Late Stories

Missing Out

He first sees her at a party. She’s pretty, maybe even beautiful. Blond hair; simply dressed; nice body; animatedly talking to a woman. He can’t see from where he is if she has a wedding band on. He goes closer. If she doesn’t — even if she does — he’ll try to start up a conversation with her. He doesn’t know what he’ll say. “Hi. I’m Philip Seidel, a friend of Brad’s. You know him too or you’re a friend of a friend of his?” Not that. But something always comes.

But she’s always talking with one or two people. She went from that woman to a couple who seem to belong together. For a few seconds the couple holds hands. Then she’s talking to Brad, the host of this annual Christmas party. Then she’s standing by herself at the food table, looking as if she’s wondering what to put on the plate she’s holding. Now’s his chance. He starts over to her — is going to say something like “So you’re hungry too. Food looks good. He always does a great job on it—” but another guy gets to her first. She doesn’t seem to know him. They start talking and get food on their plates and get a glass of wine each and sit in chairs close together and eat and drink and talk. They laugh a few times. This goes on for about half an hour. Then he goes to the bathroom and when he comes back they’re no longer in their chairs. He walks through the apartment looking for her, hoping she’d be by herself again, and sees them in the foyer. She takes her coat off a coat hanger in the coat closet there. The guy already has his coat on and helps her out with hers. She must have come early, because when he got here that closet was filled. Maybe they knew each other before. It didn’t seem so. They talked and laughed like two people who had just met each other. He never did see if she had a wedding band on. Forgot about it. Anyway, too late to introduce himself to her. If only he had gone over too her sooner. Especially when she was talking to Brad. That would have been the perfect time.

He thinks about her a lot the next week. Then calls Brad. “Hey. Great party once again. Thank you. I’m also calling because there was a woman at your party, very attractive. Blond hair. Average height. Slim. Around thirty. Wearing a navy blue blouse. Not navy. Baby blue. A light blue.”

“You must mean Abigail Berman,” Brad says. “A doll. A living doll. Someone I knew through school but who quickly became one of my treasured acquaintances. So smart; gentle. Brilliant, I’d say. Post-doc. Russian scholar and translator. You’d like her work and authors. Twentieth century poets, mostly. Pasternak, Mandelstam, Akhmatova, Tsvetayeva, if that’s how you pronounce her name.”

“You got it right.”

“And that face. So spiritual. Standing alongside her is like being in the presence of an Italian Renaissance model for a painting of the blond madonna. Ghirlandaio. Botticelli. You know what I mean. Same with her voice. So soft. I can’t rave about her enough. If you’re interested, I think you’re too late, though you could always give it a try. An old buddy of mine, Mike Seltzer, met her at the party and they left together and Mike called me last night. He’s seen her twice since the party and he’s got a big date with her this weekend, he says. It seems, if you want my opinion, their relationship is already hot.”

“Then I better not call her.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Next time he sees her is at Brad’s Christmas party the following year. He didn’t speak to Brad about her after that one time and was hoping she’d be here and alone. She comes in with the guy she left the party with last year. The foyer closet is filled and she heads his way to dump their coats in the bedroom, where his is. He smiles and says “Hi” and she smiles and says “Hi” and goes in back. He feels nervous, agitated, something, and has since he first saw her come into the party. To calm himself and get out of her way when she comes back, because he doesn’t know what he’ll say and do then and he doesn’t want to just say and do nothing, he goes into the dining room where the drink table is and makes himself a Bloody Mary, drinks it quickly and makes another, this one not as strong. He doesn’t want to get looped. Then he’ll sound like an idiot if he does speak to her. He hangs around the same room she’s in. Tries not to be looking at her when she turns his way. Then she catches him looking at her — she must have a few times — but this time looks back at him with an expression saying “Do we know each other from some place?” He raises his shoulders and looks away. Why the hell he do that? He had a chance to speak to her. About twenty minutes later — he left the room and came back — she’s in a circle with three other women. He decides to wait to talk to her but to definitely talk to her sometime tonight. Why? He doesn’t know. Maybe just to speak to her once and see what she sounds and acts like when she’s talking to him. When the circle breaks up and for a few moments she’s standing alone, holding an empty wine glass, he goes over to her and says “Excuse me. And don’t be alarmed at what I’m going to say. But I know you caught me looking at you before. Staring, even, and I apologize. But we do, sort of, know each other. Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Even a huge exaggeration. We were at Brad’s Christmas party last year. Oh, my name’s Philip Seidel.”

