Story 23: Fax From the Past?

             Ring, ring: 718-555-7342.

            “It’s that number again!”

            “What number?”

            “Listen.”  She hit “speaker” and picked up.  “Accounting, this is Sheryl, how may I – ”  Booooop – buzzzz – crackle-crackle-crackle – “It’s that fax machine calling here again!”

            “So call it back.”

            “No one’ll answer.”

            “Sometimes it’s also a phone.”

            “Oh, OK.”  She hit “speaker” again and dialed.  After a few rings: “Click.  This is an unregistered number in --- Company.  If you know your party’s extension, please dial it – ”  She disconnected.

            “You heard that?”

            “I did.  That’s weird.”

            “Weird?  We’re getting phone calls from a phantom fax machine!”

            “Just try faxing a notice to it telling them the right number.”

            “Good idea.”  She did that.

            From the fax machine’s speaker: “Click.  This is an unregistered number – ”

            “It’s a phantom fax machine!”

          “Calm down.  Just let I.T. know and maybe they can track down the number for you.  For Pete’s sake, do I have to think of everything?”

            “Yes.”  She spoke with I.T. for a few minutes and slowly hung up.  “That number was disconnected and hasn’t been used in years.”

            “What number?”

            “The phantom fax number!”

            “Oh, you’re still going on about that?  Just let go – it’s stopped calling.”

           "Don’t you understand the implications of all this?  A number that’s not in service is calling here now.  Someone from the past is trying to send us a message and dialed the wrong number!”

            “Um-hm.”

            “Are you listening to me?”

            “No, I’m typing my report.  Would you please go back to work?”

            “How can I work when we’re experiencing a temporal phenomenon?”

            “Concentrate harder and block out distractions.”

            “If only they had dialed the right number.  What lessons could that past figure have taught us that we can’t already learn through history?”

TWO YEARS LATER

            “I can’t believe we all got fired!”

            “Not ‘fired’, ‘let go’.  ‘Fired’ means it’s your fault, ‘let go’ means it’s their fault.”

            “I’m already locked out of my computer!”

            “I’m surprised Security isn’t here yet to gently throw us out the door.  They must be busy with the rest of the floor.”

            “I should’ve taken that job I told you about last month.  Now my life is ruined!”

            “Why not fax your past self and warn her about all this?”  Snickers.

            “You’re right!  The new fax machine got assigned the phantom fax number and that means it actually transmits to the past, not from it!  This is my only chance to save myself!”

            “Save me too while you’re at it, would ya?”

           “Sure!”  She scribbles frantically as two security personnel approach their area.  “I only have one shot at this – keep them busy!”

            “No.”

           “Just knock your stuff on the floor!  Minimum effort!”  She jabs the message to her past self into the fax machine, dials, and hits “Send”.  “Yes!”

            The security personnel arrive.  “Time to go.”

            “I don’t think so, my good men, for in five seconds I will have vanished into thin air before your very – no!”

            “Our very what?”

            “What is it, Sheryl?”

            “I dialed the wrong number!”

            The causality loop is now closed for business.

Story 22: The T.V. Lawyer

          This is it – don’t let them think they have control, don’t let them think they have the power.  Show them who’s boss of this situation.  Yeah.

          Look at them in there, grilling my client, What’s-His-Name.   All smug and self-righteous, thinking they have it all figured out, and that not only is he the scum of the earth, but he’s also an idiot for getting caught.  Little do those fools know they are about to be stonewalled.

           I burst through the police station interview room door and point at my meal ticket.  “Don’t say another word!”  The wall camera has me at a good angle – that usually doesn’t happen on the first try.

            My client and the cops all say: “Who are you?”

            “I – AM – HIS – LAWYER!”

            Water drips and eyelids blink.

           “That’s right, I’m doing all the talking now.  I have a list of demands I’d like to review with you before we get started.”  I settle myself on the only other chair there, rip open my briefcase, and whip out my boilerplate ultimatums.

            The cops stand.  One of them parts with: “We’re done for now.  You can go, but don’t leave town.”

           “And you’d better not leave town either, madam,” I return.  That always throws them off on their way out.

            My client is new to the process.  “I don’t get it – am I still in trouble?”

            “You bet, but don’t worry: you’ll never see the inside of a courtroom.  Not with me on the case.”

            Six months later, I’m ready for the opening statement.

