...And the Adventures and Mis-Adventures of the Usual Cabal.
Despite my oft-professed love of the written word, and my thorough enjoyment of the missives written by my friends and colleagues regarding their various doings, I often find myself shirking my duty (and pleasure) to reciprocate with tellings of my own excursions. Especially regarding a charge laid upon me by my good friend, Mr. Wyatt, who stated, that as a small recompence for the travails of the last weekend, that I was obligated to relate the motely details of this passed Saturday in this particular forum.
Upon the evening of the Saturday in question, I was to attend an intimate presentation of a film whose production I had been involved with in several capacities, and whose director (and writer, along with myself), Nicholas Yeck-Stauffer, is a close and dear friend. Flush with the entitlement that comes with the completion of an arduous creative task, I had seen fit to attire myself in flattering and eye-catching vestments, and was prepared to partake of the Bacchanalian delights the night was sure to offer. Thus, bearing a bottle of wine and with my lady (and Lead Actress in our work) Ms. Nolan on my arm, I arrived at the chosen venue, the Independent Media Centre. Despite difficulties with the auditory apparatus, the exhibition was well received, and we thence congregated en masse (excepting Ms. Nolan, who was feeling somewhat fatigued) in the fine establishment of a Mr. Dee, who was a gracious, engaging, and welcoming host.
After partaking of Mr. Dee's outstanding provander, we traipsed to the site of a fete held in the residence of some of the town's artistic (in both senses of the word) patrons, where several modern musical ensembles were scheduled to perform. The airs composed and performed by said ensembles were indeed skillful, and evoked in most of the persons in attendance what appeared to be a trance-like state, in which they reverently folded their arms and rocked back and forth, calling to mind the Jews before the Wailing Wall of Solomon's Temple. Fascinating as this was, we retreated out of doors to converse and intermingle with various aquaintances. At some point, after several introductions and fascinating interchanges, including a lively discussion upon the merits of India's passive resistance as opposed to the active revolution of the Paris Commune, I encountered a compatriot of mine who had fallen a bit heavily under the spell of distilled spirits. I assisted him to his conveyance, and subsequently drove him to his quarters, where he could retire and nurse his physical and ethereal wounds. At this point, my bosom-brother Nicholas had, under a melancholy star, retreated to his own sanctuary. So, fellow brother Mr. Wyatt and good friend Mr. Kent (who we had encountered at the festivities) were left to continue the celebrations in a manner befitting our absent fellowes.
Circa this juncture, Mr. Wyatt sought to procure a Peculiar Compound, which would raise our spirits and impart the endurance necessary to continue the evening's intercourse into the dawn. Contact was made with the necessary parties, and we sought to embark to quieter quarters. However, one of the doors of his vehicle was still ajar when we left, and stuck in the dirt of the roadbank, which caused it to be pulled back upon its hinges, damaging it beyond repair. Spirits undampened, I held the door shut as we navigated the nighttime streets toward our erstwhile haven.
We arrived, and through the prowess of Mr. Wories, the rightward portal of Mr. Wyatt's vehicle was secured. David, Nicholas's brother (by blood and spirit), was at the house to welcome us. Temporary troubles thus temporarily allayed, we partook, and discoursed mightily upon diverse matters, great and small, grave and frivolous. After a time, as the sun crept once again upon the face of the firmament, while enjoying the triplet wonders of music, chemistry, and comradely debate, we received a communication from Mr. Novarra, a splendid musician who, unfortunately, had found himself disoriented and without friendly hearth to retire to. And so, Mr. Kent, generous soul that he is, paid the fare for Mr. Novarra's transmission to our erstwhile quarters. Upon arrival, Mr. Novarra seemed in good humours, conversing, laughing, and playing delightsome melodies upon the guitar. Eventually, the fatigues of the long night caught up to him, and he retired to a vacant berth. However, after an interval, he returned, seeming distressed. His heart was troubling him, in a visceral as opposed to spiritual manner. It soon became clear that he required the attentions of a doctor, and, collectively concerned, we braved the dawning roads and sidelong looks of those whose shoulders bowed beneath the weight of respectability to rush our belaboured friend to the hospital. Mr. Novarra, accompanied by Mr. Kent, entered the hospital, while Mr. Wyatt and I dashed David to the train station, for he had an early ticket to adventures northward. Upon exiting the vehicle, however, David absent-mindedly re-opened the wounded door. So, with car stopped in the path of other travelers, I pushed, pulled, swore, and visited all manner of exertions upon the errant portal in a vain attempt to replicate the nonchalant magic Mr. Wories had previously worked. In the interval, Mr. Kent, having seen to Mr. Novarra's intake, jogged unexpectedly up to the station. Abandoning my futile labours, we once again manned the vehicle, I, once again, holding the door closed as we retreated to environs more hospitable.
There, under the rapidly rising sun, we pondered, pushed, pulled, exhorted, exerted, extolled, and otherwise manhandled the door, in hopes that it would at the least remain fastened tight for Mr. Wyatt's long journey westward. All to no avail. Well acquainted with the cost and trouble of a grievously wounded car, I repeatedly expressed the utmost sympathy, fully cognizant and frustrated with the fact that doing so would neither shut the door, nor repair it. Ultimately, it was decided that we would have to resort to an effective, if inelegant, solution. The crude yet powerful binding force of Duct Tape was called upon, and several turns of that near-mythic wrapping did what we could not after hours of frustrated tinkering: secure the door long enough for Mr. Wyatt's homeward excursion.
There is not much more to recount after this; the particular weariness that comes with these kinds of circumstances slowly but surely crept in, its oppressive weight slowing our minds and our limbs. Mr Wyatt went to nap a nap of the just; Mr. Kent and I were left with little energy for much else other than sporadic snatches of somewhat melancholy, yet still engaging, conversation, and reflection upon the seemingly epic events of the evening. Eventually, Ms. Nolan returned, full of kindness and magnanimity, to transport Mr. Kent to his car, and to whisk me away to a land of long-delayed dreams.
That evening, Mr. Wyatt returned to his outpost in the frontier metropolis of Kansas City, his car bearing strange spoils and vicarious battle scars, Mr. Wyatt himself replete with a glut of slightly debauched memories. Myself, I slept like a stone, if stones had the poor sense to spend their nights far from the arms of Dream.
Hopefully, this rather whimsical account has entertained you, dear reader. And perhaps if and when the Usual Cabal once again engages in its Adventures and Mis-Adventures, you will be there alongside us, chasing away the hobgoblins of Responsability, Respectability, and Sleep; and thus, your own memories will adorn these words, with the rubies of memories instead of the paste jewels of vicarious conjecture.