"I feel underdressed," I mumbled.
"You are underdressed," Kelvin responded.
"No shit."
"I offered you a dress."
"Your current floozy's dress? I would not have fit in it."
"Yeah, but it would have fit in here. It's couture. It probably cost as much as you make in a month."
"Even worse. I'm not sure if I'd be more worried about spilling on it or spilling out of it."
Kelvin had always been into tall, thin girls for as long as he'd been into girls period. Tall and thin didn't run in our family, though, and while I wasn't so short I couldn't have made it work I was blessed (or cursed) with a bit more on top, and on bottom, than the girls Kelvin tended to go for.
"Anita if you'd spilled on that dress Lisette would have killed me."
"How the world would suffer."
"Be nice, I'm the reason you're even invited to this party."
Which was true. Expensive fancy charity dinner parties weren't the kind of thing that twenty-seven year old middle-class insurance agents got invited to, even if they had been voted "Agent of the Year" last year. My boss blamed "good work ethic" and "ability to relate to the client." I blamed "not sleeping," "being friendly," and "leaving the top buttons undone." It did earn me a cool blue nametag with "Agent Wang" on it, though, so there were some perks. Occasionally I got to imagine I was FBI.
But yeah, Kelvin was right: I never would have been invited to a Charity Sider party if he hadn't dragged me along. I give him crap for his supermodel girlfriends because that is what big sisters do, but he wouldn't have gotten invited either if it wasn't for those same girlfriends. Supermodels get invited as unpaying guests to expensive charity dinners that rent out entire restaurants on the thirtieth floor; hair stylists do not. Supermodel's boyfriends who are hair stylists do, though, as do sisters of hairstylist boyfriends who are visiting for the week when said supermodel get a last minute gig and there's an extra invitation. That explanation might have gotten away from me.
"You did a nice job with my hair though," I admitted. Peace offering. This is also what big sisters do.
"You like it?"
"Yeah. Blue isn't really my color but it goes well with the clothes."
"If you can even call those clothes."
"It was short notice," I responded. That and I hadn't been willing to spend more than twenty bucks for something I was going to wear once so I'd raided an outlet store. I'd repurposed a black skirt and teamed it up with a blue wrap top I'd found off the rack. Add a pair of heels and the ensemble almost worked, but Kelvin really tied it together when he'd given my black hair a bit of blue, dying it brighter as it got near the ends. When I pulled my hair back in a ponytail my head was black, the ponytail blue. When I let it hang to my shoulders it looked fashionable enough that I almost looked like I belonged at this party. Almost. Maybe. If you don't look too hard.
Kelvin, on the other hand, definitely looked like he belonged at this party which is why he took point on getting in. Kelvin always looked impeccably dressed, even when he wasn't, and he was always impeccably styled. Always. This was the type of party where a man in a suit stands sentry at the door to send away the riffraff so Kelvin took point and thanks to him, and a waved invitation, we were not classified as riffraff.
"Say thank you big sister," Kelvin mumbled as we walked through the shiny brass doorway.
"Thank you little brother," I responded with complete sincerity. Kelvin's a good brother, and I try to be a good big sister. Part of being a good big sister is giving him shit, but another part is knowing when to stop.
"You off to the bar?"
"These are your people, not mine. I can mingle, but I need a little social lubricant first."
"Can I abandon you?"
"Yeah, have fun. Mingle. Make some contacts. Maybe meet your next floozy."
Kelvin was already a few steps ahead of me but turned back slightly to smile. "You know me!"
Yeah, I do. I enjoy crowds and parties, but Kelvin takes to them like a fish to water. Mingling is his favorite activity and his best skill. I'm great with people I know, I can schmooze with a client, but handling strangers outside a professional context goes much better with a drink or two on board so as Kelvin disappeared into the crowd I looked for the bar.
The restaurant was big. Standard height ceilings but those were mirrored and made it look even larger. The entryway wasn't overly large but wide doorways opened to at least three other rooms, one of which looked cleared of chairs and tables and which exited out to a balcony through wall-high windows. The others had tables but very few chairs meaning most of the crowd was standing. There were statues. There was a fountain. Music was thumping from somewhere further back, far enough and deep enough that I felt more than heard it. There were people everywhere, well dressed, beautiful people except where they were rich enough to not care. As I gawked around the room, a tall guy in an out of place leather duster walked by me. With a hooded hawk on his arm. Because it was a Charity Sider party and shit like that happens when you're the third wife of a man who owns fifteen percent of the malls in the country. You get hawks. And probably tigers too.
I'd come here to see some interesting, crazy, upper class shit and it looked like this evening was not going to disappoint. If I was going to properly enjoy it, though, I really needed to get properly intoxicated first. Not enough to be drunk, just enough to loosen up.
