We’re at a large birthday dinner full of people we barely know, the kind of mildly awkward social situation where you grasp at any shred of conversation and wonder what your mutual friend has in common with these people. Around a third of the group are lawyers, and I’m shrinking into the wood of my chair to avoid them; I have no idea if they’ve heard of or formulated an opinion about my blog, and no desire to find out. The lawyer nearest us is petite and dark, with tiny features and huge eyes. We’ve met her before in a few similarly forced situations. Boyfriend, who could start a lively conversation with Helen Keller while wearing oven mitts, has thankfully engaged her in a discussion.
“So, Boyfriend, are you still doing all that film stuff?” she tosses out, masterfully reducing his 11-year career with a major movie studio to a juvenile hobby. I wonder whether she has any clue how undermining the question was, and decide the answer is probably no.
“Uh, yeah, I’m still plugging away. Are you still doing that law stuff?” he cracks, laughing to show the joke was meant good-naturedly.
Her face is stony. “Yes, I’m still practicing law,” she says without an iota of humor. Ok then, on to the next person. He shoots me a look that says “let’s see if I can set a record for offending party members by the end of the meal.”
“Oh so you have a creative job?” a heavy-jawed girl from across the table pipes in, speaking to us for the first time that evening.
“Yes, I work at X Studio,” he replies cheerfully. “How about you? Are you in the field?”
She laughs as if he’s just asked whether she plans to grow a third eye in the near future. “Creative? No. I don’t do anything creative. That’s funny.”
I start to ask “Why is it funny?” but hold my tongue. “So what type of work do you do?” I say instead, falling back on the benckmark question.
“I do finance. Research for a large investment bank.” Her answer sparks interest among her neighbors, and they launch into a conversation about mutual friends at various banks while Boyfriend and I delve into our margaritas.
At last the check arrives, and the bankers gather to pore over it like Biblical scholars perusing a newly-discovered epistle. They announce the results and then pass the check around for inspection. A, a friend of the lawyer group that I’ve met before and liked, stares at it for several minutes. “I think they’ve double charged me for my entree.”
“What? A, let me see that.” One of the lawyers leans over A to examine the numbers. “I’ll handle it - we spoke to the staff when we first arrived. I’ll have them adjust the bill.”
“It’s ok, I can take care of it,” A objects. “No need for you to talk to them.”
The lawyer friend gives her a pointed look and plucks the check from her hand. “A, how many drinks have you had? Let me handle this. You’re always too nice to people in these situations.”
Visibly steaming, A sits up straight in her chair and says nothing for the remainder of the meal. As we rise and begin to leave the table, she suddenly appears at my side and hisses, “Amazing how lawyers think that just because you don’t have a law degree you can’t possibly deal with anything or handle problems. Oh, I’m sorry, I only got a Master’s Degree from Harvard, I guess I can’t be trusted to fucking handle anything myself.”
Wondering why I always seem to be the designated confidante/conflict-deescalator at these types of gatherings, I smile conspiratorially and respond in a soothing tone, “Don’t worry about it, I’m sure she didn’t realize she was being rude. And just think, tomorrow morning she probably has to be at the office at 6 A.M., then again on Sunday too. That should be some consolation.”
She laughs, satisfied by my validation of her anger, and hurries to rejoin her party. I spring to Boyfriend’s side and we make our stealthy escape as the group heads toward a nearby bar. Surely they’ve had enough creative types for one evening.