Forty

On November 19, I turned forty. Camille had asked if I wanted a party. True to form, I hadn't thought about it, but decided as soon as she asked that -- by God, yes! -- I did. We invited about sixty people. Forty or so actually came. It was a beautiful night for me. Many comrades in song, and many comrades at heart, stood around for hours, (we live in a two-bedroomer with scant furniture), enjoying each other.

The musicians almost all had a chance to play, and the singers to sing. I was granted the birthday brat privilege of treating the performers like my private jukebox, calling out my favorites of each of their songs, and in most cases hearing them. I laughed and cried. It sounds cliche. If it isn't part of your experience, o sturdy fellow, then you ought to try it some time. Such songs! "Myrtle and Hubert", the tale of world-renowned turtle troubadors who've seldom left their bowl, "Under the Avocado Tree", a humorous vow of withdrawal from the traffic of daily life, "Wendell and Cass", the swinging ballad of a gay penguin couple, "Cocaine Don't Care", a portrait of the ravages of amorality and apathy, a gorgeously voiced duet cover of Cohen's "Hallelujah" that always reduces me to tears, a rich song of a father's love for his daughter, "S.W.", and... I'd love to name 'em all but I realize that you who haven't heard them are just parsing ahead, anyway.

I had a lot to drink. A good friend of Camille's gave me a bottle of Gentleman Jack, and I thought I would be rude not to try to siphon the greater portion of it. I probably got silly. So far, nobody has embarrassed me with dubious anecdotes about my behavior that night.

I began to wonder, later, if I hadn't invited so many people just to avoid the quarternarian (???) spectre of my own mortality. Hmm. At some point after midnight, there were too many folks floating back and forth between our few rooms, and I was too drink-addled, to keep track of them all. But I kept catching sight of somebody I'm fairly sure we didn't invite. (Not you, Jirus. You're always welcome.) I never saw the person clearly enough, even, to make out if it were a woman or a man, and there was something familiar about its lanky, stooping gait, but the figure was dressed all in a very deep burgundy with either a black beret or scarf upon its head. When I was with the other musicians in the sun room, I would see this figure hovering behind the entertainment armoire. When I went to the kitchen to refresh my drink, I would see it flitting through the study into the front hall. It never got close enough for me to positively figure out who it was.

Now, nobody else was similarly dressed, and I think I'm aware of everybody who attended. I don't remember letting this crimson-clad intruder in, and neither does Camille. Riley, our dog, is visitor vigilant, and always the first one at the door. But about the time I began to notice the crimson person, Riley had retreated to the bedroom, and I didn't see much more of him. Ah, well. Whoever it was, I hope they enjoyed the party. They didn't take anything. Nothing of value was missing.

What's really bizarre, though, is that I found my watch the next day in the coat closet. I'm pretty sure I took it off in the sun room. I usually remove my watch before playing guitar. And, stranger still, though the glass facing is intact, the hour and minute hands are missing! What do you think this means?

If you were the visitor in crimson, please ease my mind and let me know. And if you stole my time, or have information that can lead to the person who did, please let me know. A small reward is available.