“Abigail Berman.”

“Very nice to meet you, Abigail. And I remember, at last year’s party, I wanted to talk to you— Would you like a refill on that wine?”

“No, thanks,” and she puts the glass on a side table.

“But some guy got to you first and before I knew it or could say a word to you, you left the party together.”

“That would be Mike. He’s somewhere at this party. I met him here that night and I guess we’ve been a couple ever since.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Oh, yes? Thank you. But lucky gal too.”

“But I mean real luck, too. Because who knows what could have happened if I’d gotten to you first. In other words, got there seconds before I would have, because I was really on my way. Sorry. That was dumb of me. Too much of what I was thinking came out. Parties are good for meeting new people and drinking too much and maybe even saying the wrong thing, and Christmas parties especially, it seems. And I haven’t drunk too much. I don’t want you to think that. Although I have had some. But enjoy yourself. I don’t think I ever acted so foolishly to a woman as I have with you just now. Of course I have, once or twice, but it’s not my typical way of behaving. As I said, enjoy yourself. Nice meeting you.”

“It’s been interesting, but same here, Philip.”

She sticks out her hand and he shakes it and walks away.

What must she think of him. A first-class schmuck. He’s embarrassed by what he said to her. Almost everything. He should have planned it better, not that anything would have helped him. She’s already hooked up. Talking to her made him nervous. Just thinking about talking to her before he actually talked to her, made him nervous. He talked nervously. Not that many women have had that effect on him. He’s just dazzled by her, that’s all. Was from the time he first saw her last year. So he should have thought of that and been more careful in what he said. Should have talked about her Russian work and authors. Opened it with that. Maybe brought up Babel and Chekhov too. Said Brad told him about her work. That would have been all right to say. Doesn’t sound too much like snooping. Or maybe it would have gotten him in deeper. No, just about nothing would have. What he said got him in about as deep as he could go. He gets his coat from the bedroom and starts for the front door. Brad stops him. “Leaving so early?”

“Yeah. Thank you. Got some stuff I gotta get done by noon tomorrow. Once again, great party. And that woman, Abigail. She’s really something. I talked with her. Very bright as you said. And still with the same guy she met here last year.”

“That’s right, I sort of was matchmaker. A real couple. Will probably get married. Mike, her boyfriend, is head over heels for her and, according to him, the feeling’s mutual from her.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Yep, she’s a honey. And so everything else: smart, lovely and accomplished. She’s not standing behind me or anywhere near us?”

“No.”

“Not to say good-looking.”

“Good-looking? Beautiful. Gorgeous. You said so yourself when we first talked about her.”

“We talked about her?”

“Shortly after your party last year. You called her a blond madonna.”

“I said that? What do I know about madonnas? Sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

“As I said, too much to do tonight in preparation to finishing it tomorrow. Thanks.”

He sees her at Brad’s Christmas party two years later. He was invited to last year’s party but got the flu and couldn’t go. Doesn’t think he would have gone anyway. He was still embarrassed by what he said to her and figured she and her boyfriend would be there. She’s wearing a maternity dress. Four, five months pregnant; maybe more. She’s certainly showing, and not just a little. Sitting on a couch, drinking from a mug with steam coming out of it, so it’s probably herbal tea. At least a noncaffeinated tea, or maybe just hot water. He goes over to her. “Mind if I sit on the couch with you? All the chairs are taken and it’s been a busy day and I’m a little tired.”

“Please. Sit.” She moves over to one end of the couch to give him more room.

“I don’t know if you remember me.”

“You do look familiar. Did we meet here last year at Bradley’s party?”

“Actually, it was two Christmas parties ago that we spoke and three years ago when I first saw you here. To refresh your memory, though it’s hardly worth remembering. But I was the fellow who said your husband, though he wasn’t that then, and I have to assume he is now, since you’re wearing a wedding band and I saw him here, beat me out by a few seconds in introducing himself to you. And look what it’s come to. Marriage. Baby. Congratulations.”

“Now I do remember. You got upset at what you said. I forget what my reaction was.”

