Writing Exercise

Seven days ago I ate at Denny's, and now nobody will talk to me. At the club on Tuesday, Charlie Silverman, that jowley, Victorian-minded, snifter-wielding fiend didn't even give me one of his legendary diatribes on propriety of men of high social standing. (He believes of course they should all concern themselves with cordon bleu chicken, wine, automobiles; cordon bleu damn-near everything. Even their prostitutes ought to be five star first class). Instead, Silverman decided to give me a frost-bitten shoulder, less broad and angular than his double-breasted suit will have you believe; more blunted and soft, (believe me, I know), but no less scathing. Indifference is one of his lesser-known talents among those who know him. And generally once you know Silverman, he immediately takes an interest in you. So the indifference is even more unsettling. At least with his rants he gave you the satisfaction that he cared enough to scald you and embarrass you with his rapier tongue in front of all the boys with their tumblers and cigarillos. To be crucified by Silverman was one of the highest compliments you could get apart from him wanting to sleep with you. It's very easy to forget, that like everything in the "good life", not every one is fortunate enough to know Charlie. So to be denied it is to be declared anathema. Once he ignores you you are now a leper, excommunicated into the subhuman world where all they eat is hash browns, bacon strips, Alps-sized pancake stacks, and black coffee, the most austere of drinks.