The Game of Bling

by Irving Greenfield

You know how it is when you're someplace where you don't want to be? That's exactly where I am, at a black tie Saturday night dinner and dance affair at Max's club on the North shore of Long Island with the Long Island Sound on one side and a magnificent eighteen-hole golf course on the other side. In between Sound and the golf course are carefully tended gardens full of late blooming flowers. Definitely Fitzgerald country.

        Ideal. Yes, For Max and June, his wife, and the other members of the club; but not for me. I'm not the black tie type, though I've been to enough black tie functions at Bridge College to be bored by them, as I am bored with this one. And I am certainly not the club type either. I eschew belonging to any type of a club, even "The Book of the Month Club,"

        Perhaps this is a kind of reverse snobbery? Whether it is or isn't doesn't bother me at all. What does bother me is that for the next several hours I'm going to be uncomfortable and unhappy, which means that by the end of the Saturday night dinner dance affair I'll be grumpy.

        So, why am I here if a black tie Saturday night dinner isn't my thing? My wife, Felicia, and June are friends. More specifically reacquainted friends after a hiatus of thirty-six years. June initiated the reconnection. Remembering that I taught philosophy, she used the Internet to track me down, eventually found my home phone number, and the rest, as the expression goes, is history.  

        I study my glass of vodka which, because of my dour mood, is half empty; it's my second in less than hour and I'm giving serious thought to having a third, when Max leans close to me and says, "I'm going to dance with that woman." With a quick movement of his head, he indicates the woman on the other side of the table and whispers, "A stunner isn't she?"

        I'm not sure what my reaction is supposed to be, so I make some sort of wordless sound that is neither approval nor disapproval. But I wonder why he thinks I'm interested in knowing with whom he dances? Ego, I think. He's telling me that he can do something that I can't as if he knows the something is also something that I want to do. I've never been a good dancer and wouldn't pretend to be. A slow Fox Trot has always been my preference to Felicia's distress, since she is or was, when she was younger, considered to be a good dancer. Besides—or maybe not besides, maybe more to the point—if I ever had Max's kind of competitiveness, I've left it well behind me.

        I look at the woman: she's attractive, her features finely chiseled, her figure lithe, and the emerald green dress she wears bares one shoulder and the convexity of her right breast. She's completely at ease; she's in her element in the same way that Max is. Both appear to be to the manor born, she because—and I'm guessing—may have come from a moneyed family and had married money and never knew anything else; and he because he was a "rich kid" when I first met him and managed to make more money importing Guano, bird shit, from Chile.

        She's years younger than her husband, the gray haired, dignified looking man sitting to her right and many years younger than her would be dancing partner who is sitting next to me. Compared to her, our wives are old crones, Max's more than mine. But old is old even though the erosion of the years since I first met Max has been kinder to him than to me, the tally is the same.

        I'm forced to let go of my lugubriousness and somewhat envious thoughts about Max because the man on the other side of me, who introduces himself as Sid and his wife, Helen, who is seated next to him, starts a conversation about the theater. We have seen several of the same plays and have enjoyed them. But even as we speak, I look at the woman again, specifically to one of the rings she has on the third finger of her left hand. It sparkles with diamond fire; a phrase used by my father to describe a perfect stone and even from across the table I could tell it was. Small, probably under a caret, and pear shaped it was surrounded by alternating begets of diamonds and emeralds.

        Because of my concentration on the ring, my brief conversation about the theater with Sid and Helen sputters to silence.

        The band begins to play; Max is up. I expect him to head for the woman across the table. But he surprises me and takes hold of June's hand. It's obvious to me that she'd rather sit and continue speaking to my wife than dance with her husband. He cajoles her on to the dance floor. The music is slow fox trot.

        Felicia leans across the empty chair and asks me if I'm all right.

        "After this, I may never be all right again."

        "Think of it as an educational experience; the opportunity to see how the other half or ten percent lives," she says.

        "Boring or, more precisely, I'm bored."

        "Then, enjoy being bored."

        "Even for misanthrope like me that's difficult."

         "Smile. Our hosts are coming back to the table," she says.

