A Little Trouble with the Facts Read Online Free Page B

former Soviet bloc.
    I figured he would arrive trailed by baby bluebloods. But as the guests filtered in, I saw most were probably pulling Social Security. Not that any of them needed a government assist. A single mink stole offered to the coat check could’ve supported poetry slams worldwide for as long as slams stayed hip. I popped mini crab cakes and washed them down with champagne. I walked out onto the patio with my flute and waited for a debonair millionaire to sidle up behind me and wrap me in a mink.
    But instead, I shivered until a young man in a tux politely rang a dinner bell and called us all inside. The speeches were to begin immediately. I was tipsy by the time Jeremiah Golden walked up to the mike, and maybe lightheaded too, because I almost fell off my seat. He was the very portrait of polite East Coast society, straight from the dog-eared pages of my ancient Vanity Fair . His Savile Row tuxedo wouldn’t have looked any smarter on John-John. His black curls flounced. Yes, flounced. In place of a bow tie, he wore a yellow silk cravat, tucked into his black vest, with a matching display hankie. I guessed he wore Alfred Dunhill cufflinks and carried a compendium case. Forget the silver spoon; he was born with a whole table setting in his mouth.
    I tried to listen. Really, I did. But I caught only a few phrases: “I couldn’t string together two words of prose, let alone improvise a revolutionary sonnet like these young people I met…” “The real honorees here tonight are the Ukrainian freestyler…” “I’ve always believed in underground movements, and never had the chance to…” My head was too busy with snippets of imagined repartee between us that would, preferably, take place in his Connecticut horse stables before he helped me mount. I heard the laughter of the crowd, punctuating the cadences of his thank-you speech, and I heard the thunderous clapping when he was through.
    “Think globally, slam locally,” he said, returning to take another bow before the mike, a fist in the air, making a power-to-the-people gesture, though it read more like, “Go get ’em champ.” He returned to his seat at Table 1, and I immediately began scheming for ways to position myself in the empty chair beside him.
    But then I remembered Bernie. I was supposed to be collecting string. I hadn’t gotten a single inch yet, not even the color of the room. We were between courses, so I took my notepad out of my purse and clutched my pen. I was standing on a gold mountain of gossip. All I had to do was mine. But how would I recognize any of the people I was supposed to be skewering? I didn’t know a single face, and even if I asked for names, they wouldn’t ring bells. These were all New York City insiders, after all, bigwigs with private bank accounts, not the kind of celebs appearing on Entertainment Tonight . Well, I thought, how hard can it be? I’m an attractive young woman in a spiffy dress. I hoisted my train and edged into a circle of gents. Their conversation stopped short and they all looked from my pen to my face and back again.
    “Pardon me,” I said. “My name is Sunburst and I don’t know a thing about poetry slams. Can someone clue me in?”
    “Starburst, you say?” said one of the gents. “As in fruit chew?”
    The circle erupted in laughter.
    “No, actually…”
    “Do you come in assorted flvors?” More laughter.
    “Why, I believe I’m your distributor!” said another gent, touching his watch chain. “We hold M&M/Mars.” Guffaws from the group as I backed away.
    After a while, the dinner bell rang. I took my seat at Table 13, still clutching my blank notepad. About halfway through supper, the gold-dipped septuagenarian at my elbow asked me to pass her a roll. I picked through the assortment and said, “Ooh, they have cinnamon raisin. Those are my favorite. My mother showed me how to make cinnamon raisin rolls and…” The septuagenarian smiled at me with her penciled-in lips, said,