Creative Corner

The basic motif of the open hotel suite was Hyatt bland and convention noisy. He hesitated at the door absently fingering the square nametag pinned to the breast pocket of his tan sports jacket proclaiming him Richard Mulvane, Recreation Professional. Inwardly flinching at the uneven harshness of a dozen simultaneous loud conversations, he momentarily stood watching the animated mosaic of pastel leisure suits, shiny nylons, corduroy three piecers, and polyester pantsuits.

Consciously fixing a small smile on his face and preceptibly squaring his slender shoulders, he entered the confusion, his pale blue eyes skipping quickly across the small groups looking for familiar faces. Recognizing no one but so-called professional acquaintances, he turned to the stylishly dressed matron dispensing variously colored drink tickets at a small table near the door.

"Two mixed drinks, please." He held out a five-dollar bill.

"There you are, sir." She handed him two orange tickets like those given for movie admissions and a dollar bill while favoring him with a porcelain smile that was cracking under the monotony of a long day and tired makeup.

"I appreciate it," he said warmly, trying to convey some empathy with a weary fellow traveler. She didn't seem to notice as she turned to her next customer.

Shrugging his shoulders and tucking one of the tickets into the front pocket of his brown slacks, he began working his way across the room to the small stand bar in the corner. Two harried and perspiring young bartenders of obvious Spanish descent wearing white cotton Nehru jackets struggled diligently to keep up with the waving tickets and shouted requests of the voluble throng pressing against the bar and each other.
Mulvane waited patiently and then holding the finally acquired drink high, made an uneven journey, replete with numerous empty smiles and 'excuse me's,' to an unoccupied corner. He sipped at his alleged Tom Collins, noting without surprise that it was colorless, odorless, and practically tasteless. Sighing, he leaned against the beige wall and wondered for the tenth time in the last fifteen minutes why he had chosen to attend this particular edition of convention tribal rites.

Following his habit of previous similar occasions, he began looking for a pretty girl to watch while he waited for someone to appear with whom he would exchange semi-shouted reminiscences and superficial descriptions of what each was currently doing. Almost immediately he noticed a determinately animated blonde holding court in a small circle of attentive young men. Being coy with practiced gestures, lively eyes, and a rather daring pink dress, she preened and postured enticingly enthralling the four young varlets attired in London Fog contemporary and twelve dollar razor cuts that surrounded her. Although he felt no desire to be part of the group ceremony, Mulvane liked to watch the young ones celebrate their youth and he smiled as he watched the young men unsuccessfully resisting repeated glances at the extensive tanned decolletage that flashed as the young siren attended to each of them in turn on what apparently was a non-discriminatory basis.

Conscious suddenly of feeling stared at, he shifted his gaze slightly, catching the eye of a considerably less flashy lady at the edge of the same group. He sensed a slight coloring of her face as she quickly dropped her eyes. She looked up, saw that he was still looking at her, and lowered her head again almost in confusion.

She was dressed rather conservatively, slender to the point of thinness, with dark hair that framed her face and fell into shoulder length waves. Her green corduroy dress was knee length and set off by a broad brown belt encircling her narrow waist and a matching pair of low-heeled pumps. Long legs, slender ankles, and delicate wrists, one decorated with a plain gold bracelet completed the ensemble. He guessed at brown eyes even though he couldn't tell for sure.

The blonde firecracker, apparently a friend to the lady in green, interrupted her performance long enough to empty the plastic glass she had been holding. Two of the young men reached for it like puppies for a milkbone, but seemed relieved when the raven haired girl took it instead. Although eager to serve, they apparently were not enthused about losing their position in the pawing circles around the blonde lest she bestow a favor in their absence. The slender lady, an empty glass in each hand, started across the room to the bar.

Impulsively, Rick downed the remnants of the tasteless Collins and pushed off from the wall. Through carefully timed hesitations he managed to arrive at the end of the bar line simultaneously with the girl he had labeled in his head Ms. G. (for green and gracious). Up close, the eyes were deep brown, the complexion almost translucent, with a light sprinkling of freckles dusting her high cheek bones and pert nose. Very, very nice. He sensed that she was aware of him although she kept her eyes focused on the burly flushed neck of the overweight gentleman in line in front of her. He glanced down at her nametag, took a deep breath, and clearing his throat awkwardly said, "Hi, Miss Doherty."

She looked at him briefly with a tentative glance and then looked down. "Hi."

He studied the clean white line of her part. "Having a good time?" He cringed at the inanity of his own remark.

"Yeah, sure. It's okay." She

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glanced at him again but returned her eyes quickly to Mr. Redneck who was waving his checked sleeve arms frantically in support of the proposition that real men drink beer instead of "sissy" mixed drinks.

They reached the head of the line and she told the unsmiling bartender what she wanted. Rick was frantic lest she get away. "I really would like to talk to you a little bit," he said with a rush as she turned away from the bar with a full drink in each hand. She hesitated, looking at the drinks in her hand. "Your friend's so busy she won't know if you don't come back for a minute."

She finally looked at him fully, this time holding her gaze and searching his face. "Okay— but I'll take Cindy's drink to her first."

"Fine."

He watched her make her way back across the room, hand the drink to the blonde and lean over to whisper something to her. The blonde looked across the room at him appraisingly, said something with a smile, and turned quickly back to her small legion of salivating admirers. The dark haired girl nodded, and started back across the room towards him gingerly avoiding the broad gestures of a bespecled park commissioner in a three piece suit who was loudly disclaiming the decline of civilization in general and the recreation profession in particular.

