Jack Livings - The Blizzard Party

Leave it to me to find the climatologist in the crowd, he said.

Just a crusty old sea dog, my mother said.

The fox hat said, That man over there, bald, tweed, don’t everyone look at once, come on, guys. You’ll never believe it, but that’s Lee Warshaw.

Where? said the husband.

There, bald, tweed jacket.

The guy who?

Speaking of drowning within sight of Madagascar.

The second man looked at my mother, shot his eyebrows, shrugged.

Um—he was—do you want to? my mother said to the hat.

Lee Warshaw. Lee Warshaw? No?

The man laughed and shook his head. I don’t follow sports.

Oh dear god, what sport would Lee Warshaw play? HA! the fox hat said. She did not laugh so much as bark the word itself.

Distance swimming? the husband said.

For Christ’s sake, Terry, the wife said, slugging him in the arm. He’s standing right there.

Paging Warshaw! Warshaw to the lifeboats! the husband announced in the direction of Lee Warshaw, who did not indicate that he’d heard.

Oh my god, shut up, you fuckwit! his wife said, pounding him on the chest while he laughed and dodged, wiggling his drink overhead like a maraca. The other three members of the group all leaned back. Lee Warshaw did then turn slightly, having caught sight of the lofted drink, and he smiled and waved his glass, and my mother saw that he had the eyes of a beagle, trustworthy but mournful. He raised his free hand to the woman in the fox hat, who waved back and gave him the teeth.

Lee Warshaw, she said. Lee Warshaw? The banker? Come on, she said, all before she’d even dropped her hand. He was on that charter flight that went down in the Caribbean. She turned her attention back to the second man. How did you not read about this, you dummy?

I’m functionally illiterate, he said.

Fox hat laughed again: HA!

He was the only survivor, the fox hat said. His firm’s entire executive suite was on the plane.

Domestic executive suite, the husband corrected.

Yes, because that’s important to the story, the wife said.

The fox hat, undeterred, said, So the plane goes down and somehow, by some miracle, he’s not killed. He survived. Him! Can you imagine?

He extricates himself from the fuselage, the husband said, which is filling with water, and presumably he tries to save the other passengers, but the thing goes down to Davy Jones’s before he can get anyone out. He climbs onto some wreckage, a wing or something, and floats around until eventually he washes up on an island.

Five months he was on the island, the wife said.

Three, I think, the husband said.

Five, the fox hat said.

Not a soul but him on that island. Five months! And sea snakes! the wife said.

You’re making that up. There were no sea snakes, her husband said.

Should I fucking go ask him? Hm? she said. Should I go over and fact-check it?

He foraged for grubs and roots. Learned to spearfish, the husband said.

Unbelievable, said the second man. I should buy him a drink.

He ate bats. And eels, the wife said.

A fishing boat picked him up, the husband said. Dominicans.

Cubans! the wife said. My god, how do you mess that up?

He winds up in Havana, the wife said. Havana, Cuba ? Heard of it? He meets Castro. And do you know what Castro says to him?

The second man shook his head.

He says, You should have flown Cubana de Aviación!

They all laughed.

Sí, el Comandante, the husband said.

Five months on a desert island, said the fox hat, and he’s just as boring as he was before the crash. Everything I know about it, I know from the papers. And I’ve had dinner with the man. That story in New York ? That’s the one that had the eels in it, right?

He had to dive for them at night, said the wife.

The second man said, Fire? He figured out how to make fire?

Yep, said the fox hat. Five months by himself. I go a Sunday morning without seeing someone for brunch and I’m suicidal.

There was a hurricane. A hurricane completely blew away this little hut he’d built, said the wife.

Jesus, said the second man. Are you making this up?

How in the world do you not know about this? the fox hat said.

I’ve been in Hong Kong? the second man said.

I’ve had dinner with the man, the fox hat said, and do you know he’s never spoken a word about it? Not a single word. Like it never happened. I don’t understand people like that, she said. But then there are so many things I don’t understand. She fluttered her eyelashes and swooned.

Oh my, said the second man.

People who don’t make reservations, said the husband. That’s what I don’t understand.

I realize this will sound idiotic, said his wife, but I’ve always wondered what he did about his nails? I guess he just bit them off? But if you’re alone all day with nothing to do, that’s the sort of thing that could really push you over the edge. Do you know what I mean? Maybe it’s just me. I can’t stand my nails being too long.

The Volkswagen Beetle, said the second man.

Say what? said the husband.

That’s what I don’t understand. The Beetle.

What the hell’s wrong with the Beetle?

Here in the colonies we’re having a gas crisis, you know, said the fox hat. Or do the papers in Hong Kong only cover the chow mein markets?

I hope no one has a Beetle, the second man said. Sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut.

No! said the wife. No. No. No. You say your piece.

So you’re the one! said the husband. The voice of the anti-Beetle lobby! I’ve heard so much about you!

We have a Lincoln, said the wife.

It’s nothing profound. I just find them aesthetically displeasing, the man said. I like to think I’m a practical person, and I could generally care less about what things look like, but something about a Bug just drives me nuts. It’s nebbishy.

Well, it’s more Nazi, isn’t it? the husband said, which invited a new fusillade from his wife.

It’s no Carrera, that’s for sure, said the fox hat.

Well, bravo, said the wife. Bravo, I say. Everyone’s afraid to have an opinion about anything anymore. We’re all so afraid of offending everyone else. I say down with Beetles!

And Nazis, said the fox hat.

Aren’t you full of political fire tonight, said the husband.

It’s Lee Warshaw, said the fox hat. I get this way whenever he’s near.

May I just ask, when did this Warshaw thing happen? the second man said.

Oh, a year, two years ago, said the husband.

How did I not know this? You all knew about this? said the second man.

They all nodded.

It was two years ago, the fox hat said. Moira had a funeral, for god’s sake. It was awful. She thought, you know, shark food. The wreckage washed up two hundred miles outside the flight path. She buried a casket with his photo in it. I was there.

Astonishing, said the second man.

Two weeks to recuperate, said the fox hat. He goes from the desert island to Castro to New York. A week at Mount Sinai, a week at home. And then he’s back at work.

Firm was decimated. They lost the entire domestic executive suite! It’s a miracle the place didn’t collapse, the husband said. He didn’t have any choice but to run back into the fray.

Isn’t that remarkable, said the second man.

And still just as boring as ever, said the fox hat. The man will talk golf until your tits fall off.

Everyone laughed.

But it’s true. And you wish they would, just so you have an excuse to get up from the table, she said. It’s just golf golf golf, for hours. I bet the first thing he did on that goddamned island was build a putting green.

Or a sand trap, said the second man. The fox hat smiled. HA.