Serpentine, Volume 4, Number 3, Summer 2000

Conquering Everest

by David Uhlich

I first met Michael Everest at a dinner party in Marin. My fiancé introduced us; she had already made his acquaintance through the hostess of the party, with whom she worked at a consulting firm in San Francisco. And I guess you could say that I took an immediate disliking to him. He had the high forehead of a Cro-Magnon, one of those pug noses that all spoiled brats seem to have in common, and his hair was blown back arrogantly from his face. Nevertheless, I did attempt to act in a cordial manner towards him. I extended my hand to give him one of those firm but friendly handshakes, one of those gestures that mean absolutely nothing, but that politicians and salesmen dole out by the millions, hoping for nothing but to finish this social ritual as quickly and painlessly as possible, and move onward, towards the next potential handshake. Unfortunately, our introduction was neither quick nor painless. He gripped my feeble hand within his mastiff paw, nearly crushing the flimsy metacarpals of my right hand.

       "How do you do," he said.

       "Fine," I said, trying not to wince at the vice attached to my knuckles. "Just fine."

       Yeah, I guess it would be fair to say that I hated him from the start.

       As a rule, I generally detest these social functions that my fiancé constantly obliges me to attend. They are as pointless and perfunctory as a sales seminar: I usually spend the entire evening getting drunk and forgetting people's names. But I do love my fiancé. I consider myself an extremely lucky man to have her, and in love it is often necessary to perform such duties for the good of the relationship. As a result, I have little recourse when confronted with the imminence of such a function. Like sacrificing a virgin to the gods, I accompany her to these parties as a love offering; as penance for my many shortcomings in dealing with her, in dealing with people in general. After all, we are planning to spend the rest of our lives together. And if she can tolerate me for that long, well, then this is the least that I can do. But if I didn't love her as much as I do, man, this would be about the last place on this great, blue earth that I'd want to be. I can't begin to tell you how much I hate these fucking things.
Thankfully, this was not a formal affair. There's nothing worse than being in close proximity with a bunch of twentysomethings masquerading as rich and hip and glamorous, all at once. The pretense is asphyxiating. But this was a somewhat casual affair: a parade of twenty or thirty post-adolescents in khaki pants and golf shirts or silk shirts and short skirts. It still looked like a bad fashion magazine. The hostess was a frumpy little rodent of a girl who wanted to show off her new condo with its security gate and obstructed view of the bay, and she must have spent a week's salary for the satisfaction. To think, most of the people at the party were people she worked with, and the only way she could get them to come visit her was to get them drunk and feed them. Every time you ran into her she was hustling around, making certain that everyone had enough to drink, introducing somebody to somebody else, and talking about who else was supposed to drop by, if not stay for dinner. She must not have had many friends before got her job; I'd have almost felt sorry for her if I didn't hate her so much for throwing this damn party. As it was, I had enough problems of my own to worry about the poor little hostess. Like broken bones.

       After meeting Everest, I made a quick retreat to the kitchen, hoping to find a bag of ice to stop the swelling of the crushed pulp at the end of my arm. Discreetly, of course. My fiancé was still out in the living room, talking to some other woman with whom I had already made an acquaintance, so I figured I had a good five minutes before I had to rejoin her. There were about ten bottles of wine with ribbons wrapped around them sitting on the counter, house warming gifts I suppose, and another ten bottles or so of hard liquor in varying states of consumption. I blindly chose one, which turned out to be gin, and poured myself a martini, sans vermouth or olive. It tasted vaguely of pine. I can't drink gin without thinking of the juniper shrubs across the street that would swallow my baseballs when I was young and less prone to boredom; the juniper bushes used to signify the end of amusement. But I was all grown up now. Tonight, all amusement would have a slight hint of prickly shrubs, jaded and barbed.

       I was in the kitchen less than five minutes before the hostess asked me to help her carry out a tray of hors d'oeuvres. There was nothing I could do but help her. My hand didn't hurt as bad after a drink- I probably wouldn't feel it all after another couple. Consequently, the only thing I really had to worry about was spilling those damn appetizers all over the floor. I'm not the least clumsy of men, especially when I've been drinking, but I did make it to the coffee-table without being tripped or otherwise molested, and I was so proud of myself that I decided to fix myself another cocktail before rejoining my fiancé. She had given me a decidedly strange look as she saw me heading back to the kitchen, and I was pretty sure that I knew what was coming.

