I HAD A GO at the guitar playing “”Minor Swing.” There was even a small audience around me. To be honest, it was the only tune I could convincingly play and my hands were clumsy. It was recognizable, and it gave one the impression that I knew what I was doing. Most people had heard “Minor Swing” somewhere, maybe in a movie, or maybe playing the back of some coffeehouse. I was surrounded by women dressed in silvery gowns, again those flapper women from the 1920s parading around my subconscious. They were supple, silverwhite, and lovely.
This was all taking place at some neoclassical mansion on the coast of oligarchy and oblivion.
Of course, Rhys Jonathan had to show up at this point. We used to sit next to each other in AP History. He was wearing a blue polo shirt and a baseball cap. I handed the instrument over to him and he began to wow and astonish. Zola, one of the silver-draped flapper women, draped her hands over his shoulders and neck. I grunted “yeah,” because that’s what fellow musicians do during gypsy jazz performances. Yeahhh. This is how we all show how pleased we are. Watching Zola caress Rhys, I understood I had lost her. She was with him now, him and his agile fingers. “I told you,” I said to Rhys. “You’re the next Al Di Meola.” “No way,” he said, strumming and plucking away. “No way I’m Al Di Meola.” “Yes way,” I said. “You are Di Meola.”
I left Rhys with his flapper groupies and went for a walk around the terrace. Adam, another old high school classmate was there. This lanky, sandy-haired troublemaker had later joined the Israeli Defense Forces, and was trying to chase away shellshock and PTSD by consuming handfuls of mochi. I put my hands on his shoulders, told him that everything would be jake.
Halfway down the terrace, between many other partygoers, I encountered Igrayne. She was crying because she hadn’t been invited to one of her friend’s birthday parties. Igrayne was seated there on the edge of the terrace with tears in her eyes. She was wearing a crisp white blouse. Her gold hair was pulled back. Up on the terrace, I could still hear Rhys Jonathan serenading the women playing “Minor Swing,” just better. Then I started to kiss young Igrayne. Her lips were full and pink. I didn’t know what else to do. “They didn’t invite me,” she sobbed.
How else do you stop a bereaved girl from crying?
north! 