well-established. But I don’t play a musical instrument and cannot carry a tune.

Every few years, Allie suggests an instrument I might be able to play. One year it was a bass. The next was the supposedly really easy three-string banjo. I buy the instruments, watch the instructional videos on YouTube, then give up about two weeks later and give the instrument to Allie and her boyfriend Cory.

Nor am I able to sing. Allie says I am not bad at all, but I know she is just being kind. Not much has changed since my Grade 4 teacher suggested I just mouth the words to Christmas carols in the class choir.

So I don’t really like to go to Allie’s dinner parties, because if I want to sit around and look like a shmuck, I can do that at home.

I tell Allie not to hold her breath.

She says, “I invited Candace Kirshenbaum.”

I say, “You invited Candace Kirshenbaum?”

She says, “Yup.”

I say, “You’re not friends with Candace Kirshenbaum.”

And she says, “Of course I am!”

Which is news to me.

I say, “I thought Candace Kirshenbaum was dating Andrew Belman.”

And she says, “They are on a break.”

So I say, “I see, said the blind man.”

She says, “You have a window.”

And I say, “I like windows, but a music jam night is not exactly the best venue for me to showcase what few talents I might have. It ranks just behind the beach and the gym on the list of places I don’t want women to observe me.”

She says, “Come for dinner. Then we’ll see.”

I say, “I am leaving after dinner. I don’t want to sing.”

This is when Allie usually says my voice is not bad. Instead she says, “Can you do me a favor and not tell the story about the time your car got towed twice in the same week?”

So I say, “Okay.”

“And don’t tell the story about when your car was stolen because you left your keys in the car.”

And I say, “Okay.”

“And maybe don’t mention your $3000 worth of parking tickets.”

And I say, “I’ll tell you what. I won’t tell any car stories. Anything else?”

“Please, please don’t tell the Heather Lewis movie theatre story.”

“Why would I tell the Heather Lewis movie theatre story?”

And she says, “There is no reason you would tell the Heather Lewis movie theatre story. I’m just reminding you not to tell it.”

I say, “It’s a good story.”

She says, “I know it is a good story.” She is now talking to me like I’m an eight-year-old. “But we want this woman to like you. And that story makes you look like a bit of an asshole.”

She is right. It does make me look like a bit of an asshole.

I say, “Let me ask you this. Do you think when Heather Lewis tells the Heather Lewis movie theatre story she calls it the Ron Zevy movie theatre story?”

“No, I think if she tells it, she calls it the ‘Ron Zevy is an asshole story.’”

She has me there.

On Tuesday, Allie calls and tells me not to tell the Connie Hellerman waterski story.

On Wednesday, Allie calls and tells me not to tell the Mandy Greenberg hiking in Whistler story.

On Thursday, Allie calls and says I should ask Candace Kirshenbaum about her work. She is a securities lawyer at a downtown law firm. She also tells me not to tell the Debbie Wasserman salad dressing story.

On Friday, Allie calls and asks me please to wear shoes and not sandals. I ask her if there are any stories I should not tell. She says she is more concerned with my sandals.

On Saturday, I arrive at Allie and Cory’s at 7:00. I have two bottles of Barolo wine. I am wearing shoes. I have three very solid questions about security law. I have zero stories. I am also starving.

The first thing I notice when I walk into the house is that the dining room table is not set. It has no plates. No forks. No wine glasses. It does not look like a table which will soon be adorned with food.

The second thing I notice is that all the guests are sitting in the living room, which has been rejigged to act and look like a recording studio, with instruments in their respective hands.

Candace Kirshenbaum is strumming a six string. She flashes me a smile. I give her a wave.

Allie hands me a glass of my own Barolo and a tambourine and says, “There has been a slight change in plans.”

Now I hate plans.

I hate making plans.

But what I really hate is a change in plans.

Even if it is slight.

Allie continues, “We are going to jam first and have dinner later.”

And I say, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

And she says, “I’m really, really, really sorry. Turns out Howard, Kenny and Candace had pizza at 4:00. So they aren’t hungry yet.”

I say, “But I’m wearing shoes.”

She says, “You look good.”

I say, “But I’m starving.”

She says, “Have some carrots and hummus.”

I point to the tambourine. I say, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

She says, “You shake it. But not too much.”

I am about to tell her what I really want to do with the tambourine but they have already launched into Four Strong Winds.

I shake my tambourine and mouth the words.

For two hours.

Well, not exactly two hours.

I am relieved of my tambourine after the four-song Beatles medley about an hour into the jam.

We finally take a break and all help set the table while Allie and Cory get dinner ready.

It is while we are setting the table that Candace speaks to me for the first time all night.

She says, “I think we have a friend in common.”

And I say, “Is that right? Who?”

And she says, “Heather Lewis.”

Then Allie, who must have bionic ears, screams from the kitchen, “Noooooo!”

On Sunday, Allie calls to tell me that Candace Kirshenbaum has gotten back together with Andrew Belman.

I say that’s nice.

She says she has been thinking. Maybe I should try the electric piano.

“The electric piano?”

She says, “Yeah. You can learn the basic chords. It is easy.”

So I say okay. I will give it a try.

After I hang up, I call the music store, order an electric piano and have it shipped directly to Allie’s house.

Cut out the middle man.

The end.