//creative//
Fall 2020
Fall 2020
Louise in Line
Jackson Schwartz
Harold and I are happy to spend our Thursday evening celebrating with Clara and Todd, though I’m not quite sure if their little gathering merits this paranoid spectacle. We’re waiting in line. In line! It’s an important day for them, of course, but for heaven’s sake, this is Southampton Village not a downtown nightclub for sorority girls. The circumstances, I know, call for extraordinary measures, and we’re lucky the Whitefield’s have been authorized to host such an event. But frankly, you don’t marry a surgeon and buy a house in Southampton to have to deal with such extraordinary measures.
The line hugs the side of the Whitefields’ magnificent garden. A velvet rope and red carpet trace the way, careening around the fountains, through the rose trellis, and against the hedge that curves around towards the entrance of the house. Stone figurines line the passageway, prophetically marking the six feet of distance required between the guests. Awaiting us at the door to the house is a team of doctors and nurses, clad in plastic protective armor and swimming in cotton swabs and empty vials.
It’s Clara and Todd’s twentieth wedding anniversary, and surely the occasion calls for some trifle of celebration, though I doubt all of the fuss is really necessary.
The Whitefield house poses above us condescendingly, its marble staircase leading up to the veranda, where healthy guests are finally permitted to unmask themselves as they’re offered a cocktail. At which point, Clara, stunning as she is, comes out to greet them, giving each guest a hug and a kiss as she ushers them into the lavish entryway. If I squint, I can get a peek inside before the doors swing shut.
But I won’t complain. I can’t be the one to make a scene, because the Whitefields’ son Tyler just finished his graduate program at Dartmouth and he and my daughter Samantha will be getting engaged when he moves back home at the end of the summer. I can’t be the one to ruffle any feathers before that.
“Are you alright, dear?”
Harold places a hand on my back.
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
“I know. Awful, isn’t it?”
“It sounds worse than it is.”
“No, not the coughing -- I mean the line.”
“Oh, yes, the line. Well, it wouldn’t have been so awful if we’d arrived at seven-thirty.”
“I told you. I couldn’t find my tie.”
“Well, forget about it. The purple is still dashing as ever.”
“If only it could dash away all of these people.”
I cackle in laughter, and he smirks in that bashful, satisfied way he does when he knows he’s really tickled me. At least I have him to keep me company during this god-awful wait.
But the line is not budging. We’ve been standing next to the topiary display of the Whitefields’ dog Miranda for over ten minutes now! It’s one thing to make your acquaintances wait, those people you see once every few months; that’s understandable. Who knows where Alison and Patrick Moss have been? Or the Beauforts? But, to have me and Harold wait in this same line with them? I mean, I just hope all of this nonsense is finished by the time we start planning the wedding, because I will not waste my time bargaining with Clara about how many people we can invite to the reception.
Anyway, I need to get up there soon, because my diamond-studded mask is starting to feel like a boulder weighing down on my neck. The awed looks and pockets of gasps I got upon arrival are worth the pain, but, goodness, I’m stiff. I’m getting these shooting pains across the nape of my neck and down my shoulders, like what I felt in my knees and elbows playing tennis last Wednesday. Ironic, isn’t it? I get a bad case of tennis elbow during just the summer that I’d most like to be out on the court.
And it’s not just about finding something to do these days. Tennis with Clara is the perfect opportunity to talk about Tyler, who played first singles at Dartmouth before he graduated. Clara is just dying for him to come home already so that he can propose to Samantha! The whole process is becoming very messy, though, what with Tyler and all of the drugs. We’ve been waiting for him to get discharged from rehab for months! It’s really just selfish, if you ask me, for him to be putting us, and his family, through such a headache.
Samantha has been lovely, though, I must say, I haven’t heard her complain about it once. Just the same sweet, thoughtful disposition she’s had since she was a little girl. The other day she came to me in tears: “Mom, I heard Tyler relapsed the other day. I really hope he’s okay.” Can you believe it? Nothing about how long he’s made her wait. How uncomfortable it will be to tell people why they have to delay the engagement. She’s really an angel. As soon as she stops harping on about this whole lesbianism thing, she’ll practically be at the altar!
“Louise. Are you alright?”
I’m already getting flustered again just thinking about the whole situation, and I’ve erupted into another fit of coughing.
“I’m fine. This damn tickle in my throat.”
It’s an incredibly delicate matter, really. If this godforsaken line ever moves I may be able to get in there and at least talk to Clara about it. She’s been so dodgy about the topic recently, even though they’re practically engaged. I just wish Samantha had never made that foolish declaration at the Christmas party in December. It was so immature, especially with Tyler standing right there. Nonetheless, it was unacceptable for her to announce that she was moving in with her quote-unquote “girlfriend”!