“You were fine. Seltzer. Do I have the last name right?”

“Mike’s you do. Mine is still Berman. Abigail Berman. And thank you for your congratulations.”

“You must be very happy.”

“Deliriously so. Are you married?”

“No marriage. No children. No prospect for now. But who knows? Well, I don’t want to bother you anymore.” He makes a move to get up.

“You’re not bothering me. Why would you say that?”

“It’d seem I’d have to be bothering you, with that missed-out-by-seconds line. It would bother me if I were you.”

“Obviously you’re not. So. Nice to meet you again. .?”

“Phil Seidel. Philip. Either. Yeah, I better get moving. Unless I can get you something first.” She shakes her head. “Then it’s really time for me to go.”

“As you wish, Philip.”

“Of course it isn’t important one way or the other for you.”

“Why are you talking like that? Be reasonable, Philip. Maybe we should end this conversation. Something doesn’t feel right where it’s going and I think it can only get worse.”

“I’m honestly sorry. Excuse me.” He gets up and goes to the coat closet and gets his coat and starts to put it on. He sees Brad, opens the front door, closes it, turns around and goes over to him. “Once again — it’s become something of a habit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m doing the same thing I did at the last Christmas party of yours I went to. Leaving early. You know. It’s crazy. But I can’t be in the same room with that woman. Abigail Berman. Probably not the same party.”

“Why? The gentlest person I know of? What could she have done?”

“It’s me. If you must know, I’m absolutely taken with her. If only it had been me who got to speak to her first three years ago here. Haven’t I told you? Before Seltzer did. Seconds. Missed out by seconds. And not that he wouldn’t have worked his way in there somehow. He’s a pushy type, aggressive; I can tell.”

“He’s not. You don’t know him.”

“Anyway, there was always a chance something could have worked out between her and me. She was unattached then, am I right?”

“I think so. She was ready, at least. But she ended up with a very nice guy and their marriage is a good one and now the child. Be happy for her.”

“I am, I am. Not for her husband, though. He moved in on her too fast. Ah, what am I bitching for? Just jealous. That’s all. I see someone I think’s perfect for me, and I can’t get her out of my head. When it comes to her, I’m always talking silly. Did the last time, did this time. Gotta go, really, and thanks,” and he leaves.

He gets a job in California less than a year later. Lives there for five years. Has girlfriends. Almost married one but they weren’t right for each other — he wanted someone more brainy and she wanted someone less — and she broke it off a short time before the wedding date. He’s not sorry either. Moves back to New York. He missed the city and never felt comfortable in California, and he lived in three different cities there. Next time he goes to Brad’s Christmas party is seven years since the last one he went to. Though it’s now known as Susan and Brad’s party, since they got married and already have three children. He still thinks about Abigail now and then, “the girl of my dreams” he’s referred to her a few times to other people, and hopes she’s at the party, but there’s probably not much chance of that. It’s been so long. She and her husband could very likely have moved away too. And not to talk to her — though why not if it comes to that? — but more just to see what she looks like and if she’s changed much. He’s kidding himself. He wouldn’t have come to the party if he didn’t think there’d be even a slight chance she’d be there. He’s actually anxious about seeing her and his stomach feels a bit queasy because of it when he rings the doorbell. It’s a much larger apartment than the one Brad had before, and in the same building on Riverside Drive. This one overlooks the Hudson and New Jersey rather than a sidestreet and airshaft the last one did. Some of the guests brought their kids, even infants. Never did before. And the party started at two in the afternoon instead of six or seven at night. She’s there. Her husband too. In different rooms. She’s in an easy chair, wheeled walker to the side of it. Her face is the same. Still youthful and beautiful. She’s by herself, just observing, it seems, some of the people there. Then she calls out to two young girls who come into the room. He assumes they’re her daughters. The older one looks a lot like her. Color and texture of her hair, high forehead, heart-shaped face, and he thinks the eyes too — greenish blue or bluish green. The other girl seems to resemble her husband — dark hair and eyes and small upturned nose. Without asking her, the girls seem to know what she called them over for. They place the walker in front of her, help her out of the chair and make sure her hands are holding the walker, and stay on either side of her till she tells them she’s okay, she won’t fall. She starts pushing the walker forward, when he goes over to her.

