“Call me Ishmael,” Cade began. “What, monomaniac?” She jokingly added the words which followed that famous Hemingway line, not in the book, but in a song which used the same beginning. The response of her present company was predictable and brief, but authentic and appreciative.
“I hail from Washington—Seattle, actually—,” Cade continued. “I collect art, and I have yet to enter any building in that city apart from my own home, work, and the grocery store.”
“How long have you lived there?” a Member of Society asked.
“Oh, only about a month and a half. Work keeps me busy half the time, and the rest I spend reading, writing, I’ll get out and run two or three times a week, and more than anything, sleeping. That’s one luxury I’ll only be able to avoid sparingly come autumn.”
“What a reclusive lifestyle. Are all writers so withdrawn?” This Member of Society happened to be in possession of mosquito-like eyes, a bright red woolen turtle-neck, and finger-nails showing every sign of being gnawed on regularly.
“Are you?” Cade asked, more aggressively, perhaps, than the question warranted.
“I’m a Poet, not a writer. Poetry is all about expression and emotion, pent up feelings and liberated passions. I need to surround myself with the colors of human personality to gain inspiration, sensitivity, and discernment, or my Poems will be naught but dust in the world of the Written Word.”
This Person punctuated the final sentence with an emphatic nod so as to wrench apart the bones of their spine, clicked their tongue, and continued their ever-lasting occupation of nail-biting.
“Well I am a writer, in whatever sense you choose to interpret the word—Lord knows there could be thousands. I immerse myself in our Great Society as much as possible—why do you suppose I should have a second job? The money isn’t the object, believe me. I do it for the experience with People. But forgive me,” she smiled at the rest of her company. “I don’t mean to dominate the conversation. Another Person must introduce—”
“What a brilliant—and, might I add, exceptional and unusual?—introduction, Ishmael. I’ve never encountered anyone who selected that name. And such accurate and specific details about—Ishmael’s?—existence.” Pardon the excessive italics; this Person wasn’t the least bit sarcastic.
“As for me, my daughter Meggie never called me anything but Mo. I’ll expect no less from you. And are you thinking now, ‘Who is this Person to belittle my choice of classic influence, while he favors children’s literature?’ This Person is One who has actually read the distinguished work, and finds it of no mean literary value, and whether or not it was the author’s intention to write it primarily for children, she succeeded in penning a product fit for any and all audiences. I dare any person to deny that, who has read it.”
The Person’s neck craned forward like that of a goose, hissing and snapping at an adversary. However—easygoing, now that her social nature wasn’t in question—Cade refused to take the bate and start a full-blown argument.
“I have read it, love, and wouldn’t disagree with you for ten crocodile teeth. And speaking of crocodiles, you there have a grin much like one. I won’t insult your intelligence,” she nodded at the circle apart from the person with the reptilian smile, “by taking the trouble to describe the resemblance for you. Any daffy duck knows what one looks like.”
As this Person with the predatory pearlies prematurely pursed their lips, Cade hastened to clarify her comment.
“Please don’t suppose I meant any offense! I merely meant to call attention to your admirably affable countenance in light of the presence of a few caustic Persons. Would you do me the honor of introducing yourself?”
“I supposed it would be fitting,” offered the gleeful round Gentlemen, “—cliché, you say, to have a jolly fat man? I can offer no explanation for the preference of other men for this lifestyle, but as for myself, I’ve never had any intention of giving up my scrumptious sweets, and being genial is the only way I can then put up with myself—but as I was saying, it would be quite fitting, I think, taking your analogy,” a nod in deference to Cade, “into consideration, to tell you I am The Crocodile who liked Hook’s arm so much I have followed him ever since, from sea to sea and from land to land, licking my lips for the rest of him.”
“Bravo, sir!” exclaimed a further few in attendance.
“Which of you might claim the name that I might bite your head off?” The response to this intended joke was more enthusiastic, in light of the originality of the pun, than Cade received.
“Why I am James Hook, captain of the Jolly Roger.” The dismal attempt at hooks for hands affected by the Person’s fingers, received no response but muffled groans.
“What juicy details of your way of life can you give me as ammunition Cap’n?” Crocodile attempted to keep up the joke’s momentum by virtue of his own wittiness alone.
Cade’s sigh of relief was more audible than the groans at the timely interruption of One who had so far been silent as a tome, and as mutely expressive.
“Should not we proceed with the order of business?”
Jabs and Jen: I had a character interacting with society, and others... pretty much it. I think I did it right...
