Spit It Out

Last night, amidst others, as they drank from their glasses to the glory of romance, I was reminded of inequality. I had been speaking to my partner in a moment alone, when we were broken-in upon by a friend. This person took my hand and introduced himself, who wished to say hello to the Congressman. Well, of course you do. Now unhand me.

The experience of standing behind while all the world trips upon fame, is not new. Neither is it pleasant.

Some few moments later, I attempted (as I do) to claim some part of the conversation. It was rather like throwing a rock through a neighbor’s window. There was a crash, and then glass rained down with a drastic tintinabulation. I was beheld in annoyance. Well, then, I had accomplished my objective. But when I opened my mouth to speak, and the words came forth, I saw them blinking impatiently. What is the point, boy? Spit it out. Really. I will, and you will be sorry to hear it.

But this sort of thing happens to me all too often. I am not the one with whom to be seen taking a picture. When they trouble themselves to come across the room, it is not for the benefit of ”my” conversation. And etiquette’s guise, which hangs by a thread from their swollen and dastardly faces, is more than enough to persuade me never again to venture out. 

The time I am given to articulate my thought, is less than his, whose station in life is perceived higher than my own. It is inequality at its most unmistakable, when we are given not even the chance to speak, nor the time. But we are thanked to attend, and to provide another warm body. A party is made by the fools who stand with their wine glasses tipping, and the few who ring them with demitasse sterling. Then we run to the trough, and we bury our faces in slop.