Last Sunday I was a guest on the Opening Arguments Book Club, where my book was featured. (Join Here.) During our discussion the notion of cocktail parties came up, and the host, attorney Matt Cameron, said something that I heard as "Gahs are a nightmare." I didn't know the word so I let it pass, but later I watched the recording and realized he said, understandably, that "Galas are a nightmare." Yes! Yes, indeed! If I had heard the word properly, I would have had a story.
About ten years ago, long before learning I am autistic, my wife and I attended a gala for a very good cause organized by two very nice people. It was held in a huge, black curtained warehouse, with loud music, strobe lights and lots of stray joyous noise. At some point after doing my duty I sought refuge near the bar. My plan was to escape as soon as possible and roam the neighborhood until my wife was ready to go.
So there I was, drinking my drink, biding my time, drinking, biding, drinking, and planning my Irish Exit--when suddenly, maybe fifty feet away, I saw one of the organizers dancing her way towards me in the most extravagant way possible, arms akimbo, alternating feet sliding towards me, like a military drone coming in for the kill. The song was The Commodores' "Brick House."
I suppose I looked lonely. I wasn't. I was desperate.
Decades before that I got a free ticket to one of Seattle's best theater companies. I arrived early and got a front row seat. Only when seated did I realize I had come to an audience participation workshop! I sat frozen in terror until the featured instructor, a nationally famous actor and clown, threatened to come in my direction.
He looked at me. I shook my head. He looked concerned and puzzled but kept coming. I shook my head harder. He kept coming! Finally, I stuck my foot out and he got the message, turned quickly, and attacked the person next to me, who was delighted.
As the brick house tangoed towards me I tried the head shaking to no avail as she began dancing around me in a circle. Finally I just turned and walked away.
I'm not sure this woman had ever been rejected. She was not happy. She danced away. I felt rude, but relieved.
And then, when I could breathe, I looked up to see her husband, dancing to my rescue! Alas, I was as rude to him as I'd been to his wife. I don't think he'd been rejected much, either.
My last gala!
And last time I ever saw those two nice people.
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