The tinkling of wine glasses. The excited buzz of conversation. The glow that comes from being in that special place at that special time. And what place, what time, could possibly be more special than this? To be at the White House for the Fall of the Murderous Dictator Anniversary Ball.
Won’t you come in?
It’s all exactly as you imagined it, only better. Decorations everywhere. The tastiest hors d’oeuvres. And the crowd — just look at the crowd! Everyone who’s anyone is here tonight, unless you consider France anyone, or Germany, or even Russia, in which case not-quite-everyone is here, which diminishes the celebration hardly at all, or so your host insists.
Your host’s name is George; here he comes now.
"France is nobody to me," George tells anyone who’ll listen. "Same with Germany. Who needs ‘em?"
Russia, he explains, had a previous engagement. At least Russia sent regrets. But France and Germany?
"Who needs ‘em?" George says once again. "We’re having a great time anyway!"
His eyes crinkle when he smiles, you notice, and he’s smiling nearly all the time. He works the room like the pro he is — here a handshake, there a playful hair muss. When he encounters someone whose smile isn’t as large or as constant as his own, he puts a friendly hand on a shoulder, and soon the two have identical grins. A friendly hand, and an encouraging word. It’s hard for you to hear the word over the sound of the distant gunfire, but whatever it is, it seems to work.
Very impressive.
Which is why it’s so odd to see Spain with its coat on, heading for the door. George has been counting on Spain — romantic Spain, fun-loving Spain — to be the life of the party. (Britain is here, too, of course; there wouldn’t even be a party without Britain. Life of the party, though? No.) But here we are, with the evening still young, and already Spain is leaving. George sees it, too, from across the room and — just for a moment — his smile drops away.
"Hey, everybody!" he calls out. "C’mon over here for a minute!"
Spain keeps moving toward the door. That’s OK — George’s shout isn’t designed to keep Spain from going; it’s designed to keep the rest of the crowd from noticing. There’s nothing that sucks the air out of a party, George understands, like the highly visible departure of a major guest. Someone important leaves and before you know it, everyone else in the room is calling it a night. That’s the last thing George wants. That’s the last thing he needs.
"Hey, everybody! Isn’t this the best Fall of the Murderous Dictator Anniversary Ball you’ve ever been to?" The applause is more than polite, if a dot or two less than enthusiastic. (Did they notice Spain anyway, despite his efforts to distract them?)
"Well," he continues, "we’ve still got plenty of partying to do! So everybody stick around, and let’s really crank up the band!"
More applause, and the band launches into something fast and loud — fast enough to draw some of the crowd onto the dance floor, loud enough to almost muffle the nearby explosions. The pictures on the walls rattle a little, then a lot, but who’s to say it’s not the drummer’s fault?
A successful party, George knows, doesn’t have guests leaving halfway through. If he can keep them together just a little bit longer —
But here comes Honduras. Honduras has to take the babysitter home.
Here comes the Dominican Republic. The Dominican Republic has a busy day tomorrow.
Here comes Thailand. Thailand is nervous about the neighborhood.
And over in the corner, Poland keeps checking its watch.
"If you want to go, go," says George to each of them, his smile a little tighter each time. "There’ll be more for the rest of us."
True enough. But more of what?
Rick Horowitz is a nationally syndicated columnist. Contact him by writing to
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