“I want no trouble.”
Those are the words I would like etched on my tombstone — mainly because I spend my life avoiding all confrontation, and living in fear of socially awkward situations. In spite of this, or maybe because of it, lately trouble seems to seek me out, especially in social situations. My friend Carlos, who practices astrology with an evangelical fervor, says it because Mercury is in retrograde and all communications are going haywire.
That was certainly true last week at a neighborhood cocktail party.
It was a well-attended party with a self-serve bar; I hate that because, since I don’t drink, I invariably spend the evening either fetching drinks for people or, when they are unable to drive home, becoming the designated driver.
It started out when a neighbor, who claims he is a physician, (but he got his medical degree at some university in the Caribbean, so does that even count?) decided to bend my ear about the virtues of a vegan diet. Unfortunately, I thought he was speaking hypothetically; I remembered seeing the good doctor at another neighbor’s Memorial Day picnic when he was eating a slab of ribs the size of a mattress. Remembering this, I felt comfortable mentioning that I truly wished vegans would stop trying to convert those of us who not vegans.
“I’m a carnivore,” I said. “Why do I have to justify it?” I added, confidentially, that the vegans I encountered tend to be angry and judgmental and perhaps a good burger would do them a world of good.
The good doctor was not pleased. “I have been a vegan for 30 years,” he said angrily, proving my first point, “and I don’t think you should knock a lifestyle you are so clearly ignorant about,” he concluded, proving my second.
I could have mentioned that I followed a strict vegetarian diet in my late 20s until I got so bored that one day, in desperation, I had a ham sandwich and I never looked back, but instead, unwisely, I said, “I saw you eating ribs on Memorial Day!”
“I’m only human,” he countered. “I’m a flexitarian.”
“What’s a flexitarian?” I asked in spite of myself.
“It’s a vegan who eats meat,” said the doctor, and before I could even wrap my head around the concept he had already stalked off, muttering.
I just stood there for a moment, shaking my head, hoping that Carlos, or my partner or anyone non-threatening would stop by, but Alexis came over instead. Alexis is the wife of the good doctor and I know her well enough to say “Hello” when we are walking our dogs — and that’s about it.
“Sweetie,” she said. “Would you be good enough to get me a drink?”
I sighed because once again I was going into bartender mode, but I wanted no trouble. “Sure,” I said. “What would you like?”
“A vodka martini,” she said. “Straight up. Very dry. Shaken, not stirred. Three olives.”
This was a fairly specific drink order, way more than the usual request to “Get me a beer?” and, since, I’ve never made a martini before, I was at a loss. But Alexis explained how it was done and a couple of minutes later she had a martini in her hand.
Not long after, while I was chatting with Carlos, the good doctor stormed up.
“Did you give Alexis a martini?” he demanded.
I was confused. “She asked me to make her one,” I said, “so I did.”
“Alexis has cirrhosis,” said the doctor. “One martini could kill her.” This sounded extreme, but after all, he’s the doctor.
I had to defend myself. “I did not offer her one,” I said. “She asked me to make her a martini, and I did.”
“Stay away from my wife,” said the doctor before he stormed off.
I looked at Carlos who shrugged. “Mercury is in retrograde,” he said. Just then my partner came over.
“Did someone just tell you to stay away from his wife?” he asked incredulously.