Jeff—Saturday
The other night Barbara and I had dinner with old friends at
a trendy, upscale French restaurant on the Upper Eastside. Let’s call him Jack, and her Jill. That’s not their names, but it adds an
alliterative touch to the tale.
I’ve known Jack for forty years. I respect him, admire him,
and trust him completely. He’s one of
the smartest, genuinely well-informed people I know. He also has views on some
subjects quite different from my own. Over the years, that’s led to lively
debates, and I expected our dinner to be no different. Sort of like what we each wished the US Senate
still experienced.
We sat at a table in the middle of the main dining room,
with Jack seated directly across from me.
As a seeming harbinger of things to come, an elegant woman in a red,
white and blue sequined jacket reminiscent of the US flag, sat with her
companion at a banquette directly behind Jack.
To give proper credit to flag lady’s fashion taste, her choice of couture
was several quantum levels higher than that employed by Counselor to the
President, Kellyanne Conway, in choosing the flag-inspired outfit she wore to
her boss’s inauguration.
We were humming along nicely, talking about family and
careers, when Jill raised an accelerant subject. Her political views are often
far different from Jack’s, and our conversation soon moved on to the myriad of issues
polarizing our country today. At times
with voices reaching a level turning heads at nearby tables. Frankly, I paid no attention to any table
other than flag lady’s, for she’d become my secret canary in the mine,
signaling any impact our overheard conversation might be having on others in
the room.
Things got particularly heated over the subject of President
Trump, his policies, and his behavior’s threat to the Republic. That led to a detailed back and forth over
whether Hillary Clinton was the worst of candidates the Democrats could have
chosen. Of course, her husband’s
philandering got some attention, too, in juxtaposition to that of #45.
All the while, flag lady’s eyes kept bouncing from our table
to others in the room. I assumed she and
her dinner companion were enjoying this bit of polarized American dinner
theater.
Midway through dessert, during a particularly heated
exchange on the subject of Hillary, an ashen-faced Jill abruptly whispered, “Shhhh.”
The conversation paused, and Jill leaned in toward the
middle of the table.
“The four at the next table have been listening to us all
evening.”
That did not surprise me, but what she said next did, for I’d
been focusing on the wrong canary. Flag
lady’s attention had been centered on a far grander show playing out in the
room, involving a larger cast than those at our table.
Jill bit at her lip.
“I just realized who’s sitting at the table next to us. Chelsea
Clinton.”
Dead silence.
Recovery effort on Jack’s part: “I voted for her father
twice.”
My approach: “Check please.”
—Jeff
