It’s not so much a country club as a castle, replete with turrets and towers—the largest I’ve ever seen. Tonight, nearly the whole place is devoted to a wedding reception, and few of them will see this elaborate dance of waiters, chefs, ice sculptors and bartenders, all busy constructing this huge social edifice that will exist for perhaps four hours. My part in this illusion is music; I’m playing bass guitar and singing, though not with my regular band.
The evening begins, and I’m on my first break when she first appears. “Do you guys know ‘Fly Like An Eagle’?” she asks. “No, I’m sorry,” I say, and then she starts to sing to me: “Fl-y-y-y like an e-e-egul-l-l-l…”
I’m used to this. People think you’ve merely forgotten their favorite tune, and that singing it will remind you that you know it, so you’ll play it. “I’m sorry. It’s a great song,” I say politely. She stares at me. “We don’t know how to play it,” I add. “Yeah, right,” she says, dripping with girl’s school sarcasm.
She is freckled and light-haired, with a long, petulant face, and as she talks I soon realize I am again in the presence of a Princess—the quintessential Daddy’s Girl, utterly used to getting her way. My defense is to nod and smile at everything she says, which quickly bores her; making a small moue of displeasure, she wanders off seeking other band members to sing to.
As the night wears on, the party livens up with plenty of dancing and champagne. At the end of the show, Princess, her party dress and hairdo slightly askew, is standing on my side of the stage, staring at the table holding the sound system speaker. “Where’s my bracelet?” she says, staring at me. “What bracelet?” I ask. “The one I left on this table while I was dancing.” Seeing where this is headed, I take a breath and turn my head to one side, catching the face of a bartender, who rolls his eyes. He knows, too.
I turn back to face her. “I haven’t seen a bracelet,” I say evenly, which sets Princess off into a torrent of uppercase ranting: “I left it RIGHT here ON THE TABLE, and NOW it’s GONE…!”
Several of the wedding party come over. “What is it sweetie? What happened…” As Princess continues her yowling, a few people discover small pearls rolling around the dance floor. “Here it is,” they say. “It’s broken.” Princess will have none of the evidence. “Someone STOLE my BRACELET,” she wheels around to face me, “and I hope they BURN in HELL.”
I feel redness rising up my neck, headed toward my scalp. I clench my teeth to keep in the curse words that are begging to be set free. We stare at each other for a few seconds, and—I let it go. I take a breath and turn away again, spotting the bartender, his face impassive. I know what he’s thinking. “You can’t win this. You’re one of us.”
And he’s right. Ten minutes ago, I was the center of attention, the driving force for this celebration. Now I’m just a low-life musician, and they’re counting the silverware.
Not really, of course. Princess is the only one here who believes I took anything, and nothing I say will steal the pleasure she derives from my embarrassment. So, I ignore her and begin packing my equipment, which calms me and also dissolves her bit of theater. She stalks off, convinced of victory.
As I start moving my equipment, I endure the good-natured ribbing from my band mates and try to make sense of this episode.
Country clubs are interesting places. Some of them are blue-collar and some are exclusive beyond belief, with initiation fees costing more than I make in a year. Many are run by efficient types who treat me as a fellow professional rather than as a potential drunkard with his eye on demolishing the shrimp platter. The people who attend these affairs as members or guests tend to be gracious, which long ago removed any envy or discomfort I felt moving among people much wealthier than I am.
I also learned from country clubs that money doesn’t buy manners, and that it takes just one small, rude person to puncture all illusions and draw the class lines in the sand. I wonder how many salesclerks she’s intimidated, how many restaurant meals she’s ruined being abusive to waiters, how many times she’s used people as her little Barbie punching bag.
I call this kicking the cat—taking out whatever frustrations or character flaws you possess on someone safe—and whenever I feel the urge to do this, I remember Princess and give her my heartfelt thanks for reminding me how not to behave.