       I guess you could say that I have this real bad habit of drinking too much at these parties. Don't get me wrong: I don't do anything real stupid, and I'm not a real big drinker in everyday life. Any alcoholic predisposition that I may have was drowned during college: attending a political science lecture with a hangover was better than shock treatment- the flavor of bile and cynicism. The only time I drink more than a glass of wine with dinner or a beer with associates is when the toilet bowl seems preferable to present company, which is definitely the case with parties such as these. I don't know any of these people, and I sure as hell don't want to know any of these people. I don't like people in general, and certainly not enough to care to find out what these snobs are all about. And most of all, they don't know me. In a dramatic sense, it could be said that I drink to avenge myself against a hostile world, to flatten out all its inequality and injustice and indifference. Like I'm some sort of drunken Robin Hood. They call alcohol the great social lubricant but for me it is more comparable to social compensation. I don't really want to hold a conversation, to hold court with the Michael Everests of the world. I just want to feel their height.

       I was feeling much better by the time I returned to my fiancé’s side. Everest was nowhere to be seen. She was talking to some guy I hadn't met yet, so I promptly introduced myself with no lack of charm; my hand didn't even feel tender when I shook with him. I don't remember what we were talking about, but I must have been somewhat entertaining, because I do remember the guy laughing a lot. I was probably complaining about my job, or these stupid parties, or the godforsaken, always cold weather of the bay area. Whatever I was saying, I'm sure I was hilarious. My fiancé kept giving me that same strange look that she had given me before though, and I was certain I was getting myself into trouble, but I didn't I care too much. I was starting to have a pretty good time.

       At the first break in the guy's laughter, she did pull me aside, and I knew it was about time for my scolding. It always happens at least once. I don't mind too much: I love her dearly and she is incredibly discreet; plus I usually ignore her as I would my own parents. People constantly worry about their loved ones making them look bad. I guess it's only natural- I probably do, too. In spite of this, her tone was not harsh or condescending, and I thought she must have been the most beautiful girl at the whole party when I realized that she wasn't going to yell at me.

       "What has gotten into you?"

       It was an honest question, there was even shock in her tone, and I realized that she might even be pleased with me. Then I remembered that I had carried the trays out without incident, had even greeted people on the way to the coffee table, and had been real amiable, ever likable, to whoever that guy was that she was talking to. Why wouldn't she be pleased with me- I'd practically beer the life of this insipid gathering. I had to be a smart-ass then; anything more and she would have expected a continuation of such deviant behavior.

       "Oh, just three and a half deathly dry martinis. Why? Did I do something wrong?"

       "No, not at all. Christ, if I knew that was what it took, I would have put you on intravenous gin before I took you anywhere. Do you know who you were just talking to?"

       "Some schmo with a bad tie?"

       "Very funny. No. That's one of the partners."

       She said his name, but I didn't pay attention. Too busy composing the next barb, I suppose. One of the partners, hell- the hostess must have gone down on him twice to get him to make an appearance. She probably would have had an easier time getting a promotion than getting him here; those types hate mixing with the plebeians. The thought of that pathetic little girl, with the all the sex appeal of a elderly bag-lady, to think of her involved in deeds of untamed carnality, performing despicably perverse acts upon the laughing partner just to get him to come, the thought delighted me to no end. And I said as much.

       "You're so crass. That poor girl will probably die a virgin. No, the reason he came was that he's a friend of Michael Everest, who you just met. Michael Everest is dating her best friend."

       There goes that name again. I look across the room and see that he has reappeared, is talking to the laughing partner less than ten feet away. They were close enough to spit on and I hadn't ever noticed. Funny how these things can sneak up on you as quick as fungus forms on the shower curtain- there's only so much disinfectant in the world. I'd just have to be more careful next time. My fiancé nudged me back to attention, not knowing of my new obsession and not caring, which meant she probably had someone else she wanted me to make acquaintance of.

       "There's someone over here that I want you to meet."

       Slipping back into social mode. Like stumbling on a decrepit sliver of soap or the shower floor and feeling your face smack against the curtain scum as you fall. I can be quite charming sometimes. Really I can.

       It was the same type of stuff for the next twenty minutes or so, until I was certain that I had met everyone there at least twice. The only name I could remember was Michael Everest. Maybe it was because he was the first person I was introduced to, right when I walked in the door, or because I had decided to hate him; maybe it was because he was named after a mountain and had a stupidly domineering face and had almost broke my hand without even exerting half his power. I really don't know why. For whatever reason it was, I had remembered him when I had forgotten all the rest, and maybe that's why I hated him- because I couldn't forget.

       There's a general rule for these dinner parties, a rule in two inseparable parts. The first is that I will loathe someone for some obscure reason that I probably won't be able to recall the next day. The second part is that I will have to sit directly next to that person during dinner, feel their elbows rub up against my own as I try to enjoy some bland entree that the hostess has probably prepared herself. I suppose it's better than sitting directly across from the antagonist, their eyes staring at you during the entire meal; that would be enough to kill off any semblance of an appetite. Still, being in close proximity with such a person is not the most favorable of situations. Every action they take, every word they speak, it weighs down upon you physically, like a vile, whimpering poodle that decides to park itself on your lap. You can't kick the dog off, not within sight of its owner, not without being labeled a sadist. My fiancé wouldn't like that much, so I'm forced to pet the ugly mutt as if it's my new best friend. Hoping it doesn't piddle on me.