            “Your Honor, as I have consistently maintained, my client is a victim as much as the murdered victim.  He is a victim of harassment from the so-called ‘Justice Department.’”  The stenographer hates it when I do air quotes – always good to have people remember your distinctive qualities.  “We will be counter-suing The State for pain and suffering once he is acquitted, and no offer less than $300 million and documentary film rights will be accepted.”  Need to have a strong opening to get everyone’s attention, else they’ll think you’re weak.

           The District Attorney plays dirty: “Your Honor, we have DNA, security and cell phone video footage, and 10 eyewitnesses implicating the defendant as the murderer.”

           Oh, you and your evidence.  I have to stop this: “ Objection!  Supposition!”

            “Overruled.”

            “Allegation!”

            “Overruled.”

            “Hearsay?”

            “Overruled.”

            “May I approach the bench?”

            “You may.”

         The nosy D.A. has to tag along.  The Judge covers the microphone so no one else can hear him embarrass himself.  I have no such compulsion: “Your Honor, I’ve conducted my own investigation, and I have proved beyond a shadow of a doubt who the real killer is.”

            “You’re just bringing this to my attention now?!”

        I make sure everyone can hear me by rotating 360°.  “I was going to save this for after I had browbeaten the witnesses, but the real murderer is in this very room.”  The gasps are rewarding.

            “Counselor, you are bordering on contempt.”

            “The only contempt I have is for the miscarriage of justice that is taking place here today!  I will put an end to this farce, once and for all, and declare that the murderer is none other than that man there!”  I point the finger of law and order at the true culprit.  My triumph is complete now that I am now both lawyer and private investigator, as all of us in the profession dream of being.

            “Counselor, you’re pointing at your own client.”

            Hm, maybe that was why figuring it out was so easy.  Time to close.

            “And justice is served.  This court is adjourned!”

        As I exit dramatically from the courtroom, I decide that now’s the perfect time to retire from my practice and pursue my true aspiration of running a dog grooming salon.

Story 21: The Encounter

             “I feel like a ghost haunting my own childhood.”

            The man sitting at the library computer at first didn’t realize the comment had been aimed sideways at him.  The speaker tried a different tactic and faced his now-listener directly.

            “Don’t you ever feel that way about your life?”

          The next two seconds spanned an infinity for the listener, whose reactions ran the gamut of panic, anger, uncertainty as to what answer, if any, would not be stupid, rude, and/or wrath-inducing, and panic again.  The result: “Uh… sure?”

           That was enough: “I mean, really, like, we work through school, man, and, like, college, and, like, everyone expects you to be successful and rule the world, and here I am, still living in my parents’ basement.  Don’t you think the government and this country’s gone down the toilet since World War II?”

           The listener realized the subject had abruptly changed from the futility of youth to politics.  “Uh… sure?”

            “I mean, you had the Cold War, right, and Korea then, and Korea now, the Middle East for, like, ever, recessions, Darfur, the IRA, and the rich getting richer.  What’s the point of it all, man?”  He waited for The Answer.

            The listener saw some sympathetic glances shot his way.  Sympathetic, useless glances.  “Uh… nothing?  I mean, well, just… try… to do the right thing.” 

            “Yeah, but the CIA, man!  I’m telling you, it all goes back to World War II!  And then the Soviets – ”

            A stroke of genius: “Bees.”

            “Huh?”

            “The honeybees are dying everywhere.  No one knows why.”  It was pretty much known why.  “The honeybees are us.”

            “Ohhh….”

            “Gotta go.”  He got up and left.  A librarian stopped him on the way out.

            “I was about to ask if you needed help – he tends to trap anyone who listens.”

            “I’m fine, thanks.  He may need help, though.”

            “I’ll speak to his mother again; she’s hoping he’ll grow out of it by the time he turns 7.”

