A Question of Etiquette

Setting: Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University, Modern Day. Robison stands in a paneled hallway. A painting hangs Stage Right

Scenario: President Lawrence Summers has spoken earnestly. Robinson speaks to the Painting.

Robinson: I can't feel anything. I should be feeling something. Slides to floor Anything. This tile should be cool and shocking against my legs. But it's not. Wait! Here come the waves of nausea, like the restless sea on ... Leans away from audience, vomits. Too late. My apologies, dear scholar, but you must understand what events have transpired to cause such a violent action. But first I have to move... Stands and walks Up Stage Left. I'm a student here, of course. But this is just a summer course. I could never afford to attend year round. I'll be leaving for a state college in the fall, to finish my literature major.

He called me to his office personally, which should have been my cue to run like hell. But in my naive innocence, I proceeded to President Lawrence Summers's office. Sumptuous and oak paneled, with high windows and heavy velvet curtains, the office was dimly lit, and a heavy, sultry atmosphere had settled over the plush office. He sits at his desk, imperial in his leather chair, half hidden by the heavy mahogany counter. Then he stands, and crosses the room, and does the strangest thing. Looks over his shoulder at the painting. He shook my hand (not normal). And immediately my worries melted away. But redoubled moments later when he offered me a brandy and a seat on the heavy green couch. He was jovial and polite and friendly. But the alcohol quickly took the edge off my doubts. By the second round, I was quite complacent, this being my first encounter with such a strong liquor.

He held his liquor quite well, eyes always sharp and predatory, watching me. And looking so regal. 'I understand you lead an alternative lifestyle, Joseph.' He said suddenly, over the rim of his shot glass. He crossed the room gracefully, depositing the now empty glass on the oak table, and reclining next to me, his arm draped across the back of the couch. His hand was so close; I could feel its heat and my hair rose. And not the just the ones on my neck.

Walks center stage, pacing now. And he spoke of things I had never heard from the tongue of men. Dirty things. Beautiful things. And oh... I would be lying if I told you I did not enjoy it. If I said it did incite that burning pressure in that most primal of areas. But I can say with great honesty -Stops center stage- that while my body screamed oh yes, my mind was protesting NONONO!!

I leapt to my feet. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Summers' I said with no semblance of force. 'I'm seeing someone.'

He looked crestfallen. My mind raced for a way to mend the situation, to comfort the older man. And I had an astounding idea! Races Down Stage Right, to the painting. Leans in, face very close to the canvas and speaks quickly. A man enters Stage Right, crosses, and exits Up Stage Left. My roommate! Strikingly handsome, awe inspiringly intelligent, and nauseatingly motivated. And more importantly, queer as the three dollar bill.

'But my roommate is single!' Please go bug him, I think. The older man nodded, sage like, and seemed satisfied. He let me leave. Which brings me back to the present. Crosses stage, sidestepping pool of vomit. As we speak, he and my angelic roommate are probably engaged in some manner of carnal act. But the more I think of the cold, wrinkled flesh of his loins, the more I am motivated to once again empty my stomach. Drops to his knees. And I think of how I came to such a dilemma! Crawls to the edge of the stage. How I came so close to having those hands, those aged and wrinkled hands, caressing and inciting the most dreadful feeling of the flesh. And the waves come, like the sea on the rocks. Vomits over edge of stage.