       Dinner was almost enough to kill off my appetite in itself. The hostess served us a bland seafood pasta dish, the pasta too soft, with salty garlic bread and a green salad. You can see what I was up against. There were no less than four bottles of wine circulating the table, none of them costing more than eight dollars, and I sampled them all. They didn't help much: good wine may accentuate otherwise mediocre food, but mediocre wine is only an elixir in its alcohol content. I mostly ate the salad, which wasn't bad, and tried to pawn the rest of it off on my fiancé sitting to my right. Reminding her, as she tried to shush me up, how much she enjoyed mussels as I shoveled more pasta onto her plate seemed hilarious to me. It was a good thing that no one else noticed. The oil and vinegar from the salad coated my lips and I felt like a barbarian about to lay siege. Good spirits. I was full of them.

       But then there was Everest to my left, who I tried real hard to ignore. I kept leaning on my fiancé and giving her a bad time about bringing a Rottweiler to a party of poodles and she didn't seem to mind much, especially when I told her how beautiful she looked and how we should leave soon and go someplace more private. I was in rare form. The stars were with me and I was there to rape and conquer. But then there was Everest, and he was getting harder and harder to ignore. If it wasn't for him I might have even enjoyed myself. He was this shadow looming over me, this incessant ringing in my ear, and the harder I tried to ignore him the more piercing he became. And I knew I would have to reckon with him before the night was through. It was only a matter of time.

       He was talking loudly, raucously, or maybe it only seemed loud sitting next to him, talking about his college days; he was telling some story about a party he went to or a professor he had or a mutual acquaintance of his and the laughing partner. At any moment I was expecting an anecdote regarding their fraternity pledge. He never mentioned what college he went to, but he made enough reference to the weather and native mannerisms of the outlying communities, vocal accents and political affiliations, for one to discern that he had went to school back east. For all I know, he probably went to Harvard, but he kept himself at a distinct advantage by letting the source of his schooling remain elusive: if he did go to an Ivy League university, then it would have been ostentatious to admit the fact; if he didn't it couldn't hurt to let people assume he did. He knew the ways of culture, of how to act gracious and civilized without beating you over the head with a stick, and I had to respect that, even if I hated his priggish hypocrisy. It was as if he knew that he had come from better stock, and because of this knowledge he did not need to remind us lowly plebeians of his patronage- we should know as well as he did. Thus, he could sit at the table and detail to us the specifics of his status, of his vacations at exotic locations and his personal trainer's pedigree, without ever narrowing his said status. We should complete the portrait, even if it meant constructing a crude caricature of affluence. That was our role in his world.

       Conversation took a left turn at Everest's recent expedition to Paris: it seems that Paris is not as exclusive as it once was, and some nobody at the other end of the table had used the topic of Paris as a segue into her own French adventures, though they were in no way on par with Everest's travails. No one could compete with him. I took this interlude as an opportunity to annoy my fiancé, who was making bland conversation with another of her illustrious coworkers. I whispered something unintelligible in her ear, thinking she would ask me to repeat what I had not said, but she was wise to my ploy so I had content myself with groping her thigh under the table, careful not to snag her stockings with a hang nail or rough callous. She didn't bat an eyelash. After a while, people get so used to each other that nothing shocks or excites; the least she could have done was whack my already bruised knuckles with the flat of her fork, but she paid no attention whatsoever. With a sharp pinch, I retracted my hand and started to pick at my salad again, washing it down with a cheap cabernet.

       Things were growing tiresome fast, so I turned to my left to see what Everest was doing. Absolutely nothing. In fact, I could swear that he had been waiting for me to look towards him, like a puppy can sense its master's gaze. Devoid of the limelight, he was probably as bored as I was, and I would have felt sorry for him if it had not been my lot first. I could tell that he was going to start talking to me, and I didn't want to hold a conversation with him any more that I wanted to seduce that poor little hostess, but I had already made the mistake of pivoting towards him. He was going to start talking to me and there really wasn't a damn thing I could do. My fiancé was already rigidly ignoring me; there was no way to get her attention after the way I had been pestering her, as she'd only think I was trying to harass her further- no matter how nice I was acting. She knows me a little too well. The shadow of Everest loomed, and I could not outrun it anymore than I could jump off the balcony into the bay for a swim. I was glued to the chair, my head propped to the left, as if I was a horse with its bridle drawn taut. He must have been a foot taller than me at that moment, so tall I couldn't see the top of his head, and I couldn't help staring up at him, at some hidden peak that I would need to scale before the night was through. It was inevitable that I should encounter him here, fated in the same way that I should meet and marry my fiancé. It was destiny. I was stuck.

