P.P.C., At Your Service!

            As I walk up the church steps, I can hear the groom reading his vows through the glass foyer doors. I burst through like a tornado in Kansas. Hope this crowd prepared for a show.

            “I objeeeeeeeect!”

            Gasps and stares turn towards me. The groom looks befuddled, the bride in shock. Only the pastor seems to be able to speak up.

            “Young man, we haven’t gotten to that part yet!”

            “I couldn’t hold it back, I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t say this. David,” I reach for the groom’s hands, “I never should have let you go, you were the best thing to ever happen to me. Let’s run away to Fiji, like how we always dreamed.” 

            Another gasp ripples through the crowd. Oh, they love it.

            “I can’t, it’s too late,” the groom dramatically throws his head back and covers his eyes with his forearm. He’s getting into it too.

            The bride chimes in, “David, who is this?”

            “David, you haven’t told her about your… first husband?” Phones already recording the scene.

            “Daisy, I’m sorry, it was such a long time ago. I was young and dumb,”

            “Oh, is that all I am to you then? A dumb mistake?” My hand meets his check in a perfectly timed stage slap, “And what about Richard? Was he a dumb mistake too?”

            “Who’s Richard?” asked a guest in the audience. 

            “Yeah, who is Richard?” continued the bride.

            “You didn’t even tell her about our little Richard?” I shot back. A murmur spills over the onlookers in the pews. “I don’t blame you for not mentioning it before, it still brings a tear just to mention his name,” I pull my lapel handkerchief to dab my dry eyes.  

            “What happened to Richard?” asked the priest.

            “He, um,…” David looks at me.

            “He died, in a horrible fire! David tried to save him; he ran back into the home, against my pleas, fighting flame and death itself. He came barrelling through the smoke with our little Richard cradled in his arms,”

            An aunty whispers “poor thing” over my shoulder. 

            “The pain of it all was too much of a strain on our relationship, so I left, and I am so sorry I did. I couldn’t bear looking at your face, it only reminded me of sweet little Richard.

            The bride asks, “So, Richard was your…”

            David stammered back, “Um, Richard wasss …”

            I cut in, “Our cat! Our precious baby Bengal cat we raised from infancy,” A soft awe echoes through the chamber, “But the heat of that final flames were too strong for our kitty to handle.” 

            A bridesmaid gives a soft sob. 

            “Please, David, can you ever forgive me?” I ask him.

            “Oh, I know you didn’t start that fire,” he answers blankly.

            “No,” I redirect him, “I mean about leaving you, will you come back to me?”

            “Oh. Well, the thing is…”

            “Daniel”

            “Right! Daniel, I’ve really moved on from that ordeal, and I found myself more of a … dog person now, and I love Daisy, so no. No I will not go with you.”

            Here is the big part, “Oh, woe is me!” I cry out, “The most harrowing act I’ve ever seen of this man was not during that fire, but right now, with him being true to his heart.” I really ham it up now, “Oh, I cannot break up true love! It is too beautiful. I guess the memories of what once was will be the only daydreams I will have. Good-bye, FOREVER!” I turn to take my leave and a rapture of applause breaks over the crowd. The mother of the bride even walks over to kiss me on the check,

            “Thank you for the show, I’m so glad Daisy went with you for the part!” 

            I wave adieu to all of my adorning fans, “See you at the reception everybody!” That gets a chuckle out of the group.

            I love my job. I really do. I was recruited by an agency when my faked allergic reaction at a restaurant to got me out of paying for a meal. The agent said it was the best performance she’d seen and could use me on staff for reoccurring events that requested dramatic role-playing.

            Ever since the ban of reality television and much other media sources from our 62^ndpresident, people have been craving drama and suspense. Ever since the first Party Crasher Agency opened, P.P.C.s have been one of the most requested freelancing roles on the market. That’s what I do; I’m a Professional Party Crasher. 

            Dull office Christmas party? Spice it up with a staged heist. Want to make your friend’s jealous at your cousin’s Bar Mitzvah? A long lost child of your second uncle is always a good go-to. Or even if you want to make a day more memorable, like the wedding I just worked this morning, those sorts of packages pay for my month’s rent. 

            Since I finished this shift early, Stacey-Ann and I decide to grab dinner together before calling it a night. We started at about the same time with the agency and have been friends ever since. I slide into the booth across from her, 

            “You look ravishing today.” 

            She passes a side eye to me through the heavy stage make-up and bouffant wig, “Children’s party. It seems that I am nothing but a glorified clown to clients these days.”

            “If you want I can give you some of my upcoming contracts. They all seem to be more… mature themed.”

            “Most of your contracts are meant to stimulate romantic inclinations amongst women aged 20 to 40, I don’t think I could pull that off.”

            It was true that I did build up a bit of a reputation of being the stud of the agency, a Don Juan of sorts. 