Samantha’s always had such an active imagination. I must remind Clara of that when I get into this party. I should talk to her about the two of them, tell her that Samantha hasn’t been able to keep Tyler’s name out of her mouth since she found out he’s in rehab again. It just warms my heart to hear her swooning over him, and I know it will calm Clara’s nerves.
As soon as I can get to the front door, that is. The line is really becoming quite the irritation, but I will not be the one to make a scene. If there is drama at this party, and I’m certain there will be, Harold and I will not be the ones to cause it.
“Are you alright, darling? You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine, thank you. Do you feel that chill?”
“No.”
“The temperature just dropped about five degrees!”
“It didn’t. Do we need to leave?”
“Enough of that, Harold. We’re staying.”
“Well, please, try to get a hold of yourself. We have onlookers.”
I’m not sure what about my response to the evening chill has gotten everyone so worked up about. I simply must get into this house before I become ill with hypothermia.
I break from the line, walking away from the hedge and toward the main driveway to check what in the world is going on at the front.
“Louise,” Harold spits at me.
“Harold, please.” I turn back to reassure him. “I’m just going to see what is taking so long.”
“Louise, no. It’s been moving along. Please don’t disrupt the path they’ve set up.”
He’s trying to be polite, but I see little reason to at this point, so I climb over the velvet rope and make my way towards the driveway.
“Louise, come back here!” His words are soft but cutting.
I make it to the driveway, and I can’t find anything noticeably wrong, but now I’m really feeling flushed from the pace of my walk. I feel a line of sweat forming down my back, and my cheeks are scalding hot. It’s like I was never even cold to begin with, like I’ve never known anything but the heat rising through my body and forming little beads of sweat on my hairline. This mask is really becoming intolerable now. I’m practically suffocating, and the rough fabric scratches at my ears. I try to swallow, but I’m parched. I reach up to take it off.
“Louise, no!” Harold calls out.
“Harold, please. I’m uncomfortable.” People begin to scowl and turn away from me, and a murmur runs through the crowd. But it’s glorious. I’m able to breath again! It’s like the flowers in the garden are blooming for the first time since we got here. For a moment I forget about the people staring at me, and about Tyler and Samantha, and about how badly I need to get into the party tonight. I take a deep breath and the air carries hints of roses, lilacs, and lavender. I can almost feel the soft, waxy petals in my hands and on my face.
It’s sickening though, the scent. Sickeningly sweet. Now that I’ve foregone my mask, I can barely swallow without feeling the nasty odor crawl down my throat and into my gut. I fall with my hands on my knees and begin to heave.
“Louise!”
“NOT NOW!” I shout. My voice is shrill and screeching. Even I can hear it.
But these flowers do revolt me, and as I pick up my head I see some of the doctors and nurses standing around me, clad head to toe in blue plastic protective gear.
“Miss, please. We’re going to have to ask you to vacate the premises.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I respond.
“Quickly, please. You’re exhibiting symptoms of -- ”
“I’m sorry, I can put my mask back on, I was just a trifle hot.” I reach down to the grass and labor to pick up the heavy thing.
“Miss, it’s not the mask. Please let us escort you out of here.” I notice people staring.
“Please, everyone. I am alright! I am feeling alright.”
“Louise.” Harold. My white knight, coming to my rescue in his dashing purple tie to tell these vile people that I am not a threat. Coming to release me from --
“Louise. Now. We need to leave right now.”
“NO!” A leech. I can’t even bear to look at him, and it’s so hot I feel like my blood is about to leak out of my skin.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the doctor lift a cellphone to his ear.
“Hi, yes, Ms Whitefield we have a guest here who is refusing to --”
I lunge at him, trying to rip the phone out of his hand.
But I must keep my calm
“Oh, my mistake. I’m sorry sir. That was extremely rude of me. Please forgive me. There’s no need to call Clara anywhere. We don’t need to talk to Clara today, I’ll leave! Look, I’m leaving.” I begin to gather my purse and put my mask back on.
As I stand up, Harold tries to reach for my hand but I rip it away -- the betrayal!
But I walk with him down the hedge, past our place in line, very calmly because I will not make a scene. And we pass all the people who were behind us, who avert their eyes, sighing and smirking as I bite my tongue to silence my fury.
Harold glances at me, and I can barely tolerate occupying the same stride as him. He hasn’t been able to keep his composure tonight, not one bit. He cost us our spot, cost me the one night of elegant socializing I’ve been deprived of for the past five months!
And Clara. I must tell Clara. Samantha can’t keep Tyler’s name out of her mouth!
