The meeting of the minds was an informal affair.
I, for one, hadn’t expected it to be quite so antiquated—full of introductions, posturing, and suffocating small talk.
The back room of the Hilton was quiet—silent even, if it weren’t for the fidgety tactics of who I only imagined were the more brilliant, albeit peculiar members of the society. It was frigid, with air pumping from high above, as if miniature ice caps lived within the mechanisms. Some shivered but none dared to turn it off. No one wished to mess with the order of things. Not here.
I hadn’t been invited so I was admittedly sweating—as if my body meant to betray me with each tiny, calculated, pinprick of perspiration. I waved my shirt, giving some circulation at the price of increased attention. But no one seemed to notice—too engrossed as they were in their own conversations. I assumed they each held a shiny, golden, embossed business cards tucked deep within their coat jackets and Hollywood premiere-worthy purses. Or perhaps they had gotten in with a fancy and elegant password like Rhododendron or Rutabaga. Whatever had gained the men and women access to this Gala, I just hoped nobody asked me for it. If there was anything worse than not getting invited to an event, it was being forcibly removed from one. A show for the more-esteemed guests. And I said removed rather than escorted because I knew myself too well to not know the distinction. My removal would be anything but quiet.
If anyone knew I was intruding upon this space though, they said nothing. Not yet at least. I was only approached by guests with tense smiles and truncated words—seemingly as eager for my approval as I was for theirs.
“Splendid jacket!”
“Marvelously hemmed!”
“Do tell me where you got those shoes!?”
They weren’t socialites. I didn’t think so at least. Or at least not most of them. They seemed more the doctor, lawyer, scientist, politician, artist-types. A broad paintbrush stroke of society—the kind that impacted it on a fundamental level without you even realizing. That all being said, it was astonishing to me that you could pack all these independent thinkers into a fancy ballroom and all they could remember to speak on was the state of their colleague’s clothes.
I didn’t voice any of this, of course.
Instead, I chose the path of least resistant. I chose to play along.
“Oh, these shoes?” I said, astonished, “they were gifted to me by my late grandfather actually.”
This sounded better than the truth which was that I bought them for myself, by myself, on clearance at Target. The older woman in her sparkling blue dress, one that made her look unquestionably like a fortuneteller, seemed to agree as she gave me an “aww” and patted my shoulder before continuing on to talk to a man in a denim suit.
I had begun to consider leaving, when I hear the twinkle of a bell. By whom and for whom seems unclear to me, but enough people seem to take it as a sign and begin milling into a new room that I decide to join in with the shuffle.
The new room consists primarily of a giant, sleek wooden table. It appears to have been hewn from a single, massive trunk, although its sheer size seems to make that impossible. Rings span out from the center, making the tree thousands, if not millions of years old when it had presumably met its demise at the ax of some gigantic, celestial lumberjack.
Chairs bordered its edge, so we all sat. There seemed to be no debate who belonged in each chair. I sat in one as well. No one complained. Not a single person was left standing.
The truest silence of the evening fell upon the room, any chatter chased away by the final echoes of squeaking chairs and a few throats being cleared. We were all attentive, although for what, I’m not sure any of us could be sure.
So we waited.
“Close your eyes! All of you!”
It was a booming, creaky voice—like a cello straining with a broken string or two. Its genesis was at the table, but somehow I couldn’t pinpoint it. It was as close to me as it was far away.
With a collective inhale, everyone at the table seemed to close their eyes at once. I could taste my heart as it tried to escape my throat like a frantic gerbil.
“It has come to our attention that there is an imposter in our midst,” said the same raspy voice, “a fraud!”
Nobody spoke.
“A treacherous, treasonous, untalented, unwanted, nobody.”
He let this linger.
“If you open your eyes and walk out now, pest, I promise no ill will come of this. You happened upon this meeting by accident. It’s not your fault. All will be forgiven and forgotten. In that order.”
Well, I should have known I would be found out. Here was my chance to leave, without consequence. But as I got ready to move, something held me. It was the words.
Treacherous, treasonous, pest.
I was many things, but I wasn’t any of these.
Another several beats of my heart, my mind battling with itself. I don’t move.
A couple chairs seemed to squeak. Apparently, I hadn’t been the only one to wander into this exclusive get-together.
And yet, I remained at my seat.
More and more people seemed to be leaving.
And still I sat.
Finally, silence fell back upon the room.
“Open your eyes!”
I did as I was told.
The Gala had been reduced to a half-dozen or so.
“Welcome,” said the voice, which may or may not have been coming from the wooden table itself, “now that those not meant to be here have been weeded out.”
There was a pause. A raspy inhale.
“We may begin.”
I searched the eyes of the rest of the group, and to my shock they seemed to be doing the same.
We all seemed to be having the same simultaneous thought.
“Do they know I don’t belong?”
But, perhaps, that was the only true requisite for the Meeting of the Minds after all.
Andrew M. Jaromin 