Story 20: Vive L’Opera, Act II

Il Mascalzone (The Scoundrel)

            (The setting: a quiet street on a busy day in 19^th-century Florence)

            (Enter: Two Servants)

            Servant 1: <Our master is a scoundrel!>

            Servant 2: <And his next target is the maiden living next door!>

            Servant: <How his shenanigans brighten our days!>

            (Exit: Two Servants.  Enter: The Scoundrel)

            The Scoundrel: <Aria!  My life is very sad because I have no one I can really talk to.>

            (Enter: The Maiden)

            The Maiden: <Aria!  I spend my days marking time until I get married.>

            The Scoundrel:  <I can solve that problem for you.>

            (Enter: The Maiden’s Male Relative)

            The Maiden’s Male Relative: <Halt, The Scoundrel!  You will not denigrate my female relative into a notch on your disgusting belt!>

            The Scoundrel: <Flee!>   

           (Townspeople materialize from the wings; Servant 1 picks up The Scoundrel in a car and they drive off)

            The Maiden’s Male Relative: <What was that demon horseless carriage?>

            Townspeople: <Demon horseless carriage!>

            The Maiden: <I must plot how to preserve my honor!>

            (Enter: Servant 2 in disguise as a child)

Servant 2: <Allow me to assist you, wink, wink.>

            Townspeople: <What could possibly go wrong?>

            (Intermission)

            (The setting: The same street with darker lighting)

            (Enter: The Scoundrel, grandly, through the automatic doors of his mansion)

            The Scoundrel: <Aria 2!  I have scored yet again.>

            (Enter: The Maiden, wearing rags)

            The Maiden: <I am a ruined wretch!  How did I let this happen to me between acts?>

            The Scoundrel: <Let me recount.>

            (Puppeteers enter and re-enact the sordid story in pantomime.  From the direction of the void that faces the characters (aka “The Fourth Wall”) comes the shout: “What a dastard!”)

            The Maiden: <Tragic Aria!  Now what will I do with my life?>

            (Enter: The Foreigner)

            The Foreigner: <Now for something completely random – let me regale you with stories from my native Japan.>

            The Scoundrel: <You’re not from Japan.>

            The Foreigner: <I never let that stop me.>

            (Exit: The Foreigner.  Enter: The Maiden’s Male Relative and the Two Servants)

            The Maiden’s Male Relative: <A plague on ye for corrupting my female relative!>

            The Scoundrel: <Next time keep a better eye on her, honored elder.>

            The Maiden’s Male Relative: <Strike you!>

           (He strikes at The Scoundrel and misses.  Servant 1 mortally strikes The Maiden’s Male Relative; The Maiden mortally strikes Servant 1; Servant 2 mortally strikes The Maiden; and The Scoundrel mortally strikes Servant 2 in order not to be left out of the action)

            Dying Characters: (In four-part harmony) <Alas!> (They die)

            The Scoundrel: <Ah me, onto my next conquest!>

            (Enter: The Foreigner)

            The Foreigner: <Little does he know that this is the just the right cause to avenge that I have been looking for all my life!> (He discards his disguise and reveals that he is in law enforcement) <Halt!  Police!  Your dastardly ways are at an end!>

The Scoundrel: <Alas!  And woe.>

(Justice is served, but too late for any of the good guys)

THE CURTAIN CRASHES DOWN ON THE TABLEAU OF GLORIOUS DESPAIR

Story 20: Vive L’Opera, Act I

At the local opera house, it was the third of the six-performance run of Il Mascalzone (aka: The Scoundrel), the second of “The Dastardly Man” cycle by the great Immortale.  Any kinks that had revealed themselves the first time around had been ironed out by now: after all, even though this was a new production, The Scoundrel had been performed 2,337,678 times worldwide so that even the rankest amateur knew at least some of the lyrics.

The issue with this production, as with any of similar scope and ambition, was that there was too much set with too many performers and not enough stage to hold them all.  The hydraulic system and electronics worked perfectly, but the question on every audience member’s mind was this: were there  really motorized cars and automatic doors in 19^th-century Florence?  The program indicated that this was not an updated version either, which would have been sneered at but then ironically forgiven.  The audience overlooked these anachronisms, but they felt taken out of the moment each time the machines whirred.

Then, there were the puppets, which were so realistic as to be almost creepy.  Everyone thought some children had wandered onto the stage, until realizing that these figures constantly were surrounded by three people wearing black, one of whom would whip the character’s head around on cue.  The alternative would have been to pay children to consistently obey stage directions and say nothing, and good luck with that.

And, in the grand tradition of the art form, many of the performers did not quite fit the ethnicity they were portraying – best to ignore it.

As the plot went into full swing, each featured singer got an aria or two, and a number of opera glasses were shattered as a result.  Audience members were able to follow along with the foreign lyrics by having translations appear on computer screens installed on the seat in front of them – another advantage over the past – and shot dirty looks to those who muttered “That’s not what he said!”  An appreciative, barely audible sigh would ripple throughout the theater as familiar tunes popped up throughout the score: one was recognizable now as a jingle for ice cream.

