“Why do all the people in here look so white and scaly?” I asked, standing outside the mob of people eating the post event spread.
“They’re musicians honey, they never go outside” said Bonnie. “They have to practice all day.”
“Lord, they’re like vampires. I feel like this is the same group that assembles at a midnight preview of a Twilight film.” I took a sip of my coffee and scanned the room from behind the steam coming off the cup, “Which one is their leader. If you kill the leader, they all die.”
“Well, They’re nice. Besides, we owe them. They come to all of our events but we never go to theirs.”
“Hmm… Well, I guess it was fun” I said, putting a hand onto the Mrs.’s shoulder and kneading it affectionately. “But, I got a couple ideas to improve it.”
“Like?”
“I can’t tell you, dear. You’d just rip them off and pass them along as your own.”
“If they aren’t stupid maybe, but knowing you… “
“Hold that thought” I interrupted. “Here come some of our acquaintances.”
A couple we knew from some party or another came up and reintroduced themselves. They actually put the event on: a classical guitar-a-polooza featuring some local and national talent. He was a guitar virtuoso and she was his leading lady, accustom to all things sponsorship and high society.
“Hey, great event”, Bonnie and I said in beaming unison.
“Thank you, thank you. It was an excellent showing” came the humble-brag response.
“Yeah, it was” said Bonnie, effectively book-ending the conversation and beginning a period of awkward silence.
“Well, uh” Bonnie tried to revive the use of words, “actually, Dirk had some great ideas on how you could improve it for next time.”
“Oh really?” Skeptical eyes of life long musicians fell on the recently unemployed baseball player wearing Chuck Taylors and jeans. I was actually day dreaming about raiding the cheese plate when Bonnie spoke my name and nudged me forward into the pair. I looked back at Bonnie with a scolding frown, then turned to face the pair.
“Yeah,” I began, “I, ya know, I was just thinking that you guys could do a battle next time. Like, you know, a classical guitar-off, where two performers try to out do each other.”
Blank stares.
“Uh, the host, or somebody, could go up there and do the old applause-o-meter to decide the winner.” I put my right elbow on my left hand and pretended to use my right arm like a happiness gauge responding to imaginary applause, accenting the highs and lows with vivid facial expressions.
More blank stares.
“The looser, he should be dunked into a water tank or something. And the winner could get a… a…” I looked back at Bonnie, snapping my finger for a suggestion. She just shook her head at me to stop talking. “I don’t know,” I said, “a fruit basket or a collection of Twilight movies, or something.”
“But,” said the lady acquaintance attempting to play along so that I might not look like a complete ass, “the water would ruin their guitars.”
“Oh, you could hand them off to some stage hand” I said.
“Yes, I see” she said, but I didn’t believe her.
“Yeah, well, you know, you want to get this classical guitar stuff off the ground, you gotta think outside of the box, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Well, think about it.”
“We will” they said. “Oh, one of the performers is leaving. We really should say goodbye. Excuse us.” They gracefully segued out of our conversation, leaving Bonnie and I.
“I swear to God” I said, following the pair with my furrowed brows, “if I see them doing this idea on television and not giving me any credit, I’m gonna be pissed.”
“Oh…Well,” said Bonnie, “at least we didn’t have to pay to get in.”