I turn and make a run for it. Through the sweat and the pain in my legs, over the heaving cough and worried gasps, I can almost hear Clara’s lilting voice: “Louise, how lovely it is to see you tonight.”
//JACKSON SCHWARTZ is a first year in Columbia College. He can be reached at jbs2256@columbia.edu.
The line hugs the side of the Whitefields’ magnificent garden. A velvet rope and red carpet trace the way, careening around the fountains, through the rose trellis, and against the hedge that curves around towards the entrance of the house. Stone figurines line the passageway, prophetically marking the six feet of distance required between the guests. Awaiting us at the door to the house is a team of doctors and nurses, clad in plastic protective armor and swimming in cotton swabs and empty vials.
It’s Clara and Todd’s twentieth wedding anniversary, and surely the occasion calls for some trifle of celebration, though I doubt all of the fuss is really necessary.
The Whitefield house poses above us condescendingly, its marble staircase leading up to the veranda, where healthy guests are finally permitted to unmask themselves as they’re offered a cocktail. At which point, Clara, stunning as she is, comes out to greet them, giving each guest a hug and a kiss as she ushers them into the lavish entryway. If I squint, I can get a peek inside before the doors swing shut.
But I won’t complain. I can’t be the one to make a scene, because the Whitefields’ son Tyler just finished his graduate program at Dartmouth and he and my daughter Samantha will be getting engaged when he moves back home at the end of the summer. I can’t be the one to ruffle any feathers before that.
“Are you alright, dear?”
Harold places a hand on my back.
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
“I know. Awful, isn’t it?”
“It sounds worse than it is.”
“No, not the coughing -- I mean the line.”
“Oh, yes, the line. Well, it wouldn’t have been so awful if we’d arrived at seven-thirty.”
“I told you. I couldn’t find my tie.”
“Well, forget about it. The purple is still dashing as ever.”
“If only it could dash away all of these people.”
I cackle in laughter, and he smirks in that bashful, satisfied way he does when he knows he’s really tickled me. At least I have him to keep me company during this god-awful wait.
But the line is not budging. We’ve been standing next to the topiary display of the Whitefields’ dog Miranda for over ten minutes now! It’s one thing to make your acquaintances wait, those people you see once every few months; that’s understandable. Who knows where Alison and Patrick Moss have been? Or the Beauforts? But, to have me and Harold wait in this same line with them? I mean, I just hope all of this nonsense is finished by the time we start planning the wedding, because I will not waste my time bargaining with Clara about how many people we can invite to the reception.
Anyway, I need to get up there soon, because my diamond-studded mask is starting to feel like a boulder weighing down on my neck. The awed looks and pockets of gasps I got upon arrival are worth the pain, but, goodness, I’m stiff. I’m getting these shooting pains across the nape of my neck and down my shoulders, like what I felt in my knees and elbows playing tennis last Wednesday. Ironic, isn’t it? I get a bad case of tennis elbow during just the summer that I’d most like to be out on the court.
And it’s not just about finding something to do these days. Tennis with Clara is the perfect opportunity to talk about Tyler, who played first singles at Dartmouth before he graduated. Clara is just dying for him to come home already so that he can propose to Samantha! The whole process is becoming very messy, though, what with Tyler and all of the drugs. We’ve been waiting for him to get discharged from rehab for months! It’s really just selfish, if you ask me, for him to be putting us, and his family, through such a headache.
Samantha has been lovely, though, I must say, I haven’t heard her complain about it once. Just the same sweet, thoughtful disposition she’s had since she was a little girl. The other day she came to me in tears: “Mom, I heard Tyler relapsed the other day. I really hope he’s okay.” Can you believe it? Nothing about how long he’s made her wait. How uncomfortable it will be to tell people why they have to delay the engagement. She’s really an angel. As soon as she stops harping on about this whole lesbianism thing, she’ll practically be at the altar!
“Louise. Are you alright?”
I’m already getting flustered again just thinking about the whole situation, and I’ve erupted into another fit of coughing.
“I’m fine. This damn tickle in my throat.”
It’s an incredibly delicate matter, really. If this godforsaken line ever moves I may be able to get in there and at least talk to Clara about it. She’s been so dodgy about the topic recently, even though they’re practically engaged. I just wish Samantha had never made that foolish declaration at the Christmas party in December. It was so immature, especially with Tyler standing right there. Nonetheless, it was unacceptable for her to announce that she was moving in with her quote-unquote “girlfriend”!
Samantha’s always had such an active imagination. I must remind Clara of that when I get into this party. I should talk to her about the two of them, tell her that Samantha hasn’t been able to keep Tyler’s name out of her mouth since she found out he’s in rehab again. It just warms my heart to hear her swooning over him, and I know it will calm Clara’s nerves.