       "What do you do?"

       That wasn't the way the conversation began; that isn't even exactly what he said. We exchanged a few benign pleasantries before he shot to the question, but I had seen it coming from a mile away and was already ducking for cover before he had finished his inquiry. I didn't hear exactly what he asked, yet I knew the gist of it from the hundreds of times that I've been in similar situations, so precision was superfluous. It was obvious that he would ask such a question. There was nothing else he could say.

       The measure of a man's sincerity, of his concern for another person, can be measured by the proportional significance he attaches to certain mundane questions. And their answers. When he asks how you're doing and doesn't wait for an answer, or only expects an answer as mundane as the question, then the bounds of the relationship are immediately established as cursory and formal. He could really give a shit how you're doing- he's only asking to be polite. On the other hand, when he proceeds to ask what you are doing, it becomes a matter of less than solely idle curiosity. Like a dog sniffing another dog’s ass, he's sizing you up, trying to establish an immediate pecking order in the barnyard of life. His interest is equally as superficial as before, but it is laced with a different type of concern; concern regarding his own authority. He only asks such questions to reflect luster unto himself by the glimmer of your answers. It's that kind of latent schoolyard machismo bullshit that makes me hate dealing with these insipid gatherings and the stupid, credit card plastic people that come to them. They are the only types of people that can afford to live in the Bay Area anymore, and it makes me want to never leave my house. Just the same, I would much rather admit that I sell furniture for a chain of retail stores than that I am depressed or happy or that I think that the world is about to end. It's nobody's fucking business but my own. Outside of a close circle of acquaintances, I find most concern about my personal well being to be just as affected as the misguided belief that man is not what he does, but what he is. Marin County is full of those self-help aficionados who, having made their money already, try to justify their raping and pillaging of the less fortunate with watered-down Eastern Religion and third rate Humanistic Psychology concerning the inner child or inner self or cosmic dharma or whatever the hell else they can think of. And I don't buy any of their bullshit. What is man rather than what he does? Nothing- he's an animate piece of furniture.

       So I lied. Even if I found Everest's interrogation refreshing in its lack of pretense, there was no way in hell that I would admit to being a furniture salesman. It would have been too damn humiliating to humble myself before the bastard; I might as well concede that my father was a high school teacher and become the guy's servant or tutor. No, I told him that my father had put me through school to take over the family business, which was true enough, but I had only just begun to exaggerate. I was purposefully evasive about what exactly this business was, as well as which university I attended, but I lead him to believe that the whole proposition was a most lucrative one. I told him that it was my father's expectation that I reorganize the business from bottom to top- diversification and whatnot. However, and I had a hard time keeping a straight face when I said this, I wanted to do something more altruistic than simply restructure my father's paltry empire. There are many less fortunate than myself, and I wanted to use what means I had to make their lives more profitable. I even said that I felt that the upper class had a duty to help the lower classes in any way they could, using the French term "noblesse oblige" as ammunition for my argument. He had recently been to France; surely he understood. Needless to say, my father did not understand my humble aspirations in the least, but I hoped that in time he would come to agree with my standpoint, and possibly put some of his money to good use. After all, I then went on to state, we should try to give back as much as we have taken. It was only fair.

       It was a hell of a performance, if I may say so myself. There was no one to blow my cover but my fiancé, and she wouldn't, even if she knew the mendacious claims that I had made. It would have been a divorce before marriage. I was at the peak of my climb. I don't know whether or not Everest doubted the falsehoods that I had told, but he immediately began to dispute the values that I had exalted. Everest was a capitalist through and through and, not unlike most believers in the American Way of Life, he doted upon the idea that all men have the same opportunities in this great land of ours. That may be true, but how the hell would he know, with his fancy car and Ivy League education? I'd love to see him explain this to the drug dealers two blocks from my house. They could explain to him their own practice of capitalistic ideals, which were constantly endangered by the threat of arrest.

       As if by sound of some inaudible announcement, everyone started to rise from the table at about the same time that Everest's didactic flag-waving was waning to the slow flutter of a butterfly's wings. His arm must have been getting tired. While I must give him that he wasn't wholly unconvincing in his lecture, which really wasn't more than a hair's breadth from my actual thoughts, his tone was much too defensive when he extolled the values of hard work and ingenuity. Like most people born into wealthy families, it was not good enough for him to attribute his good fortune to fate: he had to believe that he had somehow earned his name; that his family had not only chosen him, but had selected him upon the basis of his own merits, which he had cultivated specifically for their approval. We both knew that he had no more to do with being born into the Everest family name than I had in being born attractive- some things just can't be helped- but if he conceded that fact then he would lose the right to feel proud of his name, as he had done nothing to deserve it. I didn't have time to point this out to him. My fiancé grabbed my hand and lifted me from the table, perhaps knowing that things could get heated, and Everest became engaged with the hostess, who wanted to know how he had enjoyed dinner.

