Overheard at the Café

This morning, adorned only in unassuming streetwear, I ventured into town for a coffee. I overheard the following conversation between two society hens:

"Beatrice, what do you know of Nigel Tewksbury?"

"He can be amusing. But I deem it wise to keep your distance."

"And why's that?"

"Well... I've heard he does strange things to cats."

"Oh, I don't think there's any truth to that. It's a rumour started by his rival."

"Patricia I just don't know. There's something about him. Something so peculiar.... And... he's a bit of an alcoholic. To be honest, I'm afraid of him."

"It's true, he can be rather vulgar. He called Sebastian an 'affected piece of shit' when all he did was raise an eyebrow. Vile man. Especially when he's drunk"

"Especially when he's drunk."

At this point I coughed loudly to make myself known. I whipped off my sunglasses and capped my flask. Obviously the situation was awkward, but over the years I've learned to embrace awkwardness. One cannot be afraid of social conventions; they do not bite. I knew I had to put on a performance while maintaining my new-found ideals.

I pulled up a chair, sat on it back-to-front like a teenager, and said, "Hello Beatrice, Patricia. How are you?" And I thought, I shall take the high road, although I could easily insult them and make them cry because they are both old--a good ten years past the twilight of their mating age.

"Mr. Tewksbury! How do you do?" said one of the bitches, shrill and flustered.

"Well I feel like I have just been slapped in the face--not to mention a little tight--but that's alright. In fact the latter is quite good."

"Oh... Yes, well..."

"Yes, well, I am an ass whilst drunk. And I do drink quite a bit. But I am not an alcoholic and my love for cats is purely platonic. They are beautiful, mysterious creatures," and I thought, Nothing like you dogs.

"Oh there's no need."

"Yes, there is no need to explain. You are quite right. How's Harold?"

Before Beatrice had a chance to respond, I interrupted her: "Actually, fuck Harold, if he'll take you. Your gabbing disgusts me, you smelly, obsolete old bags."

I smacked the table and left. No doubt they thought it rather rude.

So, perhaps, in the end, I didn't take the high road, but I did tell the truth, which, I think, is the higher ideal. I am also a firm believer that what's good for the gander is good for the goose and that gossipy old bags will go to hell quicker than a chap who likes a few drinks with his coffee. You must understand, I am not a bad man, at least not anymore, but kindness and manners have their limitations and are entirely ineffective if you are trying to teach a lesson to two stupid old women.

Thank you for the comments

I must confess, my readers are often more eloquent than I. I thank you for your comments on my most recent post. It amazes me and warms my frosty heart to think that my words are read by others, particularly those I have never even met. I think it wonderful, and I wish to show you off now like a new hat, and, perhaps, accidentally, provide you with some answers.

from Kathy:

Where shall you go then, Dear Nigel, to lock away your body and soul? Will it be another building with four bare walls or the damp, deep forest; the ones with the fallen, deciduous tree branches and crisp leaves that you trample underfoot and beckon without fear, your maudlin obtrusion? What will happen to the succinct blogs of the reclusive popinjay that I've come to admire? Will you truly abandon this space here and leave a fellow sojourner all alone to fend for herself? How can abandonment abandon itself? I, for one, am not a dirty leach and I quite like your creative designs.

So where will you go to perish, Dear Nigel?

Reply:

Only time will tell what happens, my darling Kathy, but I think I'll head east. I do not know the answer to most your questions but I know there is a freedom in not knowing. Q: "How can abandonment abandon itself"? A: With a shrug and a hard drink--it is my custom to take four (three for the Trinity and one for the road).

And who said anything about perishing, you morbid little bird? I shall live on, though perhaps under another name and email address.

---

from Arthur Cattersby:

"Dandyism is dead"? Such words coming from the truest dandy of all, I cannot believe it! For God's sake, in the true spirit of dandyism, sell all your belongings and buy newer, and bigger ones.

-An admirer.

Reply:

Arthur, I like your spirit and your shit. I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me that wanted to travel with you and romp with exotic Persian sluts amidst billowing clouds of opium. Of course I want to do that... Again. But I have lived that life already--anything more would be addiction and fear. I pass the torch to you and encourage you, should you ever get the chance, to stab me in the back.

All that Is Here, I Renounce

Over the years, I have accumulated a great pile of things. Cars, animals, books. It is time to forget them all and find someplace new.

This weekend, as I meditatively, and masterfully, played an amusing word game on Facebook, the spirit of the microcosm welled up inside me, and I realised, I am wasting away. I thought of calling one of my girlfriends, but said to myself, To hell with it, forget them; they are all dirty leaches in love only with my pretensions and liquor. Come, let us channel this vital force in other ways. Let us go outside for a run.

Like a cat I prowl though the cool crisp air not caring the slightest about my wardrobe or the grey in my hair. It is cold but my body keeps me warm--and Society is colder. Here am I, a solitary animal, healthy and happy, rugged as a billy goat, reacting nerves with cocked assurance in control of a graceful steady stride.

Afterward, I tilted back the chair in my favourite car and fell asleep. When I awoke, I felt another spirit--one more gentle than the one before--whisper in my ear. It told me Dandyism is dead; it is time to stop pretending. You look idiotic in those clothes.

Now is the hard part: I must get rid of this heaping pile of Materialism. I shall sell what I can and leave the rest behind, or use it for practical jokes. I renounce all that is here, but shall keep my roguish soul.