The bar was, fortunately, easy to find and, fortunately, a little more private than the other rooms. There were temporary bars set up, at least one in each of the main rooms, but they were each surrounded by jolly partygoers and no chairs. The restaurant bar was located near the middle of the whole arrangement, with entrances to two of the dining rooms, was staffed, had chairs, and was a lot less packed. So I found a barstool and hopped up.
"What'll it be?"
"Hairy navel. Wait, what kind of orange juice you got?"
"Fresh," he replied, pointing at an artistically displayed pile of citrus fruits and almost sounding insulted.
"...yeah that'll do." Seriously? I just didn't want him using Tropicana.
I got my drink a couple of minutes later and the bartender went off to help someone else. I socially lubricated and watched the crowd. A guy in a wheelchair cruised by with LED spinners on his wheels, a lady in a dress that looked taped on holding his hand. Someone I think I recognized from a movie was loudly discussing something, hands waving, just outside the bar. A waiter came by with tiny little appetizers, tiny little mushroom appetizers with something red and pink inside; she had glitter on her eyelashes and her uniform fit like it was tailored. It probably cost more than anything I'd ever owned. After ten minutes of watching the rich and famous and feeling very, very out of place I'd finished my drink and decided another jolt was called for.
"Bartender?"
"Another one?"
"Yeah, what do I owe you?"
He looked confused. "It's an open bar."
Yeah that makes sense.
"In that case I'll have one of those, too," said a voice as a man sat down next to me.
The bartender shrugged. "Two, coming up."
I turned to look at the new arrival. He was about as well dressed as I was: button up shirt, khakis, both of which looked off the rack. He had a great haircut, although his wasn't blue, and a short groomed beard. Nothing screamed money except his watch, which looked expensive although it could have been a knockoff. My purse was a knockoff Prada, I called it the Frauda. Knockoffs were how us poor people feel rich.
My guest was probably about my age, maybe a few years older because there was a little grey around his ears and chin. I looked at him and he looked back, eyes flicking around before settling on my eyes in a friendly "hi how are you doing, I'm sitting in the stool next to you at a bar" kind of way rather than an "I'm making direct eye contact to assert my dominance" kind of way. So we were off to a good start.
"You don't even know what I'm drinking," I said by way of introduction.
He shrugged. "Worth trying something new and I feel like I could use a drink before braving the mob."
"You too, huh?" I decided I liked him, at least so far. I held out my hand.
"My name's Anita," I continued.
He took it. "Dixon."
"Nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
The bartender brought our drinks and we both took a sip. It was as good as the first, and I'm pretty sure a little bit stronger too. I think I've been to one open bar party in my life and they watered things down pretty hard; not here, though, not at a four figure a plate (unless you know somebody who knows somebody who got invited) Charity Sider charity dinner. Nope, here there's open bars, the drinks aren't watered down, the food is all tiny and people carry hawks.
As if he was reading my thoughts, Dixon spoke up. "What brings you to this exercise in excess?"
"Visiting my brother. He's in fashion and knows the right people. Figured it would be fun to tag along. You?"
He shrugged again. "Similar. Visiting family coming to the party and figured I might as well too. Seemed better than sitting on the couch watching late night TV."
I snorted. "Family, huh?"
"Yeah. What?" He must have seen my expression. Whoops.
"Nothing, I... no, nothing." Now I felt embarrassed and I hadn't even said it. It had seemed funny in my head. Really. Now that he asked, though, it just sounded juvenile. And less funny. Except I'd smirked. And he'd noticed. And now there was an awkward silence, soooo...
"It's just," I started, "you said it and I was thinking about this charity party we're all at and thinking... you know, the Charity Charity and and seriously why would you name it that? Yeah that's funny for about three seconds but why would you ever make that joke and run with it? And then I thought huh, wouldn't it be funny if he was Charity's brother, because she's Charity Sider, well Charity Sider-Hews on paper probably but no one says the Hews and anyway that would make you, well..." I waved my hand, encouraging him to fill in the rest for himself because I was way too embarrassed to at this point.
"I'd be what?" he asked.
Well shit. "You know. Dixon. Sider. Dixon Sider."
"Huh," Dixon responded in a neutral tone.
"Dixon Sider, as in dick's in... no, never mind, it's not that funny. Immature, sorry, just... be funny if you were her brother is all." I trailed off, finally getting my mouth to stop rambling. Shut up, Anita, shut up shut up shut up you did not need to explain the joke! Maybe I needed more lubricant. Or less.
"Yeah," he responded in that same flat tone, "if I were her brother."
