There is nothing in the world so empowering as a good suit clinging to your body with just the precise amount of pressure and grip to make you think that you are wearing a suit of armour with just the right number of buttons loose to make feel like you’re gliding with every step you take. Never are you so grounded and yet never are so weightless. It was professionalism, confidence and spunk rolled all into one cotton fibred fabric. A suit was my Kevlar, the bullets of angry stares or the knives of disgusted glances could no longer touch me. I was impenetrable. I had power beyond all consequence. I had wealth infinitum. I had…

            I was alone in the corner, slowly emptying the punch bowl. Every once in a while I tapped my toe incongruously to the music so as not to look suspicious, but I didn’t think I was really fooling anyone. My father had reluctantly taken me with him to the party at the steady behest of my mother. As was so typical of my parents, instead of actually being candid with one another and accessing the facts, they simply spoke in cypher to the other, not recognizing that they were using a different decoder.

            “But don’t you remember last year, honey?” My mother had said so imploringly, referring to my lie about my father’s unrequited invitations.

            “Why yes, of course, but he seemed perfectly happy to me,” my father had replied, referring to my staying at home.

            “But what about you, dear?”

            “What about me?”

            “Do you really want to go alone year after year?”

            Of course, rather than inquiring as to where my mother had come across this idea, he had decided instead to assume the worst was upon him.

            “This is about Mama, isn’t it?” he had shuddered, his voice raising in the hot, red anger that every so often percolated in his voice. “Now I know that there isn’t exactly a welcome mat on your heart where Mama is concerned, but I don’t need you to be going around teaching our son to be as intolerable as you.”

            “Intolerable!” My mother’s eyes exploded in exasperation. “I have been anything but intolerable, Samuzzo.” My mother had used my father’s full name, which typically was an obvious “cease and desist” sign, but Dad decided to plough through, completely ignorant.

            “You’ve never liked my mother, and you’ve made that clearer than an eyeball in spaghetti sauce, but I’m not gonna sit around and watch you brainwash my son into the same, heartless measure you are so hell bent on perpetuating.”

            These were not the words my mother had wanted to hear. My parents had been flung hook, line and sinker into an argument with the inevitable conclusion of my mother seeming to collapse just in time for my father to recover his temper and compromise, giving my mother exactly what she had wanted all along. It was a strange and contemptible art, going against almost every lesson my mother had ever taught me, but one had to admire the woman. She always gave the impression of defeat, knowing that the real victory had already been achieved. After that, my father had had no choice but to drag me out of the house just as Noni was complaining about the overabundance of raisins in the rice pudding.

            “Well, they don’t call it raisin pudding, my dear,” she said to my mother. “Usually when one consumes something, they expect it to live up to its namesake. Now, I don’t want to trouble you about something so trivial after all you’ve made such a decent attempt at a mediocre meal here, so why don’t I just take this,” she lifted up the bowl of rice pudding, “and turn it into something edible. Now don’t worry yourself, sweetheart,” she patted my mother’s back in the condescending manner one would reassure a child after a great failure, “I’ll do it all myself. You just stay right there.”

            My mother had looked up at me then and I saw in her eyes that it didn’t matter whether I was going out to dance at a ball or score blow from the local dealer, I was escaping and that was enough. Never have I seen such envy or deep understanding.

            Now as I stood, a secondary pillar to the wall, still keeping company to the dwindling punch bowl, I supposed Mom didn’t really need to be quite so envious. There was no one even resembling my age at the party, but instead was stuffed from wall to wall with a long train of senile crones who would have looked more natural in line for the morgue instead of the coat room. They danced to the poorly played music of the underpaid band in peculiar motions that their ancestors had taught and they had been too lazy to improve. They spoke of leaders long dead like they had just seem them yesterday and they criticized my generation for offenses that had gone out of style before my birth. They wore clothes their parents would have found too conservative and placed masks on their faces that would easily have disguised a countenance of the fourteenth century. They used the word Nintendo instead of specifying which console they were condemning or even knowing they had a choice of consoles to condemn. These were my people, the people permanently stuck in the past, that I had chosen I wanted to lead so long ago and I never been so disgusted with them in my life. Of course, I usually was repulsed by my peers more so, and eventually the aversion went away.

