The nightmare is always the same: I’m standing on the porch of a large colonial house, looking across Vineyard Sound to the Cape. I’m talking to one Mr. Thornton, whom I’m guessing, if we were to cut him open and count the rings, might be anywhere from 100 to 130 years old. In my hand is a Grey Goose martini and milling about me are pretty waitresses serving warm, crêpe-like appetizers. It’s the quintessential summer cocktail party – a sure sign that life is good.
“So, Pete, what is it that you do?” Mr. Thornton asks.
“Well, sir,” I say, making sure to look him directly in the eye. “I’ve spent the last seventeen years trying to ‘find’ myself, and since, technically, one can’t be ‘finding oneself’ after the age of thirty, I would have to say that I’m ‘floundering,’ sir – floundering big time.” Then I confidently place my hand on his shoulder: “But enough about me, what is it that you do?”
“For the past thirty-five years, I’ve been chairman of the board of…”
I never get to hear the rest of his answer, though, because I’m immediately knocked unconscious and stuffed into a crate by four men in dark suits, wearing sunglasses and those tiny ear pieces. Two and a half hours later, when the crate is pried open, I stumble out, my eyes blinking as they adjust to the light.
“Howdy,” someone says. He’s holding a bowl of Cheese Doodles. “Can I offer you a Smirnoff and Sprite?”
“Where am I?” I ask.
“Hyannis.”
Noooooooooo!
I love Martha’s Vineyard. But every summer I visit, I fear the two or three cocktail parties that I know my parents will drag me to. “What do you do?” I suppose this question would be a perfectly fun question to answer if I did real-estate development or managed a successful hedge fund, but as luck would have it, I produce squirrel porn. I’m kidding. I don’t even know what that would look like, but as a means to get the conversation off my career, I find a humorous non sequitur to be indispensable. So is circumlocution: “What do I do? I’m currently living out in Los Angeles working on a number of entertainment-related projects, which at this point in time are in various stages of development and/or pre-development…”
The goal here is to tangle up the listener by word fourteen or fifteen, until they have no choice but to change the subject: “Los Angeles, you say? I have a granddaughter who went to school out there. She’s quite the tennis player…”
Perfect. And as the conversation shifts to their grandchildren, I finish my drink with a long, steady pull (making sure not to gulp) and excuse myself to the bar.
Another favorite is the Negative Reverse: “What do I do? Well, I certainly don’t invest in real-estate investment trusts, that’s for damn sure!” This is best used on that young financial buck who’s eager to throw out his opinion on anything to do with stocks, bonds, or real estate. Then as he either supports or denounces my bold statement against REITs, I pretend to notice an old acquaintance across the room and make a dash for it.
There’s also the Philosopher: “Me? I’m just trying to stay two steps ahead of the tax man and three behind the devil.” What does this statement mean, exactly? I have no idea, and it doesn’t matter, because there are two rules to attending a Martha’s Vineyard cocktail party: (1) If you’re there, it’s assumed you belong as long as you don’t prove otherwise, and (2) If anyone asks you to clarify your remarks, simply pop an hors d’oeuvre into your mouth and chew in an exaggerated way until someone else fills the conversational void. But be forewarned: If no one else jumps in, and your inquisitor instead waits for you to finish chewing, you’ll need to mumble, “Are derth nuths in here?” and run off to the bathroom feigning an allergic reaction.
While I might not make the money or garner the respect that my cocktail brethren do, when it comes to careers, no one works harder than I at concealing not having one. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my seventeen-year finding-and-floundering journey. I just don’t feel the need to advertise it. It’s the same principle that keeps me from skinny-dipping in the Atlantic Ocean with an NBA basketball team – why draw negative attention to myself? I don’t hear fat guys bragging about how many chin-ups they can’t do. But fat guys are lucky – “How many chin-ups can you do?” is not a socially acceptable small talk question. I wish it were.
“To answer your question, Mr. Thornton: I can do sixteen chin-ups.”
“Wow, Pete,” he would say, his withered arms trembling at the thought. “You are a truly impressive young man. May I get you another Grey Goose?”
“Yes. Yes, you may.” Now there’s a Martha’s Vineyard cocktail party that would be a dream.