He strikes the high-chinned pose of a movie gangster and tries to stare me down. He is not bad looking, but his cheeks are gaunt, and he seems to be under the influence of something stronger than alcohol and holiday cheer.
For an instant I’m taken aback by this affront. Then habit takes over and I relax, square off. I may be out of practice, but I have attended a lot of parties through the years, been challenged by many boors in many kitchens. Those old muscles still flex.
“When you’re insulting someone,” I say, “the trick is to be fast, specific, and accurate. Two out of three won’t do. You fumbled the third. Please note that I am six inches taller, twenty years older, and more adventurously dressed than Nancy Reagan has ever been. Does every woman over the age of fifty who spends a little money on herself look like the First Lady to you? Or do you have some sort of fixation on her?”
“Fixation?” he says. “Yeah, I got a fixation. I fucking hate that shriveled-up old hag.”
“Well, you won’t hear me defending her. I voted for Mondale and Ferraro. I think it’s high time we put a woman in the White House to do more than pick out china services.”
“My, aren’t you quite the activist,” the young man says. “Are you running for office? Do you want us to sign your petition? Or did you come here to save us? Did you get us confused with those nice violin-and-opera queers from the Upper West Side?”
“I’ve come here,” I say, “because Wendy invited me. What’s your name?”
The challenge in his face is losing its edge, becoming plain sullenness. “What do you care?”
“I’d like to be able to complain about your manners on an informed basis.”
“You should keep away from me, Nancy,” he says. “I’m a scary homosexual.”
“My name is Lillian,” I say, shuffling my burdens to extend my hand. “Not Nancy. And I’m not scared of homosexuals.”
“Jason, lay off,” says another man, coming up behind him and touching his shoulder. “You’re being an asshole.”
Jason ignores him, and takes a sip of the pink drink in his clear-plastic cup.
“Haven’t you heard, Nancy?” he says. “We all have AIDS. Aren’t you afraid?”
This irritates me in a way his previous gibes haven’t because it’s exactly what I am thinking: Does he have AIDS? and Am I afraid? He certainly doesn’t look healthy. As I try to remember what I’ve read about the disease, I can’t help but steal a downward glance at my own exposed fingers, veined and pale against the dark.
I decide I’m not afraid. “It’s my understanding,” I say, “that I am in little danger of getting AIDS from you, if you have it to give. Or I would be in little danger, had your parents raised you to be polite enough to shake a hand when it’s been offered.”
The venom creeps back into his eyes. “You don’t want to hear about how my parents raised me,” he says.
He tips the last of his drink down his throat, flicks the empty cup onto the dancefloor, and passes his palm across his mouth with a theatrical slurp, pretending to lick it.
At least I think he’s pretending.
“Okay, sweetie,” he says, extending his arm slackly, like the pope presenting his ring. “Put ’er there.”
“Jason,” the young man behind him says, then he doesn’t say anything else.
I am unable to suppress an exasperated sigh.
Whenever I encounter strangers on my walks through the city, I always try to provoke them to reveal something of themselves, hoping they’ll surprise me, jolt me out of my own head. I’m generally good at doing this. When I fail, though—when they brush me off or, worse, when they begin to perform, behaving like some version of what they think I want or don’t want them to be—the results are terribly dispiriting.
I’m failing with Jason. Looking at him is like looking at a mirror, a haunted-house mirror that reflects everyone as a corpse.
If I don’t take his hand, then I am what he says I am, and he wins. If I do, then I’m only doing it to prove something and the encounter is just about me; he remains hidden behind his curtain of contempt.
But that is his right, I suppose.
And I hate to lose.
I step forward with a smile. “All right, Jason,” I say. “Today is as good a day to die as any. Happy New Year.”
“Holy shit!” he says. “Nancy’s a fucking samurai!”
“Lillian!”
It’s Wendy, who’s caught sight of me and rushed over. “I can’t believe you came!” she says. “I’m so glad you made it!”
Jason cries out and throws up his hands in mock frustration, playing to an imaginary crowd that’s cheering him on. “Saved by the bell, Nancy!” he says.
Wendy glares at him, takes my arm with one hand and my parcels with the other, and steers me away. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you over here among people who can appreciate you.”