The three intermissions were an hour long each for the prime donne and primi uomini to rest their throats and for the stage crew to disassemble one set and build the next from scratch.  The conductor entered at the beginning of the show and after each break to take his bows, while the orchestra remembered his many abuses and refused to call him “Maestro”.

The grand finale was a resounding success, with every character on stage dead, dying, or vowing revenge as their portrayers visualized their after-performance naps.  The audience section resounded with sobs; the singers revived themselves to take their restrained bows; and flowers rained upon them from all directions.  The audience left the opera house that day with a new appreciation for art, theater, and culture, along with gratitude for not having to live in the time period they just witnessed wipe out 9/10ths of the dramatis personae.

The Scoundrel: three performances down, three to go.

THE CURTAIN OPENS….

Story 19: To the Talent Show

[Disclaimer: The following is not a true story, nor inspired by one]

              (In the corner of the cubicle warren, the upper manager confronts an office drone)

            Manager: Not only was your report on time instead of early, it was barely edited and the graphics were poor.  No wonder you shlump in here day after day, wishing someone would put you out of your misery – I feel the same way about you…. You’re going to cry, aren’t you; that just makes you weak and vulnerable.  Oh, now you are crying.  If you tattle to H.R., I’ll destroy you.  (Cell phone rings; he looks at the caller I.D.) I have to take this.  Disappear.

            (The drone sobs off; the manager answers the phone while entering an inner office)

            Manager: How did you get this number?!

         Voice: I’m your mother – I will always find you.  You may have turned your back on this family, Jeremiah, but this family will never leave you alone.

            Jeremiah: It’s “Jeremy” – I’m hanging up now.

          Mother: Fine, hang up, walk away again!  Claire is performing in the school talent show and just wants her only uncle to be there for her.

            Jeremiah: What?  Why?

            Mother: Jeremiah, you promised!

            Jeremiah: When?

          Mother: When she was born!  You said at the hospital, if she somehow managed to ever get into a talent show, then you’d be there in the front row.

            Jeremiah: That’s a lie!  `Sides, the commute’s too far.

            Mother: Nonsense, you’re only an hour and a half away and the show doesn’t start until 7.

            Jeremiah: I’m busy.

            Mother: I’m busy!  Everyone’s busy!  But we’re all still going, and you should, too.

            Jeremiah: I don’t want to!

            Mother: Jeremiah Benjamin Smith – you will go to your niece’s talent show.

         Jeremiah: We’ll see about that.  (Disconnects.  He looks up and sees that he is in one of the conference rooms while a meeting is in progress)

            Chairman: Do you need some PTO, Jeremy?

            Jeremiah: No, sir, thank you.  (Runs out)

            (At 7:30 p.m., the family is seated in the front row of the auditorium and the show has gone through several acts)

            Mother: Ach, look who made it.

          Jeremiah: (In his suit and on his phone, he climbs over fold-out chairs and people to reach the front row, even though there is plenty of room in the aisles) Sell!  I said “Sell”, not “Hell”!

            Audience Members: Sshhhh!!!

            Jeremiah: (Sits and disconnects) So how long do I have to stay for this thing?

            Family and Audience Members: Ssshhh!!!!! (Programs are thrown at him)

            Jeremiah: (Grabs a program) She’s on last?!!!!!! (Mother stuffs a program into his mouth)

          (The show proceeds with the usual singers, dancers, ventriloquists, and fire breathers.  Claire’s act consists of her playing the guitar and singing, but not at the same time.  She bows to the confused applause)

           Jeremiah: (Slow clap) That’s it?  I could’ve been at the bar!  (He tosses a carnation with a “Love you” to his niece on the stage and climbs over people and chairs to leave)

            Mother: Jeremiah!  You are not my son!

            Jeremiah: I certainly hope not!

Audience Member: This has been the least boring talent show I’ve ever been to, I must say.

Story 18: Those in Peril on the Trail

            The best temperature to go on a walk in the park is 30°F.  It’s not so cold that you shiver and shake as you shimmy and shuffle, and it’s not so hot that you sweat out your bodily fluids and collapse.  Head’s up: don’t forget to bring tissues, even if you have no pockets.