            “But I can’t help it,” I reply, “My job is to bring excitement to the humdrum life. I just happen to look handsome while doing so.”

            She laughed, but in more a mocking tone than I would have liked, “Let’s see how long that goes for you.” She nodded for the droid to take our orders.

            When she finished typing it into the bot’s screen, I said, “You know you are actually beautiful.” She seemed surprised to hear me say this, so I continued, “You can easily play a jealous ex-girlfriend or a sophisticated fiancé for some dweebs high school reunion.”

            “Yes,” she sighed dumping sugar packets into her iced tea, “but I don’t want to keep playing other people’s desires, I want to live out my own.”

            “You know you ordered sweet tea, right,” I ask her.

            “I like it a little stronger than how they make it,” she answered.

            “You won’t even have teeth left once you hit your thirties,” I joked.

            “Well, it won’t matter if my teeth fall out,” she growled as she yanked aggressively at another sugar packet, “it’s not like I’m kissing anybody.” 

            “Whoa, I feel like I hit a nerve,” I questioned.

            She sighed and looked around the room to think about what she wanted to say, “I …” she pauses, “I need to know if you want anything more out of … this?

            “I’m providing an experience to clients that greatly appreciate my services. The job pays well, but I’d like to run my own agency someday.”

            “No. Between us?” she paused as the waiting-bot rolled up on squeaky wheels to bring our food. They may not be sentient robots, but this one sure seemed to know when to come in at the most awkward timing.

            “Wait, are you saying you like me?” I asked once the bot rolled away.

            “I really thought I made it obvious before?” she tucks her hair behind her ear, not looking up from her food. 

            “No, I thought we were just, really good work colleagues, who enjoy sharing our free time together?” 

            “We do, like, everything together. We go shopping together, and you help me study for my exams. When was the last time we went a day without talking to each other?” I thought over what she said, but she was too impatient to let me answer back, 

            “Okay then,” she asked, “What do you think a relationship is then?”

            I didn’t know if this was a trick question.

            “Someone, you eat meals with?” I answered.

            “And? ...”

            “And, … sleep with?” Judging by her face that was the wrong answer.

            “Oh, okay,” she scoffed, “so I’ve got 50% of the relationship down, maybe if I just fuck you that would complete the equation.”

            “Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m just surprised is all. I had no idea you were interested in me like that. I would have thought that maybe... I don’t know, you’d make it known in a lot grander of a fashion. Make the moment really memorable?”

            “Grandiose performances are my job, not who I am.”

            “I’m just trying to explain why I didn’t know.”

            “Well,” she sighed, “now you know.”

            We ate the rest of our meal in silence. As I inserted bills into the waiting-bot, she asks,

            “Can we talk about this again tomorrow after work?”

            “Yeah,” I answered, “I’ll take the night to think things over.” Normally we’d hug each other bye, but now I didn’t know what was allowed, so I went for a handshake. I couldn’t take it back once it was out there. Stacey-Ann politely shook back but I could tell that she was just as confused about it as I was.

            I don’t understand; I am so much better under pressure than that. I can improvise on a dime for my clients, why couldn’t I be more suave when a girl confesses her feelings to me? I’ve had women propose their affections for me on the job, and it’s never been a big deal before? What is so different this time?

            The next day at work, last night is all I can think about. This engagement party is quite the decadent affair; Country club, open bar and buffet, all the women perfumed in Dior. The bride-to-be stands out of the crowd in her pageant sash and tiara. It’s time to make a scene. 

            “I hope you’re happy now, Margaret,” I yell over the crowd. Everyone watches the play unfold, “You finally get what you want?” 

            She spots me and pleads, “Henry, please, don’t make a fool of yourself!” She is not as good of an actress as my other clients. However, she continues,

            “I’ve found someone who will love me the way I deserve to be loved.”

            “But I gave you the moon and the stars, tell me what more must I do to earn your love?”

            “Oh Henry, you only loved the idea of me, but you never understood me, not like Hank.” Her swinging arm motion takes my attention to Hank, face deep in a rack of ribs.

            “Margaret, I do love the idea of you, but that is the only ribbon of bliss I can hold onto when you are not near. When I finally do hold you in my presence I feel like the glow of heaven is upon us.” 

            I’ve used that line dozens of times, but it always curries favour with the audience. The client gives a nod as if to say “Go on”.  

            So I do, “Nothing in the world matters more than your happiness, that is why I try so hard to make you laugh, even when you stubbornly refuse; but I can tell by the crinkle at the corners of your eyes that you are just as happy as I am. Being with you is like… a really old sweater.”

            “A what?” 

            A what? Old sweater? I’ve never used that line before. 

            “You know that sweater that you’ve had for years, and you just feel safe and accepted wrapped up inside of it? That is what being with you is like.” 

