Highbrow Hill

I remember, years ago when I was just starting high school, praying to God, asking Him to please make my life a great big adventure--such that you'd never be able to look at me and say, "Now there goes a perfectly ordinary sort of fellow."

Shelly, Josie, Candie and I (the Official Eventual Chri--Holiday Party Planning Committee) were to meet at Mr. Archibald's house yesterday evening to discuss our ideas for the party entertainment. Josie suddenly took sick so she couldn't go. Then Shelly asked Candie if we really needed her to be there to present our ideas to Mr. Archibald. Candie said no, so Shelly bailed too.

So Candie and I drove together to Highbrow Hill, a suburb of Everycity that the elite call home. Only the very wealthy, the very powerful, or the very famous live on Highbrow Hill. They even have their own police force which patrols the thoroughfares, making sure that the quality folk stay in--and the riff-raff stays out.

We arrived at Mr. Archibald's impressive mini-mansion and went inside. Mr. Archibald seemed even smaller than usual as he stood in the expansive hallway. In fact, everything looked huge except him. You'd think that short people would build miniature houses so they'd feel bigger. But I guess living in a dollhouse wouldn't send a very powerful message to one's neighbors. So the Titanic it is.

I always knew that the people who work for Eventual--really work, not just filing papers and answering phones--made lots of money, but I guess I never realized what that money could do until I experienced the sheer magnificence of this house. Mini-mansion nothing! I'm pretty sure this was an actual mansion. Vaulted ceilings? Check. Huge rooms? Check. Expensive furniture and artwork? Check. Dance studio on the third floor? Check.

Mr. Archibald and his wife quickly pressed us with brimming wine glasses and brie (yes...brie) and Candie and I pitched our new and improved idea for the party entertainment: Eventual employee's letters to Santa. But we added a twist! I decided to appeal to my co-workers' competative natures by turning the whole thing into a game. Candie and I would read the silly letters and they would have to shout out who they thought the letter belonged to.

Mr. Archibald loved it. Candie, slightly tipsy from the chardonnay and excited to have the approval of this usually frightening little man, opened her mouth and regailed Mr. Archibald and his wife with all sorts of stories that she probably shouldn't have told...including the one about how Queen III smuggled four bottles of beer out of last year's Christmas party in the sleeves of her faux fur coat. When Mrs. Archibald said, "Oh, honey, remember when we used to do things like that?" I felt at once that we all might--just might--be kindred spirits.

You see, the Archibalds used to be prima-ballerinas for the New York ballet. No. I'm dead serious. Mr. Archibald went into a ballet class his senior year in college (some Ivy league school that's so elite I haven't even heard of it) in an attempt to capture the affections of a girl he liked. The rest is history.

Mrs. Archibald asked Candie and myself if we would like to stay for dinner. I don't think Candie realized that a free meal was probably the closest thing we were going to get to some kind of actual payment for our services, because she politely declined, saying she had other plans.

"Well," began "Archie", addressing yours truly, "Would you like to stay for dinner? I can take you back to your car later." (I left my car at Candie's apartment so we could ride together.)

"Uhh..." I said. If I left I wouldn't have to endure being at the mercy of my boss and his wife. If I stayed, I might get some inside dope about life in New York and maybe do a little networking.

"Sure, why not?" I said.

And so I sat down to dinner with the Archibalds in their great, grand home on Highbrow Hill.

Their son said maybe two words the entire evening and quickly excused himself. Mrs. Archibald, however, was very chatty and pleasant and kept my wine glass filled at all times.

They told me stories about when they were in the New York ballet and the tours they would go on. They always thought it was funny that people would treat them like stars and let them stay in their huge homes in neighborhoods even more high-class than Highbrow Hill.

"It was fun for a while," said Mrs. Archibald, "But I was always bothered by the fact that we were just staying at these huge homes--that they weren't mine. "

I was about to say to her that that was the whole fun of it; leaving the theatre after a performance and having people point at you and whisper excitedly, being invited to big champagne parties, staying in million-dollar homes--when you know good and well that you're no better than some schlemiel pushing papers on the 42nd floor of some skyscraper somewhere.

I didn’t get to say any of those things, however. Mr. Archibald noticed that my plate was empty and said abruptly, “Let’s take you back to your car now.” I thanked Mrs. Archibald for a nice evening and followed Mr. Archibald into the garage.

He pointed at the convertible and I got in. We sped out of there as though we were leaving the Batcave. Mr. Archibald made the comment that he was always afraid he was going to run over a jogger in that little car. I laughed nervously. I forgot that, when a driver has short-man syndrome, a car ride is a particularly harrowing experience. We made small talk as Mr. Archibald zoomed to the base of Highbrow Hill. Suddenly, the conversation stopped completely.

"This your car?" Mr. Archibald asked, pointing to a gold one with fuzzy dice. I said that it was and he promptly dumped me off, then sped into the darkness with little more than an impatient “’Night.”

I was still pretty excited about the evening, thinking how fun it would be to tell my friends about my teddibly fashionable dinner with the swells of Everycity (it probably had something to do with the three glasses of chardonnay). But as I thought about the quick and downright cold conclusion to it all, I got a little weirded out. It was just so…odd. Had I done something wrong? Was I really not as charming and funny as I thought I was?

Maybe he just needed to go to the bathroom.