            This particular mid-winter day was perfect – no pesky leaves on the trees to block the view; hard ground that discouraged ankle-twisting; no recent rain or snow to leave behind muddy footprints; and the occasional between-hibernation squirrel to keep up the appearance that wildlife still lived there.

           The hiker prepared supplies for her journey: sneakers, cell phone for emergencies, hat, trail map (snicker), water bottle, gloves.  She set out on her trek with a spring in her step and a song in her heart, confident that she would conquer the most difficult trail in the park: the Grandiose Circuit.  If she did nothing else in her life, she was determined to die knowing that she could walk 5 km (3.1 miles) of rocky pre-cleared terrain.

            The parking lot was a bit crowded, so she knew it wouldn’t be as peaceful a stroll as she had hoped.  No matter: as long as the walkers behind her kept up their speed and passed her, and those coming from the opposite direction kept on going, that would do.  She could offer up a smile and a “Morning”, then escape back to her internal world of pondering.

            On the first leg, there were the ominous sounds of voices and whistles shooting back and forth to each other across the woods.  They seemed as if they were coming from all directions, and she began to feel hunted.  She slowly turned in a circle as the trees spun around her, the sweat broke out on her forehead, and the noises approached closer and closer.  Then, the swarm hit: six bicycle riders crested the hill behind her and swooped past her crouching form with “Sorry” “Sorry” “Sorry” “Sorry” “Sorry” “Sorry”.  Etiquette dictated that she should have scurried off the trail in advance, but panic freezes us all.

            Recovering, she soldiered on through the branches that partially covered the trail, regretting that she had left behind her machete.  Onward, upward, downward, sideward: the map was not exaggerating in marking this path “Difficult”.  It even disappeared at one point, only to turn up again at the top of a steep hill; that called for another water sip and re-tying of shoelaces.

            Through some trees to her right, she thought she could see a house.  Some roads cut into the park grounds, and it matched that point in her map.  She parted branches to reveal HOWARD’S RESORT AND CASINO: the pool party was in full swing and people on the balconies were shooting confetti into the air.  She gently put the branches back, patting them in place before returning to her life from a minute earlier.  The woods resumed their silence.

            As she entered the home stretch, some leashless dogs accosted her with love taps and licks to the face.  The owner caught up and abashedly re-attached the leashes, running for his life.  She continued, grateful they were friendly and not feisty. 

            The last section of the trail was uneventful and unceremoniously dumped her into the parking lot, shaking the dust of her off its feet.  Feeling a bit of “That’s it?”, she got into her car and drove back home.  Nonetheless, the faux sense of accomplishment was akin to having reached the summit of Mount Everest, with a fraction of the danger and none of the expense.

Story 17: Trapped at the Reception

            Of course it was beautiful: no one spends that much money so people later would say it was an ugly wedding.  Everything was perfect, from the flower arrangements to the flower girl.  The priest put no one to sleep, the vows the couple had written did not make anyone cringe, the limos were on time, and the photographer/videographer discreetly worked from the rafters.  The marriage ceremony was a success, and all was well.

            Then came the reception.

         Survivors later reported bleeding ears, exhaustion, and being afraid for their lives.  Most do not remember how they got home, and that was even after the liquor had worn off.

            The cocktail hour had started out well, up until the guests realized it was an actual hour of standing around waiting for the wedding party to finish their individual photo sessions.  There are only so many pigs-in-a-blanket and actual roast pig one can scarf down while still maintaining your dignity and catching up with relatives whose names you can never remember.  When the primary couple arrived, the champagne already was almost gone and more was added to the bill.  The party finally moved upstairs and was allowed into the main room so everyone could sit for hours while staring at the china.

            The D.J. made the usual introductions of bridesmaids, ushers, parents, various relatives, and anyone else who had lined up in the waiting area, before finally bringing out the bride and groom and forcing them to slow dance with everyone.  This took 45 minutes, with the antipasto platters only just being distributed at the end of it.

            The couple had to make the circuit of the room to say “Hi” to everyone and collect their entrance fees, so while that went on the D.J. invited children up to the dance floor and set them loose to torment the rest of the guests.  The appropriate parents corralled them and many used them as an excuse to leave before the pasta: “The baby’s tired” is an escape clause that will never fail you.

            Hour 3 – the salad course – had a scavenger hunt commence before the D.J. took a break to smoke and stop his hands from shaking.  Hour 4.5 – the main course – turned into Hour 6.5 as meals were swapped and it was revealed that not enough fish had been made in spite of everyone supposedly filling out the response card and later repeating what they had earlier written.  There was a bit of a delay while the kitchen staff talked the chef down from the second-floor balcony.