       I was thinking a little too clearly now, which is dangerous in present circumstances, so I offered to make my future wife a martini as an example of my prowess in activities unrelated to sex. She declined, so I made myself two. I was feeling good, better than I ever do at these damn parties, but I knew that Everest had more coming to him. Guys like him always have so much coming to them: money and titles and a bunch of other stuff that they don't deserve, in the eyes of this less than biased viewer; I wanted to give him something that he really did deserve. The night was still relatively young and I had plenty of time ahead. When your lot in life is paltry as my own, you come to realize that the one thing you have in abundance is time. If nothing else.

       And thankfully, there was also an overabundance of alcohol. However, I did drink the first one down a little too fast, and boy, did I start to feel it all at once. I felt as if I was some kind of fireworks display, gyrating wildly, breathing fire. I'd been drinking steadily all night, which had given the alcohol time to get used to my system, but this one revolted, nearly ran back up my throat. It was a stupid thing to do, amateur, but my mind was on other things. Like the nature of boredom, how it correlates with leading a happy life. I leaned back against the kitchen counter for a few minutes, maybe twenty, and figured that my future wife, God bless her soul, that hopefully she would send out a search party, when I was certain to be missed.

       But I suppose that wasn't as important part of this function as I would have liked to believe, because the only person that did notice my disappearance was the hostess, and only because she was so busy bustling back and forth between the dining room and kitchen, stacking dishes on the counter beside me. I would've helped her, I swear I would have, but I was a little too unsteady to be carrying anything breakable. As the piles beside me grew taller, it appeared as though I might want to find a new place to assume the position of a leaning pillar. The restroom sounded a good idea: I needed to clean myself up a bit, splash water on my face and piss, not necessarily in that order; I had things I needed to do before I went after Everest again. I didn't want any of my words or actions to be misconstrued and blamed solely upon the drink. I grabbed my other drink and slipped past the hostess, and another teetering tower of china.

       I was able to maneuver my way through the living room without making eye or body contact, continuing down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. There was only one in the house. I didn't bother knocking, figuring the door would be locked if it was in use. It wasn't locked. I proceeded inward, not really paying attention, and stopped dead of embarrassment when I realized my faux pas. I wasn't alone.

       Sitting on the toilet, one hand between her legs and the other trying to shield her chest from my clumsy eyes, was a lady that I had met, but not quite this intimately, a few times before. She worked closely with my fiancé and for all practical purposes she was nude, save the underwear at her knees and the dress swathed around her thighs. I should have knocked: a lot of these older condos have busted locks on their bathroom doors. It was a stupid thing to do, the second in less than ten minutes, but I was on a roll and had other things on my mind. I really should have knocked.

       "I'm sorry," I managed to stammer out to her beet-red right breast perched in the crook of her arm. "I, uh... I thought it was empty."

       She didn't say anything, just sort of squeaked the same way she had when I walked in, which I had not heard in my stupor, and looked at me imploringly to leave. I didn't see the look at first; I was so out of sorts at this point that I forgot that I wasn't supposed to staring at her nudity. After the second squeak, I looked up at her face, waited for her to speak, realized she was not going to speak, and then backed out the door. The whole thing lasted about ten seconds longer than it should have. She probably thought I was some kind of pervert.

       It was a staggering experience, gratuitous and humiliating, and still it wasn't over yet. I leaned against the door frame, not as drunk as I was two minutes ago, chasing after some semblance of composure, my thoughts centered more upon those blushing pendulous breasts staring at me like a jury than ways to staunch the bleeding. In a single moment she had blossomed, blossomed from an article of disinterest to something entirely strange, but if I was becoming aroused, I sure as hell wasn't going to admit to it, let alone succumb to the temptation of some strange digression. I love my fiancé: probably I should have thought more of my love for her, our upcoming marriage, and the bountiful years ahead, but I didn't. I thought of Everest instead, and things became that much clearer. I wasn't here to ogle nude women like a ten year old doctor or sixty year old voyeur; I was engaged, my needs were much more pressing. And so was my bladder. Everest was a beacon, a beacon of unadulterated resolve, and he helped me to understand that this was only an embarrassing distraction. I needed to start climbing again. I only wished that she'd come out soon.