        "I'm experiencing torture and you expect me to smile?"

        She doesn't answer as Max and June return to their seats.

        The band picks up "Bessima Mucho," a Golden Oldie; Max is up, does a few steps and moves toward the woman across the table. Extending his hand to her, he asks her to dance; with a fluid movement she joins him. He's graceful and their bodies easily come together.

        I glance at June; she's speaking to Felicia, but the expression on her face is a combination of forbearance and pain, neither one overwhelming the other. My guess is that she's been the down the same road many time before and has learned to balance her emotions.

        Max and the woman occupy the middle of the dance floor. His footwork boarders on the professional and she follows his lead. He executes several dips that bring his face very close to the bare top of her breast. Her left leg is between his legs. The other dancers on the floor applaud them. The woman's face is expressionless; but not completely, along the jawline there's a hint of tautness.

        The dance ends and the other dances applaud them. They return to the table. As he gently hands the woman back to her husband, Max thanks her for the dance.

        "It was a pleasure," she answers, her voice is soft, contained. Perhaps that of a former actress or would be actress?

        The appetizer is served, followed by more music; then, the main course. Whenever the band plays, Max dances away from the table to find a partner.

        Once, when he returns, June says in Yiddish, "Genug is genug." Enough is enough.

        His anger flashes. "I'm having a good time," he snaps. She doesn't answer, and he slides away to find another partner.

        Just before dessert, the woman and her husband leave the table and move out on the dance floor. It's a slow dance; I don't recognize the tune. But when it's over, they return to the table; and for some inexplicable reason move from couple to couple to introduce themselves.

        "Doctor Miles and Daphne Groth," the woman says, as she approaches the four of us.

        Max takes it upon himself to introduce us. When he comes to me, I say, "I've been admiring your ring."

        She looks questioningly at me. She's wearing several different rings and doesn't know which one I'm referring to.

        "This one," I say, pointing to it. "It's beautiful."

        She flushes.

        That should have be my cue to back off, but I say, "I've been admiring it all evening,"

        My wife enters the conversation and explains that my father was a diamond dealer and some of his expertise rubbed off on me.

        "It's really nothing," Daphne says.

        "Several thousands of dollars of nothing," I respond.

        "I bought it for a few dollars on Lexington Avenue. It's really nothing."

        I shake my head. "The center stone is at least three quarters of a caret. Perhaps a bit more; it's gem quality." By this time, I have taken hold of her hand and look closely at the ring.

        Max enters the conversation with, "Ms.Groth ought to know the value of her ring."

        I look up at him; he's trying to smile.

        "More of a bling than ring," Daphne says.

        "Certainly, a bling," Max adds.

        I'm annoyed, though not because I've been contradicted; but because I don't want to play whatever game he's playing on his terms. I reach into my pocket and pull out a small jeweler's loupe. "My father's," I say. "I always keep it on me; it's kind of talisman."

        "There's no need to do that," her husband says.

        "Doctor, there's every need. If I'm wrong, I'll most humbly apologize."

        "Give him the ring," he tells his wife. The words are bitten off and spit out. He has either been in similar territory before, or I have aroused his suspicions. Either way he's a man bedeviled.

        I take the ring.  Sid and Helen, the other couple at the table, are silent; their attention is focused on me. I glance at June: the forbearance and pain still mark her face, but now her eyes glisten with fear. I hold a royal flush. Max knows it. Now, the Club means nothing. I'm the arbiter of his and Daphne's future. I take my time studying the ring. I want him to bleed.

        "So, what is it?" my wife asks.

        "Probably Zirconium," I answer, putting the loupe back in my pocket. "I apologize," I say and hand the ring to her.

        "An honest mistake," she says.

         I smile. "You're a gracious lady," I respond, but my eyes are on June.

         Everyone at the table relaxes and the Groth's return to their table.

         I look at Max. A slight smile is etched across his lips. He winks at me and I wink back. We're men of the world and each of us know the rules of the games that are played; our wives will speak to each other on the phone or meet for lunch, but Max and I will never meet again. He owes me, as a student of mine might say, "big time." It's a debt he can never pay and that gives me enormous satisfaction.