            Hour 8 – sherbet – featured line dancing.  Everyone booed, then did all the steps by heart.  After the D.J. released them, one of the bridesmaids made a break for it only to find that the doors were to be locked until after the remnants of the last course had been collected.  She spent the rest of the night holding onto the doorknob and sobbing.

            Dessert began with the wedding cake being smushed into the couple’s faces and ended with the bride chucking her bouquet and garter at unfortunates who took the items as tokens of doom.  Then, the Viennese Hour (aka Hour 10) began – guests looked at the tables groaning with pastries and inwardly wept for humanity before forcing themselves up there out of obligation.  A cousin nobody speaks to asked for a doggy bag.

            The D.J., running out of new songs and slipping in some repeats, discreetly indicated that the party was ending by dragging the bride and groom up to his sound system and forcing them to slow dance again on their bleeding feet.  He then killed the music, asked the staff to turn on the house lights, and requested his payment before allowing the couple to leave the floor.

            The doors finally were opened and everyone ran to the couple to say what a great time they had while planning what they would later complain to all their friends before dashing out to their cars and driving into the rising sun.  The catering hall staff faced the carnage left behind – their work would continue until the end of days.

Story 16: Dust to Dust

            The armory was opened in preparation for the battle: gloves lined up, static cling cloths prepped, polish and rags at the ready, vacuum cleaners on stand-by.

            This was not spring-cleaning.  This was war, a war that no human being can ever win, for dust is ever-triumphant.

            In spite of this truth, the battle is waged regularly.  The fortunate armies feature child dust soldiers who take on the bulk of the fight; intense supervision to ensure thoroughness is the trade-off.  Others must enlist the four-legged comfort-givers living in their homes by strapping cloths to each of their paws and sending them off on their day.  This is an act of desperation, but those leeches really should earn their keep.

           Other generals must be hands-on and do all the work themselves: spraying, wiping, swishing, banging, blowing, shaking, reaching, falling, crawling, lifting, dropping, sweating.  The hair, lint, and skin gradually, inexorably are corralled into bags of all shapes and sizes, and victory seems inevitable.

            Then, when all appears to be vanquished, it’s spotted: a cobweb in the corner.

            A hair on the wall.

            Dirt on top of the door?!

           Dust knows no boundaries: it lives on the walls; it lives on the ceiling; it defies gravity; it defies the laws of nature.

            The sun sets on the battlefield as the infantry surrenders yet again, regrouping to fight another day.

            The dust bunnies under the bed sleep on.

Story 15: The Realization

            There comes a time in everyone’s life when this happens: you're having a conversation with someone about a topic that you're interested in, and minutes into it you suddenly are aware that everything coming out of your mouth is completely and utterly INANE.

            Usually, the realization is triggered by the person you are speaking with – or, rather, to.  You have been going on and on expounding on a topic you are enthusiastic about, and the other person interjects with: “Really?”  Or: “Interesting.”  Or, the killer: “I hear you.”  All of which is code for: “Please stop talking, and set me free.”

            People trapped in those conversations mostly are too polite to tell you to shut up or to turn their back on you and walk away.  So, they suffer in silence and fill any gaps in your monologue with a variant of the sayings above.  Life for them has come to a grinding halt as they uncomfortably search for escape, praying that someone rescues them or that the floor would open up and swallow them whole – it does not matter where that hole may lead.  Once you release them and life resumes, they feel drained, spiritless, and want to go home.

            For you, the captor, the ignorance of the torture you are inflicting only amplifies your humiliation when the epiphany hits.  You had believed you were discoursing knowledgeably and entertainingly when, without warning, the metaphorical rug is pulled out from under your feet and your heart literally stops beating.  Everything you had said before actually was stupid and boring, and now there is no way to gracefully backtrack without embarrassing yourself more than you already have.  Should you abruptly change the subject?  Mumble something incoherently as you gulp the drink you hopefully are holding?  Pretend your phone is ringing, silently thanking modern technology for its ability to interrupt everything?  Ask the other person’s opinion, dragging out the experience even longer?

            The best course probably is to cover up the strangled look on your face with a violent coughing fit, both effectively ending the conversation and going out with the listener’s sympathy rather than the resentment they were steadily brewing.