       But she didn't: she stayed in the bathroom a long time, mortified and bare, most likely afraid the pervert outside the door would violate her again. I didn't care anymore. The blush was gone from my cheeks and all I cared about was my own need to urinate. Whatever had to be said, it would probably be quick, but nowhere near as quick as I wanted it to be. If there had been another bathroom in the house, nothing would need be said, but there wasn’t. The door finally opened and neither of us could look the other in the eye, like we shared some awful secret that we could tell no one- not even each other. Neither of us said anything; there was nothing witty or charming to say. Her dress was so tight that she must have been worried about bursting the seams, and I wanted her. I wanted her to get out of my way.

       I said, "Excuse me," in a feeble whisper and she complied. We passed each other like two ships abreast in the bay, headed to different ports. There were a million things I could have said, but none of them would have made things any easier. It was over and I'd never look at her the same.

       Using the restroom was an ordeal unto itself: my mind was keen, but my legs were unsteady. I closed the door and tried the lock, knowing it probably didn't work. It did. That gave me a chuckle, but it still didn't help the fact that I felt as wobbly as a chair with a short leg. I wouldn't topple, but I wasn't exactly confident. I thought about sitting down, but discarded the idea as unmanly, so instead I used the counter as a brace. It worked out all right. I went for hours, somebody started knocking at the door, and I kept going. It was invigorating, I was pissing calm and straight and true, and could almost feel myself grow stronger as I kept going on. I finished, finally, flushed, and checked three time to make sure that my fly was zipped. My drink was on the counter and I took a sip. I bumped shoulders without a single "Excuse me" with the impatient guy of incessant knocking as I went out and he came in, and I didn't spill a drop. I was much better now; I was ready and I only had forgotten to wash my hands. No one would ever know.

       My fiancé was just leaving the kitchen as I came back out to the living room. The crowd had thinned a little and desert was being served. She walked straight up to me and I knew that she meant business. God, she was beautiful. I only wish it could be described how beautiful she looked.

       "Where have you been?"

       The tone was accusative; it made me wonder whether the girl from the bathroom had told our secret. Let her tell, I thought to myself, I wasn't the one who got naked and didn't lock the door. You could see by her dress that she wanted attention. I'll bet she didn't lock the door on purpose. She was only sore because I had prior engagements.

       "Mingling. I've been finding out the most interesting things. See that girl over there?"

       My fiancé said her name, which didn't even register, as I pointed across the room, discreetly of course, at the bathroom lady.

       "I can tell you not only the size of her nipples," I said, making a circle with my thumb and forefinger, "but the color of her underwear."

       Of course the story wasn't as good as the revelation concerning the lady's anatomy, but I was able to spice it up a bit and make my fiancé laugh and say: "That could only happen to you." It was the sole perk of my degrading experience, that and the shameful thrill of it all, which meant it was useful. I only wished that I could have shocked her with it, but nothing I say or do makes her do more than raise her eyebrows and shake her head. She knows me a little to well. Still, it was an icebreaker, and we were able to banter back and forth about the other guests as if it was our first date. She was laughing, and even joining in, as I methodically assassinated characters like a Mafioso hitman. The hostess brought us desert, some sort of fruit cobbler or pie or something, and I was so wound up that I almost pitched it across the room. It was dry and crusty and I needed to finish my drink just to get it down. My fiancé ate maybe three bites, then set it down on the coffee table, and I made fun of the desert and the hostess and the whole damn place. We were laughing and having a good time, and I couldn't wait to get out of there and go back home, but my fiancé was ambivalent in reference to leaving: she would only answer "Soon" to my questions of "When". She wasn't drinking anymore, as she was driving home, so I knew she wasn't lying, but I wanted something more concrete and she wouldn't give it to me. I didn't put up much of a fuss though. We were laughing and having a good time; I just wanted things to get better. I was in the midst of getting her to say a specific time, preferably ten minutes but probably a half-hour, when the shadow of Everest fell across us both, and time became meaningless.

       The mountain came to me. It was an ominous event, but I refused to see it as such. Contrary, I welcomed him into our fold as if I was more or less certain that he was about make a contribution to one of my fabled charitable endowments. He could make the check out directly to me if he wanted. I was feeling bold, revolting against his very presence, and I wanted to level the ground between us. All that was kept in trust for him was mine to extract, and mine to keep, as he had everything to lose and I nothing. I hated him. I wanted to make him pay.

       As he was not forthcoming with his wallet, I would have to either pick his pocket or take it by force. The first option seemed the better one. I'm no tough guy: the last fight I was in was the first, and I got my nose busted and lip swollen and split. My fingers are as skinny and brittle as sticks of unvarnished pine; any punch I throw is more likely to break my hand than the jaw of my adversary and there could be nothing worse than injuring myself without so much as bruising the arrogant mug of Everest. He had already hurt my hand once tonight, and only a fool would allow him to do it a second time. No, there had to be a better way of taking my toll from Everest, and I was not uncertain to find it. The setting was of narrow parameters, so I needed to be cool in the mean time, as much as I wanted to put the remains of my fiancé’s slice of desert in his face. The mountain came to me, and so would the trolley to the top. It would come to me. I was already there.