“These beautiful young ladies yours?”

“My daughters, Freya and Miriam.”

“How do you do, young ladies. I’m Philip. And if I may say so, you’re a great help to your mom.” And to her: “I doubt you remember me. It was so long ago. We talked a little at one of these Christmas parties, but in Brad’s old apartment. Have you been injured?” touching her walker.

“No, it’s for an illness. This is what I’ve quickly been reduced to.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. And I didn’t mean to pry.”

“And I didn’t mention my illness to elicit sympathy. I’ll be fine. I trust life has been good to you since we last spoke, though I have to admit I have no recollection of our conversation.”

“No reason you would. Party talk. And I’m much the same. Still not married and no kids. Still writing and teaching and going to Christmas parties and stuff like that.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me, the last part. But I’ll have to cut this off, Philip. I’m a little tired.” And to her girls: “I know it seems we just got here and you’re going to be disappointed, but would you tell Daddy I’m ready to leave? If he wants, he can put me in a cab, though one of you will have to come with me.”

“Nice to meet you again. ‘Abigail,’ it was, right?”

“Your memory’s better than mine. Perhaps we’ll see each other at next year’s party, if there’s one, and can talk some more.”

“I look forward to it. And I’m sure there’ll be a party next year.”

The girls have left the room. She starts after them.

“Can I help you in any way?”

“No. This has to be done alone. It’s slow but I get there. Thank you.”

Half an hour later he sees her and her husband and daughters at the front door, hats and coats on, saying goodbye to some people. He smiles at her when she looks his way, and she smiles back. At least, or so it seems, she doesn’t have any bad feelings toward him anymore. Maybe because she actually doesn’t remember anything about what he said the last time they talked.

He calls Brad the next day. “Once again, great party. I forgot how much I missed it. Christmas parties weren’t the same in California. You need the cold and threat of snow. But tell me, how bad off is Abigail Berman? She sure seemed weak. Though maybe she was just tired, as she said. The holidays and all. It can get to anybody.”

“I wish it was that. The worst kind of MS. Went downhill very fast, and still sliding. Exacerbating — something else. Chronic progressive. I forget the medical term. At our party last year she was able to get around with only a cane. The one before, she didn’t even need that and showed no signs of it except for her eyes, which were a little off.”

“The poor dear. I feel so sorry for her. I only wish I was the one married to her, so I could take care of her.”

“That’s nutsy, Phil. Don’t repeat it to anyone else. And Mike seems to do an excellent job.”

“Of course.”

He’s invited to the next Christmas party, but is out of town and can’t go to it. Very much wants to, mainly to see her again and have a real talk. About a year after it — Thanksgiving weekend — he sees her in a movie theater on the East Side. The movie ended a minute ago. He has his ticket and is waiting on line in the lobby to go into the theater and she’s in a wheelchair, on the other side of a rope separating them, being wheeled out of the theater into the lobby by her older daughter.

“Abigail. Stop,” and he climbs over the rope and goes over to her. “Hi. Philip Seidel. From Brad and Susan’s Christmas party.”

“Yes. How are you? And I remember you this time.”

“I’m fine, thanks. Haven’t seen you for a couple of years. Nor your daughters. Hi, kids. Freya and Miriam. I’m almost sure that’s right. I hope you’re all doing well.” And to her: “I don’t know what to say. And I usually end up saying the wrong thing, so excuse me beforehand. But this chair. I hope it’s only temporary.”

“It will be if they come up with a miracle cure for me. And I’m impressed you remembered my daughters’ names. As for the Christmas party. We’ve been invited, as I’m sure you have, and don’t embarrass me by telling me you haven’t, but I won’t be going to it. I’ve become a traffic problem, being in a wheelchair at a crowded party, people tripping all over me, besides other more personal inconveniences. My daughters will be there if their father takes them. It’s become a nice tradition for them, and they’ve even made friends with some of the other children there. So, if you go, give Susan and Brad a big hello from me. Now we should get home.”

“Wait, wait, wait. What are you doing? It’s pouring out.” The doors in front of the waiting line open and people start going inside. “None of you have raincoats and maybe not even an umbrella.”

“We’ll manage. My daughters know how to look after me.”

