RESURRECT DEAD ON PLANET JUPiTER

Harpers

The Pew doesn’t fuck around. Although open and in operation for months, their Philadelphia Center for Arts and Heritage had its kickoff reception yesterday evening. For a series of sterol offices he space is really pretty amazing. Actually to be more accurate, it was really, really expensive. Glass walls everywhere, state of the art tech and conference room equipment and a confounding, yet strangely impressive architectural design. The 270 degree, 18th floor skyline view didn’t hurt either.

For those interested, the center combines the Pew’s Arts and Culture projects here in the Delaware Valley. Google it if you’re interested in the details. It’s really a great place that does good things and all that… but it doesn’t make for an interesting story.

My favorite moment was personal. It also demonstrated the maturity I’ve developed since early adolescence. Apparently the things that used to fuel my youthful insecurities now just amuse me immensely.

*

The reason I was at the Pew’s PCAH in the first place was my girlfriend, Liza. She works for one of the Pew’s 7 tentacles of the Arts here in Philly. With the promise of fine catered hors d’ouevres, interesting company and fine wine I decided to head on over after work.

After an hour or so, I wandered off on my own to take in the sights, sounds and tastes of the gathered elite. After making a large and meandering loop of the party I spotted Liza at the end of the hall talking to an enthuastic looking young man. Judging by body language, he was trying to impress her. She looked comfortable and the catering staff had just broken out the Pinot Noir, so I decided to make my way around the party one more time.

Twenty minutes later, I checked back to see how Liza was doing. I found her in the same spot as before, the man in the same pose, speaking animatedly. A glint of hope shone in his eye. After a moment’s deliberation, I decided to approach. As I walked the long hallway towards the two of them, I felt an uncomfortable scene coming on. Whoever this guy was, my presence was going to thoroughly disrupt his plans. The consequences were unpredictable.

I decided to ride it like a wave. In a second I was next to Liza, having injected myself into this poor bastard’s pick-up attempt with the grace of a sack of sand to the back of the head.

The man, processing my sudden appearance with a strangely exaggerated sense of befuddlement, went awkwardly silent. His eyes started darting back and forth, sweat materializing on his brow. I smiled a friendly and genuine smile and said absolutely nothing. Liza said to me, “He’s a writer for Harpers.”

Impressive indeed!

“Oh” said Harpers. (you could hear his voice deflate) He swept a finger pointed from the hip, back and forth between Liza and myself, “this must be your boyfriend.” (I found out later that Liza had told Harpers of my admiration for his magazine)

“Um hmm.” Said Liza cheerily, “This is Steve.” Being largely oblivious to the nature of male posturing, she sensed a change, but couldn’t place its raison d’être.

“Hello.” Said Harpers, his confusion quickly turning to pure fear. He laughed nervously and for no reason. The color had fallen out of his face. He was going all blotchy. A lump in his throat began pulsing up and down his neck. He was starting to make me uncomfortable.

I tried my best to be friendly and told him that I loved Harpers Magazine and that I’ve kept a subscription to it for several years. I asked what he had last written.

But my attempt to lighten the mood didn’t work. As Harpers struggled to explain the thesis of his last published article for one of America’s oldest and most esteemed intellectual periodicals, I started to feel a little sorry for him. His light-hearted conversation with Liza had precipitously ended and here he was having a far more uncomfortable conversation with me. But I was honestly fascinated. I do love Harpers Magazine. I listened intently and with authentic interest. It turned out he wasn’t a writer for Harper’s like he told Liza, but instead, just a freelancer who was lucky enough to have several articles published by the magazine. Although (or possibly because) I’ve never had an article published by Harpers myself, I was disappointed he wasn’t an editor or something more exciting.

His fear was changing into something else entirely now. It looked a little like guilt, or anger. A caterer came by with a silver tray of bite-size crab cakes. We all eagerly plucked one from the tray’s fancy doily. The caterer offered napkins. Harpers joked anxiously, “I already have one” presenting a thin, moist ball of pressure worn tissue paper from an unclenched palm. “Trying to conserve” he said as the caterer went on her way down the hall with her tray of miniature crab cakes.

And then it was the 3 of us again. Over the next few minutes, we forged our way through half an hour of so of conversation before Harpers realized – apparently quite suddenly – that he was free to leave whenever he pleased. Once this realization was born, he was gone in an instant. I saw him one other time that evening. I was making my way towards a cheese tray; he was listening to a tall young man in tweed talk about Shakespeare. He glanced sidelong at me before averting his attention from my friendly hello.

*

Later that night, Liza was genuinely shocked when I suggested that Harpers was trying to pick her up. “I don’t think so” she said.

“No.” I said. “His intentions were about as subtle as a train wreck.”

“Really…? No.”

*

At another time, I might have felt the irrationality of jealousy, or the fear of professional inadequacy in the face of a competitive male of greater credentials. Actually, in the past, in similar situations, I’ve felt exactly those things. What a shame! Bald amusement is infinitely more satisfying. That’s all for now.