The party to which you are not invited is the best party, in an apartment on the top floor of the brownstone in the middle of the block.
And brownstones are the best stones, reflecting the late-afternoon fall sun but radiating it too, lit from within, by globes of light suspended from the ceiling of that apartment on the top floor, by the bread baking in that apartment’s tiny oven —
No, not bread but appetizers, tiny round quiches and pigs in blankets —
No, not little hot dogs, something fancier, this is a very fancy party, with fig spread imported from Spain and expensive bleu cheese crumbles wrapped in phyllo, which a woman spent all afternoon assembling, back when the light was a little sharper, more clear sun and less honey butter.
The woman wore a half-apron, tied at her waist, that she’d never worn before. She scored each paper-thin sheet of dough before she cut, to make the most perfect triangles. She didn’t taste any of the figs, not one, but she knew they were the sweetest.
The party to which you are not invited will start early and end late, with eight people who don’t notice the light as it goes from honey butter to thick syrup, from syrup to sunset, from sunset to smudged ink that never gets truly dark because of the streetlights. Only the woman, who has long since exchanged her apron for pointed heels and a rustling skirt and a scarf striped with gold, will notice the light and flick the switch on the wall, chasing the shadows back to their corners.
The party to which you are not invited, although it was the best party, will end on an uncomfortable note when, after a fifth or sixth or ninth glass of wine, who knows, no one is counting because there will be taxis on the street waiting after the best party is over —
Anyway, after quite a bit of good red wine, the second chair bassoonist in the New York Philharmonic will ask another guest, the attractive mother of an up-and-coming young writer, if she would like to sit in his lap.
When she declines, casting a glance across the room at her husband of 25 years, he will pull her down on his knee anyway, and she will struggle a bit but quite like the attention, actually, the feeling of someone unfamiliar and rough after all this time, and the bassoonist will gloat privately, and the woman’s husband will act annoyed but secretly not mind much —
After all, she’s read that “50 Shades” book and she can take care of herself, she’s always made that perfectly clear —
But the hostess, who by now is longing to take off her heels, will look several steps down the road where this is headed and think, that’s about enough of this, and cast them all out into the street and toward the taxis before any of it can ever happen.
All of them, the stars of their own shows, their own private and public performances, their own lives.
You, you too —
You are your own star, your own leading act, and by the end of the party to which you are not invited, you will be far away from this apartment on the top floor of the brownstone in the middle of the block.
You will be alone with your little black dog somewhere else, inside, your yellow coat hanging on a hook on the door, your green cap tucked away in its pocket.
You will have already read your newspaper.
Your feet will be tired and the party forgotten, or maybe the party never happened, or maybe it wasn’t the best one after all.
The inspiration for this piece came from two sources: the title of a poem by Stephen Dunn, "The Party to Which You Are Not Invited," which appeared in the August 13, 2012 issue of The New Yorker magazine, and a cover illustration for the March 6, 1971 issue, by Charles Saxon, showing a man in a yellow coat and green hat, walking his black dog down a street lined with brownstones.
