Cocktail Myths
They used to call them teas. Now they ask you to a cocktail party. A cocktail party is the most convenient excuse for getting rid of a case of bad liquor, stripping the pantry of its old canned meats, and paying off obligations to a lot of bores.
If you do not receive invitations to those gatherings, you suspect that you’re a social flop. If you do get stuck with them, then you are positive that you’re either a bore or a dope. The happiest solution is to rate being asked and then to refuse. But how can you refuse when friends sneak up on the telephone with their invitations and ask, “What are you doing on Tuesday?” As soon as you answer, “Nothing,” you’re caught.
These telephoned invitations are always decked out with the most decoying promises: alluring descriptions of eligible bachelors, elusive celebrities, and sparkling wine break down your resistance. You think you mean it when you say, “Okay, I’ll be there.”
After you hang up the receiver and the spell of popping corks begins to wear off, you remember the party you rushed to last summer. The rush was caused by the breathless description of the “simply dee-vine” bachelors who were scheduled to be present. After spending a dollar-fifty for a prosperous arrival in a cab, you found that the guests included thirty-two models and five bachelors left over from the Civil War. At first you imagined that somehow you had become entangled in a Billy Rose chorus call. Everybody was huddled into one long hall devoid of chairs. The girls looked very sad and disappointed. Not even the refreshments helped. The cocktails consisted of water looking very unnatural due to the presence of a cherry. The more substantial fare was bread cut into strips spread with glue masquerading as pate de fois gras. Before the starving guests could grab a second Manhattan Water and strip of Pate de Glue, the host, a Mr. Fubble, announced a surprise for the girls. It has been a long time since hundred dollar bills were hidden under dinner plates, but you hoped that even a commercial artist might have a moment of madness. The surprise was certainly stunning when the entire female company was herded into the studio, where, as a publicity stunt, a group picture was taken. After the picture you were told to ‘scram; but first to leave your name and telephone number for the newspapers. You wanted to ask, “Since when did ‘The News’ start printing telephone numbers as captions under photos?” The surprise was never printed but during the next few months the telephone was busy with strange voices asking you to more cocktail parties. One voice even invited you to participate in a beauty contest at Coney Island.
Then there ws the Christmas Cocktail Party you fell for. Champagne and celebrities were to be on the program. Naturally, you went. The famous guests turned out to be Christmas myths. You knew them all. The glamorous movie star was a blues singer who chanted nightly in a two-by-four nightclub. The important Broadway producer was a four-foot photographer of chorus girls; the millionaire playboy – a dance instructor from Arthur Murray’s; the famous author – a press agent; and the French Count – an ex-headwaiter. You wondered what you had been built up as, but you never did find out. The champagne was flowing, but only for your hostess, who had stomach trouble. You drank Tom and Jerrys and looked yearningly.
And how about that literary cocktail party you attended because you hoped it would improve your mind? You came ‘dressed up like Shirley Temple’ only to discover that everyone looked ready for a jaunt in the country. After you told them you hadn’t read Karl Marx, nobody spoke to you. When they started jabbering in French you tried to look bright. When they reverted to English, you recalled all the words you once meant to look up in Webster’s. You simply stared in wonder at all the guests who drank faster than barflies and who could pronounce “aestheticism” without a stumble of the tongue. Just about the time you were convinced that you were the dullest and dumbest female that ever sat in a chair, the trend of the conversation switched. Instead of quoting Shakespeare they started telling stories which would have been too strong for a burlesque house. You listened for a time and tried to smile at the right pauses. But finally you decided, come what may, you would never make an intellectual. To the relief of the remaining guests, you left.
There were other parties too. The one that started at three in the afternoon and was still going strong at three in the morning when the hostess passed out and you could finally sneak through the door without having her hurl herself around your neck in objection to your departure. And one where the other guests didn’t show up and your suspicions were confirmed when the host said, “Come on, honey, give us a little kiss.” You wondered if he ever found out what hit him. There was even one where your hostess turned out to be fifteen years old and you were trampled over by a crowd of jitterbuggers.
Yes, you recall all those and too many other previous experiences at cocktail soirees after you’ve been inveigled into accepting the latest invitation. But, you get out your best bonnet, call yourself a damn fool, and rationalize: “Well, maybe this one will be better!”
Peggy Stebbins
Circa 1939