Digesting the Architecture

Landon stood in the corner of the den, a large, bright airy room with contemporary leather sofa, two similar chairs and end tables. The tables appeared more like space vehicles except for the coasters, lamp (also a weirdly shaped object) and a Sports Illustrated. Everything had a place and a place for everything, he thought. He’d been in rooms, and houses like this, but that didn’t mean he knew how to act. He’d learned from living in Mt. Hebron that Southerners, of which he was both one by birth and not one by temperament, were judged quickly and quietly by how people’s living spaces looked. What they owned. How they displayed their possessions. Clues didn’t always look like clues. The furniture needed to be comfy, but it also meant how the couple saw themselves. And most people didn’t even know what they were saying about themselves.

         The Ikea-like furniture – German and expensive – screamed hipster, but Landon knew that they were wannabes, “pro-lifers,” except if their daughters were to ever get pregnant too young. Or to the “wrong” person. The wife wore jeans. She wanted everyone to know that she was down-to-earth. She topped that with a white t-shirt, V-neck and cut too low for “down-to-earth.” She was clearly struggling with approaching middle age. She had everything: a big, beautiful house, three-car garage, three children who behaved and were in the highest sections of their math and language arts classes at Mt. Hebron Elementary. She also had a large chest, that without the underwire bra, would be saggy. What she couldn’t control was her beauty changing, in Landon’s eyes being more mature, but in hers, not as sharp or face as taut. She was unhappy. She was looking over the male guests and deciding who she would have an affair with. The husband – named not remembered – didn’t care about the interior if the wife was happy. Instead, he drove an F-150. He was a stockbroker and had never been on or near a farm in his life. Politics: conservative.

         The rest of the guests, about 20 people, were in groups of threes and fours, holding a glass of wine or beer, and a small plate of cheeses, stuffed mushrooms, and pigs in a blanket. Only in a small town in North Carolina can an upscale party serve pigs in a blanket. Everyone was talking about three things: politics, the ACC basketball season, or their children’s classes and playdates.

         Even though he and Erin had only dated for three months, they’d already discovered they understood each other’s raised eyebrows, slight turns of lips, and a hand on the hip, shoulders slumped. Right now, with a quick glance, Landon knew that she too was bored and put out. It was too early to leave. Too gauche. He knew all the words, French or otherwise, for social missteps and faux paus. His discomfort didn’t come from making mistakes; he simply didn’t fit in, and everyone knew it.

         “This is Landon,” Erin said, waving him over. “This is Eric and Bunny.” Bunny’s clothes told him all he needed to know bridge on Wednesdays on a rotating basis around the neighborhood, women’s tennis play-around at the Club on Thursdays, and Junior League activities the rest of the time. Everyone shook hands. Landon didn’t think they really wanted to. It wasn’t a specific action, just a feeling – just like Bunny’s clothes – he got around people who were outwardly “successful.”

         This party was no different than high school parties, except it wasn’t in the basement and nobody was doing beer bongs. Then, it segregated according to cliques which divided along "coolness” lines. He wasn’t cool: he hadn’t played sports, starred in plays, scored fours and fives on AP exams, or didn’t smoke dope 24/7. The coolest were the ones who did all four. Now, it was who had lots of money, children in the “right” classes, the Christmas card photo that looked like it was from central casting, and friends who knew the right people. This last one could be an endless loop, but logic wouldn’t convince everyone else that it was silly.

         This all had to happen under the guise of community interest gossip, not too judgy, a layer of serious empathy coating a person’s façade and soaking, like rum on a cake, deep into the core.

         Ernie or Aaron or Eric, Landon couldn’t remember his name, spoke to him, Landon knowing what was coming, “Haven’t really seen you around. What’d ya do for a living?” It was the “adult” version of why are you in my basement and why are you such a dweeb. Landon didn’t look at Erin. He was a big boy. He could manage his own problems.

         “A bit of this or that, you know?”

         Eric’s countenance said he didn’t, but that’s the secret of survival: people like Eric and Bunny, Chip and Mimi, and Sissie and Topher couldn’t ever say they didn’t understand, no matter how trivial or important.

         “It so inconsequential and mundane” – when Landon felt trapped by class and social circumstances, he always used big words, a kind of superpower – “that it’s not very interesting.” Self-deprecation went a long way too. Eric nodded. He was following the rule of not digging too much. Landon hated that “rule;” it made for boring conversation. He was interested in more than idle chit-chat and superficial showing off.

         A tall, striking woman in a tight cable knit sweater grabbed Erin’s hand, dragging her off to three other women, looking strikingly similar – brown hair tipped with blonde, tight tops hugging large breasts, and loud lipstick. They were laughing, heads cocked back, mouths open, and teeth straight and white. Not natural, like their breasts.

         Landon returned to the corner, not a corner really, more like a bubble. A side table functioned as a blocker. He fingered one of the magazines, an Architectural Digest, as if he were interested. Everyone focused on their small groups; he crossed his arms across his chest. He tilted his head to the left as if pondering or listening intently. He was doing neither.

         The setting was nicer, the partygoers with more money, the clothes classier and more mature. The conversations were different, but they were still as superficial as when he was 18. He was more than double that age, and little had changed vis-à-vis his relationships with his surroundings.

         He was still the scared little boy, lacking confidence that everyone else projected. He didn’t just project fear; it clung like a baby monkey on the back of his mother. He knew his place in the pecking order would never change.

         So be it, he thought, eying Erin and the front door.

The End