       So I stood there, feeling more than a little bit churlish, and watched as more and more of the party joined our little group. He was the pied piper of assholes, Everest was- they followed him around as if the lint from his pockets was magic dust. The influx of people made me uneasy. I hate audiences and big groups; giving speeches terrifies me. That's irrelevant, I suppose, but I feel more claustrophobic in large groups of people than I would inside a coffin, and this group was growing larger. The only way I can ignore it is by engaging in some activity: for instance, talking to one person and ignoring the rest. I couldn't do that and keep an eye on Everest, who was getting suspiciously friendly with my fiancé. Standing sentry may be tedious, but it also serves a purpose. I moved closer and grabbed my fiancé’s hand, although I hate when people cling to me in public, setting my sights on Everest as he detailed the many splendors of his last trip to Jamaica, where I'm supposed to spend my honeymoon. I knew then I wanted to go somewhere else, but there wouldn't have been much point. He'd have already been there, too.

       I'm not making it here. I grew up in the Bay Area, had planned on raising my own kids here; there is no more beautiful place in America. But I'm not sure how much longer I can stand it. I feel as if I'm being swept away from the place I love by a tidal wave of technology, the acrid smoke of cigars. What I once took for granted, that I would live and die in the same place I was born like some bumpkin afraid of the world outside his own ten mile radius, it was something that I could no longer afford. Spite grows stronger as the wallet grows thinner, and the silicone people puff up and up until you wish they'd just explode. I'm digging my nails into my fiancé’s hand and Everest draws closer. I should let go of her and punch him out. I have to get out of here or I'm going to do something stupid.

       "So, Mike, when are you going into business with your old man."

       Or something like that. I was blind, blinded by boredom and alcoholic envy. I spoke too loud and stopped the show.

       It was a rude thing to say, not a question as much as a quick thrust to his innards, and I was immediately proud of myself for saying it. He hated being called "Mike" and common knowledge dictated that he hated reference to his family even more; how I knew this, I’m not so sure, but I did, perhaps innately. Everest was a humble aristocrat in that way: he didn't want to rub the noses of the little people in his superiority. That wasn't good enough for me. I wanted to rub his nose and slap it with a newspaper- even if it was in his supposed superiority. In the right circumstance, you can make anything smell the same as dog shit. I didn't see any other way to get at him. The narrow parameters had established that I couldn't simply throw pies and yell obscenities at him. He would simply dismiss me as he would a servant if I did, as if it was below his station to respond. He couldn't dismiss me now. I wasn't going to be his servant. Maybe he'd want to hit me now. Probably not. People of his type would rather file lawsuits. I needed more immediate satisfaction than that. I needed more. The stupid thing I was afraid of doing- it was already done.

       Everest was the paradigm of cool. He hemmed and hawed for only a split second before he responded. I try to draw out the moment, make it longer in my memory, but there's no use denying how collected he was, even if it revolts me to admit it. I'm no prince or aristocrat: I wanted him to buckle like a small child underneath the belt. He didn't, and that infuriated me to the brink of hollowness. All he had to say was that he was trying to keep his options open at this time, that he didn't want to do anything rash that may somehow constrict his progress. He may have said that as a parry to my fictitious idealism. His future was bright and he didn't want to cloud the picture. The room breathed a sigh of relief, as if he had told them that God was alive and well- that they had chatted only a couple days before. Sterile laughter and gaiety returned, Everest had lived up to their portrait of him: of progress and the American Dream. I needed to start packing this very night.

       I knew what was coming next, and quickly it came. My future wife pulled me into the hallway and lashed me to the wall. I suppose that my behavior had embarrassed her in some way, though I had no idea why. It was a simple question, wasn't it? She stood my deflated body up against the wall and got right in my face, as if she was going to kiss me, and started whispering at me as loudly as she could without attracting attention. She was beautiful and I was drunk. Thank God that we don't all get what we deserve.

       "What the hell do you think you're doing? Do you know who that is?"

       Man I hate when she talks to me in the same way she would a child or a moron. Of course I knew who he was. He’d crushed my hand the minute we were introduced, had chewed off my ear along with dinner; his was the name that I read about in the business section of newspapers, that was the chorus to all my hidden songs of heartbreak and hatred. I couldn't tell her that, no more than I could tell her what I was doing- the mechanizations of my undeclared war upon Everest. I went for the short version instead.

       "I'm going to show Everest who's really boss. I'm going to kick his ass for him. I think he needs it."

