The Call

I’m in a room full of people, all of us wearing wigs. I have the nagging suspicion that mine is on crooked and try to adjust it while studying my reflection in the wineglass in front of me.

A man with a crazy mustache has just made an ass of himself by trying out a new style of dancing.

The phone rings from the kitchen and we all drunkenly scramble to reach it, trying to squeeze through the door at once. An older man with a worn-out thin white wig and strange buttocks is the first to answer it.

“Hullo,” he says. “Mm-hm. I see... No... Yes, of course... I understand.”

The man gently places the phone back in the cradle, takes off his scraggly white wig and tosses it on the stove. Dejectedly, he slumps his shoulders and slinks past all the staring eyes. He reaches the door and looks back. On the verge of tears, he raises his hand in a half-hearted wave and leaves the room. We all adjust our wigs and take a deep, collective breath, knowing we’ll never see him again.