As soon as I can get to the front door, that is. The line is really becoming quite the irritation, but I will not be the one to make a scene. If there is drama at this party, and I’m certain there will be, Harold and I will not be the ones to cause it.
“Are you alright, darling? You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine, thank you. Do you feel that chill?”
“No.”
“The temperature just dropped about five degrees!”
“It didn’t. Do we need to leave?”
“Enough of that, Harold. We’re staying.”
“Well, please, try to get a hold of yourself. We have onlookers.”
I’m not sure what about my response to the evening chill has gotten everyone so worked up about. I simply must get into this house before I become ill with hypothermia.
I break from the line, walking away from the hedge and toward the main driveway to check what in the world is going on at the front.
“Louise,” Harold spits at me.
“Harold, please.” I turn back to reassure him. “I’m just going to see what is taking so long.”
“Louise, no. It’s been moving along. Please don’t disrupt the path they’ve set up.”
He’s trying to be polite, but I see little reason to at this point, so I climb over the velvet rope and make my way towards the driveway.
“Louise, come back here!” His words are soft but cutting.
I make it to the driveway, and I can’t find anything noticeably wrong, but now I’m really feeling flushed from the pace of my walk. I feel a line of sweat forming down my back, and my cheeks are scalding hot. It’s like I was never even cold to begin with, like I’ve never known anything but the heat rising through my body and forming little beads of sweat on my hairline. This mask is really becoming intolerable now. I’m practically suffocating, and the rough fabric scratches at my ears. I try to swallow, but I’m parched. I reach up to take it off.
“Louise, no!” Harold calls out.
“Harold, please. I’m uncomfortable.” People begin to scowl and turn away from me, and a murmur runs through the crowd. But it’s glorious. I’m able to breath again! It’s like the flowers in the garden are blooming for the first time since we got here. For a moment I forget about the people staring at me, and about Tyler and Samantha, and about how badly I need to get into the party tonight. I take a deep breath and the air carries hints of roses, lilacs, and lavender. I can almost feel the soft, waxy petals in my hands and on my face.
It’s sickening though, the scent. Sickeningly sweet. Now that I’ve foregone my mask, I can barely swallow without feeling the nasty odor crawl down my throat and into my gut. I fall with my hands on my knees and begin to heave.
“Louise!”
“NOT NOW!” I shout. My voice is shrill and screeching. Even I can hear it.
But these flowers do revolt me, and as I pick up my head I see some of the doctors and nurses standing around me, clad head to toe in blue plastic protective gear.
“Miss, please. We’re going to have to ask you to vacate the premises.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I respond.
“Quickly, please. You’re exhibiting symptoms of -- ”
“I’m sorry, I can put my mask back on, I was just a trifle hot.” I reach down to the grass and labor to pick up the heavy thing.
“Miss, it’s not the mask. Please let us escort you out of here.” I notice people staring.
“Please, everyone. I am alright! I am feeling alright.”
“Louise.” Harold. My white knight, coming to my rescue in his dashing purple tie to tell these vile people that I am not a threat. Coming to release me from --
“Louise. Now. We need to leave right now.”
“NO!” A leech. I can’t even bear to look at him, and it’s so hot I feel like my blood is about to leak out of my skin.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the doctor lift a cellphone to his ear.
“Hi, yes, Ms Whitefield we have a guest here who is refusing to --”
I lunge at him, trying to rip the phone out of his hand.
But I must keep my calm
“Oh, my mistake. I’m sorry sir. That was extremely rude of me. Please forgive me. There’s no need to call Clara anywhere. We don’t need to talk to Clara today, I’ll leave! Look, I’m leaving.” I begin to gather my purse and put my mask back on.
As I stand up, Harold tries to reach for my hand but I rip it away -- the betrayal!
But I walk with him down the hedge, past our place in line, very calmly because I will not make a scene. And we pass all the people who were behind us, who avert their eyes, sighing and smirking as I bite my tongue to silence my fury.
Harold glances at me, and I can barely tolerate occupying the same stride as him. He hasn’t been able to keep his composure tonight, not one bit. He cost us our spot, cost me the one night of elegant socializing I’ve been deprived of for the past five months!
And Clara. I must tell Clara. Samantha can’t keep Tyler’s name out of her mouth!
I turn and make a run for it. Through the sweat and the pain in my legs, over the heaving cough and worried gasps, I can almost hear Clara’s lilting voice: “Louise, how lovely it is to see you tonight.”
//JACKSON SCHWARTZ is a first year in Columbia College. He can be reached at jbs2256@columbia.edu.