“No. I don’t want you to. You’ll catch cold. The kids too. Here. It’s wet, but take my umbrella. It’s large enough for all of you.” He gives the younger girl his umbrella. “Wait. What am I doing? You stay here and I’ll get you a cab. There’s a whole fleet of wheelchair-accessible cabs now running around New York. At least let me try.”

“Thank you but we were planning to take a bus. The crosstown here and the number 5 uptown. They’re all handicapped accessible now and they let the wheelchairs on first. You’re going to miss the beginning of the movie. Are you seeing the same one we saw?”

“I doubt it. One I’m seeing’s not for kids. But the hell with the movie. Heck with it, I mean,” covering his mouth and smiling. The girls and she laugh. “And I only came to it to get out of the house. Anyway, I’m getting you a cab and paying for it. My idea, so my expense. It’s the least I can do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, to help you and the kids out best as I can. Stay here. I’ll signal you when I get one. But I’ll take the umbrella till I get a cab and get you into it.”

“You’re a stubborn man, Philip. Okay. We’ll wait here.”

“One question, though. If I can’t find a cab that can’t take a wheelchair any other way but folded up in the trunk, are you able to get out of the chair and into the rear or front passenger seat with a little help?”

“No. Not without the danger of falling. And getting back into the chair from the seat would be even worse.”

“I understand.” He goes outside, opens the umbrella and stands in the street in front of the theater looking for a cab that can take someone in a wheelchair. He’s out there for about fifteen minutes. Several regular cabs slow down or stop but he waves them on. Give up. He’s never going to find one. Shouldn’t have been so confident. Should have known it’d be tough. Now he has to go back there and tell her, but he knows she won’t mind. Not the kind of person to. She might even blame herself. Goddamn rain. If only it wasn’t coming down so hard. He goes into the lobby. “Sorry. No luck. Rainy night. I should have known. And now I’ve wasted your time. Here, let me walk you to the crosstown bus shelter. You three will get under the umbrella. As I said, it’s abnormally large, so you can all fit — and I’ll hold the umbrella over you.”

“Please. You should see your movie. Go. Enjoy it. We’ll make do.”

“I told you. That’s out. I just want you to get home as dry as you can be. I’ll even take the crosstown bus with you and then transfer to the number 10 downtown. I live right off Central Park West.”

“Okay, if you want. I can’t thank you enough. For my daughters and myself.”

Should he try to redeem his movie ticket at the box office? That’ll just waste more time and he also doesn’t want her to think he’s petty or cheap. Anyway, no. They walk the block and a half to the bus stop. Her daughters take turns pushing her and he keeps the umbrella over the three of them. Thank God the rain’s now only a drizzle. Still, he’s soaked, feels chilled, but he’ll be all right once he’s home. Few seconds after they get to the bus shelter, he sees a cab that can take a wheelchair and runs out into the street and flags it down. The cabby stays in the driver’s seat, releases the liftback door, and he pushes the chair up the rear-entry ramp to the one empty place where a seat would be. Then the cabby, without leaving the cab, goes in back to strap the chair down till it can’t move. The younger girl sits beside her and the older one is in the front passenger seat.

“I guess I can take my umbrella now. I don’t think you’ll need it anymore. Actually, keep it. To get into your building from the cab. I’ve got another just like it. Promotion ones, from a bank,” and he folds up the umbrella and puts it on the floor next to her.

“Maybe you can come with us as far as your downtown bus stop.”

“I’d love to, but doesn’t seem to be room. And I’m getting wet, standing here, even for me. Bye-bye, my friends.” He shuts the door. She says something to the driver. Probably their address. Cab starts up. “Wait.” He runs around the front of the cab and knocks on the driver’s window. Window’s lowered, and he gives him a twenty and a ten. “That should take them anyplace in Manhattan. And help them into their building.” Cab drives off and she and the kids smile and wave at him. He waves back and gets in the bus shelter. Damn, should have gone with them. Even diverted the cab first to his building, which isn’t too far from the Central Park West crosstown bus stop. Made room some way. Just to be with her more. Even with one of the girls on his lap. Nah, she might have minded that and the girl too. But get home fast. He goes into the street and flags down a cab.