He watched as she approached him feeling an inward rush of excitement tinged with apprehension. As she reached him, he said, "I'm glad you came back."

Not hearing him against the noise of the room, she leaned toward him, a faint scent of Arpege accompanying her. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I said I think we need to go someplace where we can talk to each other without yelling."

She looked discomforted. "Well, I can't leave. I promised Cindy I wouldn't. We're supposed to go downtown for dinner pretty quick."

TRIBAL RITES

by James Kavanaugh Jr.

Signaling resigned acceptance with his head, he took her elbow and gesturing towards his original corner, began pulling her gently in that direction. As they reached the corner he turned to her, putting his back against the wall.

Glancing around the room and then leaning close to her dark hair, he said, "Convention parties are really hard to like."

"Why's that?"

"First of all, I hate shouting. On top of that, it's my experience that almost everyone turns into a bottle promptly at 8:30 p.m."

"Oh." She looked uncomfortable.

"Incidentally, my name's Rick and I hang around Cokevale educating young minds." His flippancy confused her.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I teach college." He was very conscious that the need to almost yell to be heard increased the potential embarrassment of spraying her with saliva and overtaxing his breath mints. "What do you do?"

"I work with handicapped kids at the park district in Flowerville," she replied.

"Are you good at it?" His voice was challenging.

Again she seemed momentarily taken aback and then she almost visibly straightened her back. "Yes, I think so." The tone was cool and she drew away from him.

Silently cursing himself for getting too cutesy confrontive, he quickly retreated into standard Convention 101 conversation. "Do you know Gayle Hunnicutt? She works with that program, doesn't she?"

"Why yes. She works with me." She was less anxious, but still distant. "Do you know her?"

"She was one of my students—and a friend. I haven't seen her here though."

"No. She didn't come."

The silence lengthened into awkwardness. Searching for something else to say that wouldn't scare her away, he looked around the room noticing that the blonde was still holding court. "It looks like your friend's having a great time."

"Yes, Cindy is very popular." The tone seemed wistful. He glanced back at her sharply.

"You sound like you envy her."

"No, not really—it's just that she's so easy with people." Her head was down and she ran one finger around the rim of her glass. He noted the absence of a ring on her left hand.

"Maybe," he said. "But you're prettier than she is."

She blushed, and with an awkward gesture, pushed back her shoulder length hair. "Why would you say something like that?"

"Only because it's true. Look," he said, his arms sweeping the room. "Look at all that plastic out there. Plastic badges, plastic glasses, and plastic smiles. You feel real to me." Inwardly he groaned again. That's it, dummy. Keep coming with the heavy lines—you'll scare her into the next county.

She didn't say anything but stood there still circling the edge of her glass. Her expression was pensive—or maybe indifferent.

He tried again. "You know the main reason that I hate meeting people at conventions, especially lady people?"

"No, why?" Her tone said she probably didn't care.

"It's like trying to meet a stewardess on an airplane, or an oral hygienist at the dentist office—or the receptionists at a business office. You get five minutes to convince someone you're interesting, bright, use deodorant regularly, and aren't

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Rites. . .From Page 31

on the make—even if you are. Conventions are the worst though," he concluded.

"Of course, you're one of the nice ones that just wants to be friendly." The tone was facetious but her eyes twinkled. Rick breathed a sign of relief thinking he hadn't lost her yet.

"Of course," he smiled ruefully. "Just call me friendly Rick."

She laughed then. He did, too, aware as he looked at the delicate curve of her throat that he was very close to being a liar about his pure intentions.

"I like meeting people for the first time at a mutual friend's house. Then you're introduced by somebody you both believe in and trust. And it kind of rubs off on the person you're meeting even if you don't know them." He paused, "You know what I mean?"

"I suppose so." She looked at him thoughtfully. "You know, you're a little strange." As soon as she said it, she covered her mouth quickly as if she wanted to take it back.

"Nope, not really," he grinned at her. "Mildly cynical perhaps, mildly cutesy maybe, and certainly nervous about approaching you. But not particularly strange." He stared thoughtfully at his glass swirling the ice in circles. "At least I don't think so."

Her eyes said she was taking an option on whether she believed it or not. She placed her hand lightly on his arm.

"Look, I have to go. Cindy's waving at me."

He nodded with resignation. "I don't suppose I could talk you into not going?"

"No, that wouldn't be right," she looked at him intently, her eyes brown and luminous. He was startled to find himself deciding that she had the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen. She started to move away and he reached for her taking her hand.

"How about tomorrow?"

"No. We're leaving early.

Listen, I really have to go." Her head was turned away and her hand passive in his.

"Sure. Have a good time," he said tiredly, letting go of her hand.

He stood there and watched her make her way to the impatient Cindy and then, as part of the group, move toward the entrance. She glanced back at him as she reached the door and he raised his glass in salute. He didn't know whether she saw the gesture or not.

He stood there for a moment slowly spinning the glass in his hand. Grimacing with distaste at the cloudy residue in the bottom, he set it down on the end table next to two others which had become havens for soggy cigarette butts. Making his way through the now less crowded room he paused briefly outside the door and then turned wearily down the long hall toward the elevator.

He wondered for the eleventh time in the last hour why he had chosen to attend this particular edition of convention tribal rites. *

James Kavanaugh Jr. is the non de plume of this issue's creative author who prefers to remain anonymous. We appreciate his contribution.

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