So, here we are, at the big kids table. Everyone’s here, just kind of looking at each other, talking politely—no politics or religion!—and waiting for the seats to be filled. Wait, who’s that guy that looks like a caricature of a human carrot? Is he wearing suspenders? You hear someone a few seats away say, “that’s the new guy, look at him. He’s got a great personality.” After only a couple of minutes, you hear this “new guy” talk too loud and laugh obnoxiously. What a cretin, you think, as you cast a knowing glance in the direction of your peers.
You quickly learn through guarded whispers and subtle nudges that this is the patriarch of a new family in town, and he seeks admittance into your very exclusive club. Looks around the table are ranging from worry to unease to adulation; it appears that it’s going to take some work to first shut this guy up, and next get him the hell out of here. And did he just kill the Woodford?
Dinner ends and everyone is milling about, drinking cocktails (now Old Forester…I hate the new guy) and discussing the best way to play 11 (cut the corner). Suddenly, a booming voice calls out from behind you,
You turn and see an abrasively outfitted man, sweating, with a grin on his face fit for a villainous cartoon character.
“The wife said I should be ‘dressed to the nines.’ You know, to get the attention of you stiffs,” he says, slapping you on the back too hard and throwing his head back in laughter.
“Hey, I’m just bustin’ some balls! You guys heard this one…”
As the new guy launches into a string of rehearsed jokes, you drift away mentally from the conversation. Who is this guy? If he’s really as awesome as he thinks he is, why does he keep shouting at us? There has to be a way to show him…
“…Make himself some teeth out of Monopoly pieces…,” you hear him bellowing, as you concoct a plan to make him understand.
Mercifully, his comedy routine has come to a close.
“Heard those from some wart named Chris Tomlin. Guy’s a card!”
Again, you enter the recesses of your own mind. I need to show him. Just as you drift deeper into thought, you hear the new guy bragging, again, but this time about his new Toyota Supra. Finally, it hits you.
“Hey new guy, let’s take a walk” you hear yourself shout, as the group turns. You realize that while tranced, you’d drifted several steps away. Probably due to the smell; my, he sweats a LOT.
He steps towards you apprehensively, and you, calm and confident, lead him towards the members lot. You ignore his small talk, which, due to the volume and intensity, isn’t really small at all. Then, under the moon’s warm glow, you, cockier than you’d planned, point to a shiny Ferrari.
“Stop talking, new guy,” you say, dripping with condescension and attitude you didn’t realize you could muster. The look on his face is pure astonishment.
“I have seven of these. Seven.”
“I…I had no idea. You never mentioned anything about it…”
“I don’t have to, new guy. That’s my point. Everyone who’s anyone already knows. I don’t have to tell them. Now, leave my club and go do something with yourself, then we may consider letting you in. But for god’s sake, just stop talking so damn much.”
You feel a fleeting tinge of sorrowful regret as the new guy buries his head and slowly walks into the night. Was I too harsh? No, no. He needed to learn. You walk back to your group, each of them knowing what transpired, but reluctant to discuss. Just as you are feeling comfortable again in your club, the pimply-faced neanderthal, Louis, who got in through a loophole, in your opinion, joins the circle.
“Hey, where’s the new guy?”
“He had to leave to, um, do something,” you say, snarkily, whilst your peers stifle chuckles.
“Oh,” Louis retorts, “well, I hope he gets in. I just love his style!”