Leo, a Story of Mine

Here was Leo. Leo liked to think himself friends among all the higher ups; the celebrities and who’s who of the town. Always the smug little kiss ass, he aimed to please; that is if your face is on the cover of the latest magazine or bus marquee. I suppose his “buddies” only kept him around for the compliments, kind of the guy you humor if he’s there, but never one to invite elsewhere. He fed their egos. Have you ever wondered why all television stars seemed to have a God complex surrounding them? It’s because of Leo.

Now that slithery little curmudgeon is walking over to me and Dartha, her in her satin red dress, me in my inexpensive suit jacket. I’m swishing the champagne in my glass just to keep from looking at him as he approaches and I hear Dartha sigh.

“Hey chaps! How are you two this fine evening?” he spits our way.

“Good, just good,” I shrug making then losing eye contact with the man. Instead my gaze finds his plump midsection and burst buttons, a few inches north of a rather unsightly bulge, no doubt Leo’s own creation to attract the opposite sex at the party.

There is an awkward pause as we nod and Dartha says, “So, Leo, where’s Gweneth?” referring to his most recent wife.

“Oh she’s away on business.” We nod some more. “Yeah you know how it is, one day you’re in love, the next she’s away shacking up with a long-haired romance novelist in a degraded strip club in Ireland called Erin Go Braless. Best not to fall in love I say, not anymore at least. Matrimony just ain’t what it used to be am I right?” He lifts his glass towards us. This is the most awkward he has been yet and I drearily look down at the gold band around my finger. Dartha glances at the matching one on her hand.

Finally Leo sees the conversation is going nowhere, or perhaps he sees a tray of hors d’oeuvres being served elsewhere, and he exits with a quick “Well… best of luck chaps!” We watch as he drags his fat arse between the throngs of people and disappears.

“Well that was lovely,” grumbles my beloved.

I glimpse towards the immense grandfather clock at the end of the hall. 7:29 it reads. ‘Ah yes’ I think, ‘supper’. Right on cue, as is the elitist way to begin anything, a server appears from the balcony and regards the crowd below him. From behind his back he withdraws a gold bell and rings it as the people start to notice him and quiet down. Anxious silence stands amidst the guests as the man proclaims, “Tonight we will be eating in the dining room behind these doors.” He points to two illustrious gold plated doors beneath him. “Your host will then arrive, along with your waiters, to inform you of your courses. So I ask that everyone is calm and courteous in entering…” Before he can finish the doors open as spews of people rush through them. “And enjoy!” he shouts thrusting his arms up, clearly a presentation that was supposed to precede the movement into the dining area.

We drain our glasses and place them on the nearest glass table, eager as anyone for our meal. Once in transition, it took us a few minutes before we could be seated, the rushes of people aiming for a spot near the host. The man in question was talk show host Eddie Leimbower, a very well known name around these parts; also an investor in StraightEdge computer products, my company. I, like most of the people around me, do not know Leimbower on a personal basis, but just enough to receive an invite to his first annual Christmas gala and dinner. Unlike most though, I have no urge to meet the man or enter into his private posse, so I’m perfectly content with my seat near the opposite end of the enormous rectangular table. I’m here for the food. See, the pop culture icon is known to dabble in quite an array of interesting cuisine, and prides himself on electing the courses for his guests himself. I suppose that makes both of us small connoisseurs of the art. As for his conversation? I’d prefer to indulge without that monotonous, ignorant spiel of politically corrected garbage that all TV personalities seem to carry along with them. I’m an opportunist. Right now I’m savoring the opportunity of a lifetime, not Eddie Leimbower’s squabble.

“Please stand,” announces another man dressed similarly to the one from the balcony. His voice is coincidently much deeper and has a grand gesture to it so we do as we are told. Out walks a short, lean man dressed in elegant black and white who bows to us before taking his seat at the head of the table. The rest of the party follows suit.

