The Luncheon
Every week, the students of the creative writing MFA program at Vanderbilt University attend Professor Theodore Pratler’s monthly Luncheons, which always include arrays of hot teas and finger sandwiches and scones. The ordeal always felt more like an afternoon tea than a luncheon, but Professor Pratler is a very emphatic man in his 70s with quite a lot to say about the world and ‘The Luncheon’ is what he called it. He felt that their classes were best devoted to freewriting and discussion of literature and chose to host these Luncheons in order to talk more generally about life and culture and the things that “breathe life into our work.” This was how he introduced The Luncheon to the students on their first day of class.
This Luncheon is in the middle of the second semester, during which drafts of the students’ longer works will soon be due. Many might expect there to be low attendance, for they would need to work on their revisions and meet page counts and finalize their work rather than chat. But, as it were, free food supersedes all in the minds of college students, and so there sat all 11 MFA students around Professor Pratler’s mahogany table in the center of his sunroom at his house a couple blocks from campus. The walls of the room are yellow, the color of butter — the old fashioned kind that had to be mixed with a packet of yellow dye. On the table were three tea towers of finger sandwiches, scones and small desserts such as mini eclairs and bite-sized cheesecakes. The students sit patiently, playing chicken: waiting to see who would be the first to speak so that they may more discreetly strike the gold that sits before them.
“Professor,” cooed Felicity, from her seat across the table. “I remember you saying last month that you had lots of stories from your days as a reporter you wanted to share.”
“Oh yes, lots of ebullient characters. What a scintillating time,” Professor Pratler said, nodding, a faint smile on his lips. His three-piece pinstripe suit scrunched a bit about the elbow as he lifted his arm to rest his chin in his hand. Professor Pratler had wispy white hair, brushed back from his face. The latter would grow pinched when he got lost in thought, as though he was trying to read his memories like a book, and there was something about his eyes… something sprightly that contrasted his antiquated affectations. “I do believe you all must take it upon yourself to engage with the world and its people before you lock yourselves away to write!” he chuckled, and the MFA students followed suit, the laughter traveling in a demure ripple around the table.
“Professor, I recall you had a specific tale you wanted to share with us about your time at the Miami Herald,” Felicity prompted, again.
“Oh yes, that’s right, because back when I was working for the Herald, the world was in such a terror,” Professor Pratler sighed, his brow crinkling and lips pursing. The match had been struck. “It was a year after the Cuban Missile crisis, but everyone was still in such a fright. I mean, in some ways, aren’t we always? But in this case, the threat of war did have everyone in quite a fluster — both children and adults. Although, nothing really came of it. I supposed it feels quite a bit foolish now looking back, but that’s neither here nor there. I mean now we have real wars being waged in Afghanistan and Iraq and people seem, generally, quite unbothered. How ironic is that… the ghost of a possible apocalypse haunted us more than the existence of true warfare… but anyway, when I was a reporter for the Herald, we had many little party-like banquets to attend, both as reporters and to support the philanthropic efforts as community members. There was some kind of fundraiser for one kind of illness or another I was compelled to attend. It was the kind of thing where, as a young college grad, you had to pull your dusty old prom suit out the back of the closet. Reporters fresh out of college don’t make nearly enough to buy something new for these kinds of events. Frankly, reporters in general aren’t used to that kind of fuss and fancy, and oh how my shoes pinched my toes! It was as though there was a little kitten following me around the whole night, nipping at my feet!
“By far the best thing about those kinds of events is most certainly the food, but I remember this particular event was rather lacking. Something about the kind of illness or whatnot we were fundraising for didn’t allow us to have access to meat. Maybe it would’ve been some kind of insult to the cause. Regardless, I was nibbling on this rather dry vegetable empanada when my editor at the time, Harold, came over to me with a glass of bourbon in hand. He slapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Theo! The grind never ends! There’s a shooting on 57th street I need you to cover.’ Well, I thought he was joking, for attendance at this frivolous event was heavily emphasized in the newsroom weeks prior. And anyway, Harold really lacked any sense of humor so it was entirely plausible that he was simply cracking one of his unfortunate jokes.
“But I left anyway — any excuse to take off those god awful shoes! I drove my Chevy Corvair all the way to Brownsville, socks slipping off the pedals, and I remember thinking to myself, Oh, Harold better not be pulling my leg! I turned the corner and pulling my leg he was not! Two ambulances, a firetruck, and four police cars lined the street of this little suburban neighborhood. It appeared as though there had been some party going on in the front lawn of the house where everyone was swarmed. There was a picnic table with balloons tied to the benches and a kettle grill still smoking in the front yard. A couple children were being ushered inside — those poor things — and two women were talking to the police while two bloodied men were being strapped to gurneies and wheeled into the ambulances which had already taken off by the time I had parked, pulled my god awful shoes back on, and gotten out of my car.
“One of the EMTs, who had remained to check on the women and children, had the most preposterous nails, I do remember. They were this acid pink, definitely longer than I thought a person in her position could have… anyway after things had settled a little, I finally got in a word with a police officer who informed me that it was the neighbor across the street who had fired the shots! He was taken into custody minutes before I arrived. Apparently, two families were hosting a party to celebrate the men who had just returned from deployment, I believe from West Germany. The neighbor got fed up with the noise, went outside and shot both the men. In front of their wives and children, mind you! Both the men were taken to the hospital, but we soon got word that neither had made it. Such a tragedy! I still remember the feral shrieks of those poor widows.
“After the interviews, I sat in my Chevy Corvair and scribbled down the entire story in my notepad. Then I drove a few streets up and knocked on a random door. A sweet old lady answered and she let me use her phone to call in the story to the Herald. Ten minutes later, I was back at that party, pretending to enjoy the vegetable crudités and laughing at one of my boss’s awful jokes. Anyhow, I remember thinking to myself, everyone here has probably lost years of their lives over the possibility of that A-bomb that hasn’t dropped and even if it did, would most certainly end all their worries in a blink of an eye. Yet, they have not lost a wink of sleep over the real tragedies in our world. The ones that happen right down the street, for which, we are so blissfully unaware! Those two families’ lives were shattered irrevocably that day, their joyous celebration turned into one of profound, bottomless grief. And yet, everyone at the banquet was clinking their champagne flutes and feeling so good about themselves for donating to some illness or another that they fancied themselves the right hand of God! Despite all our developments technologically and whatnot, evidently, we have lost sight of our humanity. And I thought, as I stood there in my too-tight shoes, well, that is the real tragedy of this world.”
As Professor Pratler finished his story, the students of the MFA program continued to munch on their finger sandwiches and sip on their tea, all the while, in the back of their minds, trying to remember what writing still had to be done before their looming deadline. Outside the windows of the sunroom, two streets over, a young man was being arrested for trying to break into his own house (he had dropped his keys in a storm drain). Professor Pratler had recently resealed the sunroom windows to prevent any leakage this winter, so neither he nor any of the students heard the gunshots that rang out, the ambulance that drove by, or the unmarked van from the coroner’s office that came to collect the young man’s body.