I'm with Joe

I hate block parties. Nay, as Newman would put it, I despise block parties!

My wife thinks it is because I am a borderline misanthrope, which may be true, but boy do I hate block parties!

Ritualistic façades of society and old friendships push me over though, so as with other obligations, I show up at a Memorial Day event. The Godfather cooks, the rest of us eat, drink, and are often merry. He is really a godfather to my son, and my best friend, so I suppose I am obligated.

I immerse myself with a brew, and my Android mobile device soon enough.  There is , accusing me of misunderstanding something I artfully penned in a moment of drunken stupor, and I set him straight. There is someone else bellowing about spousal neglect, and I figure neglecting that epiphany would be twice the fun.

I get bored. Till the Godfather decides to play catalyst.

"You're are a liberal, aren't you?" he exclaims at the hapless hostess. Even as she works to gather her, er, thought, he piles on:

"You really think Obama was born in the US of A?"

Now, the Godfather has just stirred the pot. The hostess looks at Guest A, and asks "What do you think?"

Guest A exclaims, "Well, if it takes this long, and only after The Trump demands it does he show his Photoshop job..."

Soon, there is a verbal melee. The Godfather has stepped off, retreating to char some mammal flesh in the background, and I'm involved in explaining how the deficit would be about the same whether or not we stopped printing Spanish booklets in California.

A frail figure approaches. It is Joe.  

A voice rises above the fracas that supposedly passes for intellectual conversation. It is the village idiot's. While I mean no respect to village idiots the world over--after all every village prizes their own--this one's annoyingly loud.

"Hey Joe, how are you doing?"

I stop mid-thought my egalitarian discourse, and think about Joe.

Joe is a WWII veteran, who a decade ago had been hired by The Godfather--also my business partner--to assemble desks made of particle board at work. Desks that were to furnish our neophyte business offices. I had bristled at the thought of a septuagenarian working twice as long as a strapping young lad doing that job.  Especially when it took him three days to assemble five desks and the finished sides were erroneously drilled.

Twice.

But what the heck, we are to respect our veterans right? And Joe had been in WWII, the war to end all wars.

Back to the present. The village idiot had just asked "How are you doing?"

"Oh just fine, leaving ample room for self-improvement" replied Joe, and there were chuckles all around.

The Obama-talk had disappeared.  I had forgotten the nuanced Paul Krugman argument for raising inflation. We all laughed, and ate the half-cooked bait served up by The Godfather. The village idiot, though, was undaunted, and pressed on.

"WHAT ARE YOU WORKING TO IMPROVE, JOE?" he screamed, since he was obviously not loud enough the first time.

"My hearing," replied Joe, "so that I can listen to what you are saying."

I'm with Joe. I spent the rest of the evening listening, and who knows, it may carry over into (gulp) tomorrow!