Volume: 1
A diatribe on The Club's biggest annual party.
There was a second ceremony that day. The organizers handed out trophies to members who paid the most to day laborers who sanded and varnished and cleaned and painted. The emcee wept while thanking his wife for all her support in throwing The Club's biggest bash. The scene was reminiscent of a movie awards ceremony where people falsely cheer for the winners while harboring feelings of envy and disappointment.
Talk the next day centered around hangover severity levels, how beautiful the day was and how much fun the kids had wading through pig shit. The season for yachting, now open without the previous one having closed, began with members sitting in the same place in the bar that they sat the day before and the week before and the month, year and decade before. The sun came up, the fair wind blew and the yachts remained tied to the dock, starting anew the cycle of decay, giving back all that paid-for labor to the ravages of salt.
"But, I'm not bitter," I said when she looked up at me.