He gets a teaching job in Baltimore. Two years later he’s in New York for the Christmas holiday and goes to Brad and Susan’s party. He hopes she’s changed her mind about not going to it, if she’s in town, and is there and this time they can really talk. That night it rained and the movie theater and he had so much trouble getting her a cab. Did any of them come down with a cold, after? What’s he thinking. She wouldn’t remember that. “But how are you? It’s so good to see you again. And your kids,” if they’re there. He gets to the party early, just in case she gets there early and is planning to leave early. Hangs his coat in the coat closet and gets a drink and looks around for her. Easy to spot too, if she’s still in a wheelchair. Even if she’s with people or seems deep in a conversation with someone, he’s going to go right over to her. He sees her husband. “Mike Seltzer. Phil Seidel. Maybe you remember me. We spoke here a few years ago. You were with your wife and kids. I don’t see them. Is she here? How is she?”

“Jesus, another one. I can’t believe it. You’re number four.”

“Four of what? I don’t get it.”

“The fourth person to come over to me — and how long have I been here? Fifteen minutes? — and ask after my wife and doesn’t know she died.”

“Oh, my goodness. What a shock. She was such a wonderful person.”

“Please don’t say anything.” He looks like he’s about to cry. “I knew I shouldn’t have come. Goddamn fucking mistake,” and he walks away.

Goes over to Brad. “You didn’t tell me Abigail Berman had died.”

“I didn’t know you knew her that well.”

“I didn’t. But you knew how I felt about her.”

“No. I must have forgot. How did you?”

“Come on. You even criticized me for it. Thought I was acting like a love-sick fool. I was completely taken by her. You’re probably the only one I told.”

“So something did once happen between you two? Even once snuck in a kiss or something?”

“Nothing. I told you. It was all in my head. Was I in dreamland? You bet. Not that she would have been interested in me. Well, now that I think of the last time I saw her. . It was at a movie theater on the East Side. I guess before she really got sick. She was with her kids. I got them a cab because it was pouring out and I was afraid she’d catch a cold and even worse. And she might have. She was in a wheelchair and her kids were pushing her and she said something that seemed to indicate she’d be in that chair the rest of her life. What a loss. I mean, I can’t believe it. What I’m saying is. . well, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m glad, though, Mike was a good husband to her. Looked after her when she got sick. Couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t anything like that. He only did so much for her at the beginning and then couldn’t take it anymore when she could only get around in a wheelchair and had her first bout with pneumonia. He left her. Probably around the time you saw her at the movie theater. Her teaching days were over, so she became entirely dependent on him. He gave her enough to keep her comfortable. And kept giving it, though he didn’t have to for too long, so she could stay in the apartment with the kids and have an aide when she needed one, which eventually became round-the-clock. He quickly got hooked up with someone and got Abigail to agree to a divorce so he could remarry. She’s here. Nice woman. Quiet, but accomplished. A pediatrician. Abigail didn’t want the divorce, she told Susan. She thought she’d lose some of his benefits, but he took care of that too.”

“What a scumbag. Why’d you even invite him to the party?”

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re an old friend, he’s an old friend, and he’s always been a terrific dad. What went on between Abigail and him was their business. Who knows what I’d do if I was in the same situation?”

“I would have become even closer to her, if it were me. If I were Mike. If I were married to her and she had got the same disease. Any disease. I could kick myself that I didn’t move faster that night.”

“What night?”

“The first Christmas party you invited me to. What was it, twelve, fifteen years ago? A long time, when I first saw her at your old apartment. And maybe when I bumped into her at the movie theater, she was already split from him.”

“It’s possible. Everything went very fast.”

“So I could have made a move on her then. She needed someone like me. Got her phone number. Called. Taken her out for lunch. Pushed her in her wheelchair to it. Later, taken care of her. Even married her. Put her on my health plan.”

“Don’t talk silly. Enjoy the party. There’s a woman coming tonight I want to introduce you to. She’s divorced, has three young sons, two of them twins. And is quite attractive and smart and considered tops in her field, and with a terrific sense of humor.”

“No, thanks. At least not for tonight. And I know I’m usually hustling out of your party early, but I have to go. I feel so bad for her. Abigail. And I don’t want to see that prick of a guy’s face ever again. I could really kick myself. Kick myself till it hurts. Shit. Thanks for inviting me all these years,” and he puts down his glass, gets his coat out of the closet and leaves.