The Arriviste. James Wallenstein
usual. I fumbled for the lights and wipers on the new station wagon I’d finally managed to come by.
The thought that I wouldn’t have walked to the old shop anyway on a cold damp November night couldn’t keep me from ruminating on the tendency of good things to yield to bad. My gloom expressed itself in haste—I raced down the driveway. When I saw the car blocking me in at the end, it was almost too late. Only by veering off the gravel and plowing over the shrubs on the margin was I able to avoid a collision. I jumped out of my car fit to smash the other, an Olds. Then I saw that that the Olds wasn’t the only car blocking me in. It was part of a long row parked on the edge of my property. I heard voices in the distance and car doors thudding shut and remembered the Youngers’ party.
I headed straight for Bud’s house, too angry to care that I was betraying my excuse for declining. I wasn’t going to be held captive while his guests used my lawn as their parking lot.
A pair of headlight beams hit a fire hydrant and an elm trunk before jumping a gap in the rhododendrons and blazing up the Youngers’ driveway. The light couldn’t travel far, though. The driveway was full. Guests milled around, wondering what to do with their cars.
“Norman!” a woman exclaimed to her husband. “It’s Nate and Nikki, for Pete’s sake.”
“Nancy!” exclaimed the other woman, Nikki presumably. They kissed, and their perfumes mingled with the scent of holly. I knew these people, knew their kind. Like creatures to the Ark, they had come in twos, north on the Meadowbrook, east across the Whitestone, or west down the Turnpike through Jericho. They had come in big sedans with heavy doors and heaters that heated faster than those in their houses and hooked exhaust pipes whose intoxicating benzene and oxide billows resembled their own exhalations misting into the frosty dark.
They had come in twos, but they wouldn’t stay in twos. They’d circulate individually and collide fortuitously, seeking each other out only when something could not wait to be told. One would otherwise know that they were a pair only because that was how they were known: not as Nate or Nikki or Norman or Nancy but as Norman and Nikki and Nate and Nancy. To compensate for their awkwardness, the men would be glib and the women would let the men’s glibness pass for wit. Everyone would kiss and squeeze and mock everyone else and feel proprietary about everyone else’s children. Even though they weren’t kids anymore themselves, the old college excitement would have survived their transformation. I knew them, all right.
A man in a beaver hat and cavalryman’s coat hurried up the driveway and jumped into the last in the line of cars. There’s the dunce who blocked me in, I thought, and started toward him. Before I reached him, he’d backed the car away.
“Guess he’s the valet,” said Nikki.
“Could be a thief,” Nate replied. “Let’s see whether he comes back.”
“Every time Nate gives his car to a valet, he panics as the guy drives off,” Nancy said. “If that guy went to the trouble of coming here and dressing up to steal a car, he wouldn’t choose our Pontiac.”
“It’s a Bonneville,” Nate protested.
The valet returned. “So much for that,” said Nancy.
The valet gave Norman his keys and left his hand extended for a tip, but the gesture betrayed him. Norman lifted the beaver hat off the valet’s head. “Oh, for cryin’ out loud!” his wife exclaimed and planted a kiss on Bud’s cheek.
“Buddy boy!” Nate cried.
I waited while Bud finished greeting his guests and sent them up the flagstone path to the house. The sounds of their glee trailed behind.
“Bud,” I said sharply.
“Who’s that?” he said. “It’s Neil! You’re here after all! How are you, fella? Don’t tell me you canceled your trip especially to come.”
“I’m afraid not. It was canceled for other reasons. But there’s been some kind of misunderstanding here. My driveway’s blocked. There are cars on my lawn.”
“Space got short. I remembered that you were gone and thought I’d make use of your frontage.”
“Well, that’s one thing, but the driveway—”
“I couldn’t very well block you in when you were out of town, could I?”
“Do I look like I’m out of town?”
“I wouldn’t say that, no. I’d say you’re here and, with a blocked driveway, won’t be going anywhere soon. Join the party!”
Another car pulled up, a Volkswagen. Its suspension was loose, and the beams from its headlamps bounced like spotlights following an acrobat. “I can leave it here?” the driver asked.
“I’ll take care of it,” Bud said, opening the door for her. She fiddled with a few things before getting out, and I took the opportunity to press my case.
“I’m really very busy,” I told him. “I was just running out for some cigarettes. I’ve got to get back to it.”
“Cigarettes? Help yourself—we’ve probably got one for every match in the place. I’ll tell you what. Go inside, have a drink and a smoke.” He lowered his voice. “There are women in there practically crying for a man like you. For that matter, here’s one you can cry for.”
The driver got out of her car before I could refuse. Bud introduced himself and me. She looked young in the torchlight, even for this crowd. She was willowy, with long wavy hair and earrings dangling like fobs on chains. “I’m here to meet Lee,” she said with a hint of Spanish in her pronunciation.
“Lucky man,” Bud said as she started up the path. “Lee,” he said to me, “it doesn’t ring a bell. She must be at the wrong party. Go on in. Maybe you can be Lee.”
“Not tonight. I’ve got to get some cigarettes and go back to work. Now if you’ll move those cars at the head of my driveway.”
“Think I know whose car is whose? Go on in and help yourself to all the smokes you can carry. You’ll be back at your desk in no time. It’ll be a perfect break for you.”
What could I do, threaten to have the cars towed? I went ahead, up the path and through the door, where a clamor of voices overwhelmed the sound of wind and rustle behind me.
One of the Younger boys came to take my overcoat. He was freckle-faced, with a mouthful of braces and a cowlick.
“Thanks,” I told him, “ but I think I’ll hold on to it.”
“What do you wanna walk around in your coat for? You’ll boil!”
“I’m only coming in for a few minutes.”
“A few minutes. Then why’d you come at all?” He tugged at my sleeve. “Listen,” he continued, “I’m supposed to take everyone’s coat.”
“Well, you’re not taking mine.” I tried to make him let go but he held on. Our tug-of-war continued. Heads turned.
The apple really hadn’t fallen far from the tree; he too was stubborn. “I see—you want it for yourself. If I give it to you, how will I know you won’t make off with it?”
“Make off with it? But I’ve already got a jacket. It’s a Mighty Mac. Wanna see it?”
“Not right now. Maybe some other—”
“—and I’ve got a bike and a go-cart and we’ve got two television sets. How many have you got?”
“One.”
“Only one? That’s too bad. At my friend’s house they have three. What kind is it?”
He was leading me through the house, to an upstairs bedroom where he kept the overcoats. He might have been taking me on a European grand tour, to judge from the decor: French tulle upholstery, Dutch muslin curtains, Flemish oils, German piano, Viennese wind-up