            I decided to dive into the crowd. Those who knew my family well gave me an acknowledgement of existence whether it was the tip of a mask or a few considerate, safe words about my life, my schoolwork, or my accomplishments in the Student’s Union. No one actually cared about the answers and I didn’t really care about the questions so my responses grew less and less real as the night progressed. One can only state that he attains excellent marks and failed to make President by thirty votes so many times before you decide to narrow the margin to three votes or say that valedictorian would be an intellectual insult. Soon the lies became easier to roll off my tongue and the people I spoke to became less familiar. The questions started to become more intense, more adult and suddenly I realized I was surrounded by a group of old men I had no recollection of meeting before and I was entertaining vicariously, although somewhat brilliantly. It then occurred to me that perhaps in the sweep of the crowd I had suddenly forgotten who I actually was and had simply become what the combination of my eloquent speech and manner of dress dictated I must be. I was my father.

            My Halloween costume had been uninspired and hastily conjured at the risk of being contrived. Instead of wearing a mask like most of the other guests, I had decided to make my body the mask and dress myself in one of my father’s suits and comb silver colouring into my hair. Being that I bore a strong resemblance to Samuzzo Mussini, with proper hair styling and dress, I passed nearly perfectly. His closer associates could still tell the difference quite clearly, but I had wandered through the crowd enough to find people that barely knew my father, much less me. To them, I could be anyone I chose to be, and the idea left me feeling exhilarated.

            The silver in my hair and the old suspenders on my shoulders made me feel the sense of confidence and certainty that only age could ingrain in a person, or in my case, the appearance of age. When my father had climbed down the stairs and seen what I looked like he thought I was playing some sort of cruel joke on him. He knew how old I appeared and simply assumed it was a reflection on himself. He was appalled, for example, on the liberal amounts of grey colouring in my hair. I didn’t have the courage to tell him that mother had been the one to regulate the shade of my greasy black hair, so I simply admitted to making a mistake. It mollified Father, though when I looked at his head in the moon’s light I felt that I still needed more colouring.

            But it had been unnecessary. I was convincing beyond a shadow of a doubt and the pretty white lies just sailed off my tongue. Their conversations still churned my stomach, but less so than before. Now I was possessed in the singular interest of entertainment, and I was a stunning performer of my purpose. All the jokes my friends both corporal and internet-made had long since tossed away as “ancient” were received with riotous laughter from this crowd. It was as if I were bandying with a set of people that had just stepped out of a time machine. Or perhaps it was I stepping back in time, I could never tell. My behaviour wasn’t entirely spontaneous. I noticed my father moving from circle to circle throughout the room, telling the conservatives how glad he was that a majority government would now bring stability to the nation at one end of the room and telling liberals how deeply saddened he was by the defeat of Michael Ignatieff as if it was their beloved grandfather who had died instead of the unseating of an unpopular leader. Socialists weren’t even invited to the event so Father never had to address the touchy Jack Layton issue, though I thought I saw a few closet NDP members slowly combing the room for their secretive orange compatriots, never breaking the time honoured tradition of the dinner party to never vocally disagree with anyone.

            It wasn’t just politics that found its breeding ground on the lacquered lips of the guests, but business too. The prosecutors lined up in their undisputed corner of the room and complained about how television shows like “the CSI”, as they referred to it, were tainting juries’ brains with fantasies about marvelous genetic tests and DNA smoking guns when the real tools against crime remained witness testimony and criminal confession. The defense lawyers argued about how the media was making it appear that their profession allowed murderers to get away scot free when in actuality the system was being too harsh on the defendants. No one talked about how the impoverished, racially diverse underbelly of society couldn’t afford proper legal representation and were quashed by the brutal gavel of justice. It made the prosecutor’s jobs easier and it made the lawyer’s richer. The only person it was bad for was society, but somehow the needs of the absent many played second fiddle to the desires of the present few. It was impossible to become a conversationalist or ever attempt to win political office without understanding that fact. I did, and I was becoming famous. Iggy didn’t, and he got canned.

            My mind was gripped in politics. Behind every handshake I saw a poll number. Behind every smile there was a ballot. Behind every laugh I found a vote. I didn’t know what I was running for, but I knew I was winning. There was something about men in power that either hinders the weak or strengthens the dominant. The energy I felt from their self-confidence and pride might have strangled some like a garrote on their throat, but it armoured me like plates of shining steel. And then, all of the sudden, I felt every piece and plate fall from my body. I let the conversation die down and the people spread from me like the epicentre of an earthquake as I peered across the room. I felt the world become a giant corridor with me on one end and her on the other. I knew that nothing I said to myself had been true. I wasn’t a politician, a conversationalist, a lawyer or even a just a plain and simple boy anymore. I was a lover.