            “Wow, Henry, … that is really… sweet?” she looks over at her fiancé, “Hank, are you even paying attention?” 

            He shoots his head our direction, bar-b-que sauce smeared on his chin. 

            “You know what,” she grabs my elbow and entwines her arm with mine, “I will go back to you.”

            Hank stands up, “You’ll what now?”

            Crap, I’ve got an off-scripter!  

            Hank lumbers across the room. It’s like this man was carved from a sequoia tree. His fists are balled kettlebells.

            Margaret calls back, “Maybe I should be with someone who pays attention to me, huh Hank?”

            I’ve got to try to save face, before Sasquatch pummels mine. 

            “If attention is all you seek in a partner, then carry a mirror around with you and provide it yourself. What I want is so much more. I want trust, and counselling, and even frustration, because those things all make up a unique pair. A beautiful display of what can be created together. And if you can’t see that, then I don’t know what we can be.” 

            She cuts me off, “Uhh, I paid you to make me look good, what do you think you’re doing rejecting me right when the tension is getting good?”

            “I’m sorry,” I whisper to Margaret, “that wasn’t meant for you. I… I don’t know why I said that?”

            I’ve got to quickly wrap things up. “If you are not satisfied with the service, you can contact my manager.”

            I take off running to the doors, with the only applause coming from my Oxfords beating against the marble floor.

            I keep going over the words I want to say to Stacey-Ann in my head, but they keep getting muddled up. I think I remember where she said her shift would be, and I can make it there before the event is over if I run instead of waiting for a taxi. 

            When I finally burst through the door I can see that the event is wrapping up. Only a few partygoers are left sloppily dancing to slow music. Stacey-Ann is there, talking to some fancy looking guy. 

            Is she thinking of me as she smiles at his remarks, or is that genuine attraction she is displaying for him? Do plutonic friends always talk this close to one another? I’ve never noticed before. Oh crap! I’m panting. 

            She notices me, and the smile dissipates. Placing their drinks on a passing waiting-bot, she leads them to a table. 

            Is she avoiding me? Did I mess things up so badly? I have to think of something quick to recover from this. Maybe I can grab the mic from the DJ and sing her favourite song. 

            No, no, that isn’t what she wants. That is what I do as a P.P.C., and Stacey-Ann isn’t just some client. I head for the exit, but a voice catches me before I cross the door.

            “Did you go for a swim and forget your swimsuit?” 

            I look over my shoulder and it’s her. The tone in her voice was light but her face reads differently. I dab at my brow and find a stream of sweat.

            “Or maybe,” she adds, “Your party was hosted in a sauna?” She smiles, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. 

            “Yeah, it feels like that right now.” 

            Awkward silence. Who would have guessed we made our living off of improvisation? Then we both try to speak at the same time. My phone chirps in to provide a blissful few seconds to recoup from this disaster. It’s my boss.

            “Can you explain what the hell just happened with the engagement party gig? You almost broke up the couple!”

            “I know, I’m sorry, I just,”

            “Are you kidding me? They loved it! Want you to come back for their baby shower in two months, willing to pay double. I don’t know what you said, but great job!” He hangs up before I can thank him back.

            “Was that an important call?” Stacey-Ann asks.

            “Yes,” I answer, “but it can wait.” 

            I can see the deep blue of her eyes through the soft lighting. They seem sad. Have they always been this sad, or am I just noticing now?

            “I heard what you said,” I tell her, “I mean, I know what you meant, what you said at dinner last night,”

            She interrupts, “Yeah, actually, about that. Maybe we can just, pretend like it never happened?”

            “Really? Why do you think that?”

            “I don’t want to make things weird between us,”

            “No, things aren’t weird!” I’ve given better performance in my sleep.

            “Really, because it feels pretty awkward right now, honestly,”

            “I know, but, maybe it’s just that,” I don’t know what to tell her? Does she want me to fight for her, or is that me being too over dramatic? Should I listen to what she is saying now, since that was the problem before.

            “It’s just that what?” she asks, “‘You aren’t very good at this sort of thing?’ That isn’t true, you do this stuff all the time for work, I’ve seen you woo women from 80-year-old grandmas to little toddlers.”

            “I know, but… It’s just… Maybe it feels weird and awkward now because, … I do care about how this turns out… Because I can’t just write off this experience as another shift done; I don’t get redoes or the choice walk away without losing anything. This… here. I like this.” 

            It’s like, I’m finally realizing what she said, about all the hints she displayed for me to see, but I was to busy focussing on myself that I couldn’t see.

            “I have no idea,” I resume, “if what I just said was the right thing to say, but it is how I feel.”  

            “That is,” she paused, then smiled, “an acceptable answer.”

            I breath a heavy sigh, “that is really reassuring.”

            “Since we’re both done with our shifts, would you like to get something to eat?” she asked.

            “Yeah,” I answer, “I’d like that.”