       She was now incredulous and beautiful. God I loved her; she meant almost everything to me. Her faced moved even closer, until our noses were touching and I could feel her hot breath and saliva on my teeth. I leaned in and kissed her unresponsive lips. She was not amused.

       "Don't. Why are you doing this? You were being so nice earlier and you have to go and mess it all up. Why is it that you do this? Can't you just be nice? Not embarrass me like you always do?"

       She was obviously upset, perhaps even over-reacting to a simple misunderstanding, and I wanted to assuage her, but I couldn't, not without giving up my quest. I wanted to explain to her why I was being the way I was, why I couldn't simply be nice under the present circumstances, but I wasn't sure I could explain it to myself, let alone somebody else. It was much the same as when someone who didn't understand asked George Mallory why he climbed Everest's mountain namesake: "Because it's there". There was no rational explanation; no answer to her questions that were any less cliche or cryptic than the words of Sir Mallory, but I did my best. She probably didn't understand any better than when I started, but Lord knows I tried.

       "I hate him. Who the hell does he think he is anyway? He acts like he's so much better than us, but he's not. He's not any better than me. I haven't done anything yet. I want to stand on his head and make him taste the dirt. I want to show him, to teach him a lesson that just because he has everything doesn't mean I can't be any better than him. All that he has was given to him. He doesn't deserve it anymore than I do. But still he acts like he's some sort of prince. I can't take it away from him, but I want to make him lose it- his high and mighty status. I want to make him pay."

       Of course it didn't go exactly like that: there were a lot more obscenities and a lot less lucidity. She did go from pissed to puzzled in no time at all, so I must have made some semblance of sense. She kept starting to say something and then stopping, as if she was trying to turn over the motor on a nearly dead battery. I saved her the trouble and gave her a hug, promising to be good for the rest of the night. We can speak without words in that way, and she knew that I would keep my promise. She knows that I'm lost without her; we're getting married in a few months.

       The night was almost over, people were starting to bid their farewells and grab their coats out of the bedroom, so it wouldn't be too much of a hardship. I just needed to keep my mouth shut as we were saying good-bye. I hugged her like that for almost a minute, and then someone came down the hallway and we were both embarrassed. It was time to rejoin the party.

       We were only there for another half-hour, at most, and I was able to keep myself in check. I was especially decent when it came to Everest. I still wanted to throw him off the balcony and watch him plummet into the bay, as if I was able to exert that much force. There comes a time in every man's life, no matter how scrawny and weak, when he will be forced to perform superhuman feats in the face of adversity. This may have been my time to act, but I was not able to do so in the interest of diplomacy. The whole thing stunk: I wanted to be a stronger man, a tougher man, and here I was making nice with the enemy as if I was depending upon his vote. I'm no tough guy, but I knew I could beat him. So much for my conquering aspirations. I said goodbye to him just the same as I said it to all the rest of the nameless people I had met, squeezing as hard as I could while shaking hands, but not nearly hard enough. Tomorrow I'd be hung-over and weak and wishing I'd done things differently. Wishing I had recourse against regret.

       The party dispersed like a roost of pigeons that sees fresh breadcrumbs, and I could only wish to share their enthusiasm. I knew that I was lucky, that I was going home with the most beautiful woman there. I try to convince myself that nothing else matters.

       I saw Everest again only a few weeks ago. It was a fluke- the kind of fluke upon which wars are started and friendships are built. It was in The City, of all places, at a department store in Union Square. I was picking up a couple of gifts for my soon to be wife, little things for the honeymoon that I could stash in my suitcase and make her eyes sparkle like some gemstone from a romantic poem. I had gotten them all, despite the apathy of the counter staff, and was on my way out the door, glancing at the barely concealed breasts of a hundred bald mannequins, when I spotted him. There was no avoiding it; he had seen me first. We met somewhere between us, somewhere between cosmetics and shoes, and we talked briefly about my impending trip. He asked me about my future plans, to which I had to compound my earlier fabrications with ones about my father's current financial crises: the family had lost all its money, and my altruistic dreams would die unfulfilled. He seemed genuinely moved, and offered his help in any way he could, which of course I refused. There wasn't anything to be done. I didn't want his wallet anymore; it all seemed kind of pointless. He told me that he was working for his father now, but he didn't know how much longer he could take it. It must have been tough for him. When we parted ways after a few minutes, he gave me his card, telling me to call him after I got back. We could have a drink and talk about Jamaica. I didn't bother telling him that I had talked my fiancé into Italy, didn't want to hear about the great times he had already had. We shook hands and my knuckles didn't scream for help. All in all, he seemed like a pretty nice guy, not half as imposing as I had once made him out to be. Just the same, the bastard doesn't know how just lucky he is.

David Uhlich is 29 years old and currently resides in Sacramento, California. You can visit his website at http://home.earthlink.net/~duhlich/

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