            To say she was beautiful would be a superficial statement of no meaning to either of us, and it would also be a lie. After all, even at first glance one could tell she must have been at least twenty years my senior. And yet, it was almost impossible not to see into the darkest depths of those shimmering emerald pools in her eyes and notice ten thousand years of pain, suffering and lonesomeness staring back at you. There was more history in those two irises from across the room than in a Congressional library of textbooks. Those eyes had seen more than my mind could ever hope to comprehend and I was stuck on it more than hair to a gorilla. A million conversations started running through my brain. There were simple introductions, sultry references, snappy comebacks, and gut wrenching punch lines. I imagined sweeping her off her feet, our first date, the delicious flavour of her lips, our children playing in the back yard. I hadn’t even checked her fingers to see if a ring had inhabited them. My imagination was running wild like a cheetah in the open, endless plains and I couldn’t possibly stop it now.

            I crossed the floor to within a few feet of her and instantly all the conversations in my head, the false memories I had created and the sense of connectivity and righteousness that had been flowing through me vanished. It was replaced by a bumbling buffoon that couldn’t find enough words to make a proper sentence. My years of grammar instruction had been flushed down the proverbial toilet in a few minutes and my golden tongue was turning a set of base metals that would give any alchemist a nightmare. I recollected myself before I fell over. Those eyes were starting to have a dizzying effect on me. I felt the room slowly spinning around me.

            “So, you ever listen to ‘The Vinyl Cafe with Stuart Mclean’?”

            The vortex stopped whirling around me. I realized she had just spoken, but my confusion was so great the only syllable I could possibly utter in response was, “what?”

            She rolled her eyes at me like she was speaking to an idiot child that had just spilt porridge on her new shoes. “You know, ‘The Vinyl Cafe’. Ever heard it before?”

            My eyebrows narrowed in bafflement. I tried to remember the calm and collected voice of Samuzzo Mussini, but it was coming out creaky and puzzled. I mentally shook myself and stood up straight and proud, holding my glass like it was a mint julep instead of gradually flattening Sprite and whatever unusual lemony juice used to make the punch. I held my hand in the perfect pointing gesture and said with just a hint of sensuousness in my right eye, “have we met before?”

            “Of course not,” she replied in a voice that seemed just as convoluted and false as my own. “Why on earth would I ask that of someone I already knew?”

            The voice acting was dropped, now I was curious. “It would make more sense than asking a stranger if they listened to the CBC.”

            “Well, why on earth would I want to be introduced to someone that doesn’t listen to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation?”

            “To avoid being shipped off to the loonie bin?” I suggested.

            Her demeanor changed faster than a transvestite switches clothes when his mother visits. Her face moulded into a look of distaste I had never seen written on the face of any female creature in my life. I feared for my safety. “How flattering,” she said, her words made of Arctic wind.

            My arms shot up a defensive gesture. “Hey don’t take it the wrong way, I was just-”

            “Just what,” she interrupted. “Insinuating that I was insane?”

            She did have a point there, so I just held up my hands, hoping that we still had enough gun control laws left to spare me tonight. Just as I was about to convert to every religion ever known to man to insure against the possibility that my previous choices had been incorrect, she threw back her head and laughed. She laughed harder than any person I had ever seen and have seen since. It was the sort of laugh that in the right context might bring joy, like in a crowded movie theatre when someone’s giggle is funnier than the actor’s joke. It was not funny here, it was nearly blood curdling. I was worried I had just decided to fall for a serial killer of some sort. But then she stopped and looked at me and I could tell by those eyes again that she wasn’t crazy after all, but perhaps the sanest woman I had ever met. Her face dropped all façades and false pretenses. I felt I had just passed some sort of unusual rite of passage and when I looked back at her I knew that whatever ice there had been around her had quickly melted away, leaving nothing but flesh and hot, flowing blood. She held out her hand.

            “Claudine Bouchard,” she announced, a gentle smile tucked between the corners of her lips.

            I took her hand and was about to say my name when she waved her finger and said, “Nope, you need to say something else first.” I fought momentary confusion and then replied, “Yes, I have listened to ‘The Vinyl Cafe'.”

            She grinned and led me to a different room full of chairs and leather sofas. We talked about harmless, pointless, hilarious things all night until eventually, tears of laughter still streaming down her face, Claudine told me she had to go. I didn’t tell Father about anything on the way back home; he didn’t ask. It was only next morning that I realized I had introduced myself as Samuzzo Mussini.