Honor on High

Clive took a long drag of his cigarette, letting the ash fall on to the taupe carpet. He flicked the butt into a nearby plant and exhaled slowly. From the corner of his eye he watched his mother, Bitsy, today’s gracious host; flirt outrageously with Henry Chapeau, resident poet and harem extraordinaire.
Clive checked his teeth in the sliding glass door and satisfied with his appearance, sauntered over to Bitsy.

“Oh darling, you’re joking! How auspicious of you!” Bitsy’s tinkling laugh resounded as Clive came into earshot.

“Mmmhmm my dear, I never joke,” Henry’s sultry bass tones enunciated.

Clive grimaced. The man’s voice made him grind his teeth in earnest. What he wouldn’t give for one good—

“Clive, dar-ling! There you are, I’ve been looking for you,” Bitsy tittered, though she clearly hadn’t been looking for him at all.

“Evening, Mother, Mr. Chapeau,” Clive inclined his head to each respectively.

“Good eve-ning,” Henry inclined back.

There was a moment of awkward silence where Clive coughed into his fist, Bitsy swallowed her martini and Henry harrumphed.

“So how soon do you plan on boiking my mother?”

“Clive!” Bitsy exclaimed.

“No, no my dear its quite alright,” Henry admonished his manner completely unruffled.

Henry turned to Clive, his back straight, his attitude perfectly poised.

“Go along and play and let the grown-ups be,” Henry directed.

Clive glared at him, “Filthy sissy. What kind of job is a love poet for a man anyways?”

Henry remained unmoved but his knuckles turned decidedly whiter around his glass.

“Clive really, is that anyway to behave?” Bitsy was ringing her hands, glancing fearfully from one man to the other.

“Stay out of this Bitsy,” Henry warned.

“Don’t tell my mother what to do,” Clive was flushed from the gin he’s swallowed earlier and he was beginning to sweat.

“Don’t get fresh with me boy. This is neither the time or place for your adolescent antics.”

“How dare you call me adolescent. I know all about you, Mr. Chapeau, so if you think for one minute that I’m going to let you make a fool of my mother, so help me g-d, I’ll—“

The tinkling of breaking glass interrupted Clive’s speech. Another guest had dropped their glass of champagne and the contents were now running in rivulets down the parkade floor. Both men looked at the spill, shocked for the moment out of their heated debate. Then as if an invisible bell had been sounded, the two leapt at each other.

They grappled viciously and a crowd drew. Amid Bitsy’s screams for them to stop the two grunted insults at each other.

“Scallywag!”

“Stupid poet!”

“Fiend!”

“Horny bastard!”

“Lecherous mongrel!”

The two were rolling about like vivacious lovers, it didn’t appear as if there were to be an end.

Finally they were both so utterly exhausted that they rolled apart and sat panting from exertion. Clive looked around to see if he could find his mother. He spotted her in the corner of the room, locked in the embrace of Gary Swips, her yoga instructor. Henry spotter her too and shrugged.

“Tough luck man,” Clive said.

“So it is,” Henry agreed.

Then the two shook hands and all was well again.