Above us dangles a long line of crystal chandeliers that glimmers softly in the dim lighting. High ceilings and majestic tapestries boast richness, a feature I only hope is shared by our first course. No cigar. After the long and unnecessary introductions we’re told we will be starting with a light Italian wedding style soup with a white Burgundy to compliment it.

Plain, unappealing, watery baby vomit.

I feel as though better flavor is experienced through a Progresso can. Even the wine is uncannily sweet. Swing and a miss Leimbower. To my surprise the rest of my company appears to enjoy it, and they don’t restrain any kind words from the beaming idiot at the head of this monstrosity. I turn to Dartha next to me who merely displays a message of ‘What do you expect?’ My expectations are plummeting as the servers declare the second course; vinaigrette topped green salad with small olives, mushrooms and a stuffed clam. Excitement once again turns to horror as the unsightly, dry lettuce and dull dressing force their way down my throat. I’ve nearly given up hope as I engage the obese mollusk left on my plate whose substance is no stronger than the gooey aftermath of leftover grocery bought seafood. And yet again the crowd sings their praise to the chef and to the host who soaks it up like an old sponge under water. Astonishingly I don’t hear Leo’s crippling voice over the howling lapdogs. Perhaps there is some culture left in him after all.

By now I’m staring at my wristwatch, praying for the end of this miserable night. It says 9:00 which means the main course. The lead role in this theatrical vision of hell, the captain of the S.S. Suckfest, the straw that is without a doubt going to break my intestines. A tender loin accented with garlic and herb spices with lemon encrusted shrimp and a side of fresh broccoli. I don’t fall for the delectable descriptions, not anymore at least. All I can do is eye my wife with anticipation and feel sick.

Out comes the meat, which is undeniably well presented with a bitter Merlot. I close my eyes and place a small sliver in my mouth. Unlike the other dishes I’m not instantly met with unpleasantness, but instead a unique, warming sensation. It is no doubt juicy, and actually quite enjoyable. Its flavor is new to me, maybe some of that fine foreign cuisine I came for. It’s delicious. Even the mediocre sides seem to come alive and amaze me when blended with this delightful loin. I have to stop myself from delivering positive comments to Eddie.

Just then my teeth chomp down on something hard. A forgotten bone perhaps, but I’m unsettled nonetheless and I pull it out. Even more disturbing in its true identity, a large brass button now lay sitting in my palm. All alluring sentiments aside, I have to stop myself from gagging. I drop it on the tablecloth and turn away from it.

“Do you see this Dartha?” I ask her, motioning towards the button.

“Was that in your food?” she replies.

“Yeah, and I was just starting to enjoy this meal,” I state dissatisfied. I then take the repulsive brass circle and place it in my pocket, excusing myself from the remainder of dinner.

I wait out in the hall, passing time by looking out into the night through the great glass windows adjacent to the entrance. Finally the clock strikes 11 and I hear the voices inside settle. Next I hear the arrogant bellows of a television talk show personality and applause. Dinner is over, and the guests are pleased, all except one.

The party disassembles slowly, the last members trying to extend their last chances of greeting Eddie Leimbower, and finally being ushered out the door, except for me and Dartha who keep a low profile in the corner. I finger the button in my coat pocket and eventually the short tuxedoed man notices us. Politely but tiredly he walks over and says, “I appreciate your gratuity but I must bid all guests farewell....”

I step forward. “Oh we are here on no act of gratuity Mr. Leimbower.”

“Is there a problem? Was something wrong with the meal?” he questioned with a sincere look on his face.

My hand pulls the button out and places it in my opposite palm. My eyes catch it once again and my mouth opens to argue, but then I stop. A twinge of familiarity rises in my mind as I look at the piece of brass and a smile grows on my lips.

I suddenly know where I had seen that button before.

I suddenly know why the meat had tasted so strange.

I suddenly know why the notables always kept Leo around.

And I thought celebrities had bad taste.