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A summit, sure -- but a peak experience? Quick! Where's the Welcome Mat?By Rick Horowitz "Friends come to visit each other in challenging and difficult times." President Clinton, in Moscow.
You know what it was like. They can call it "summitry" and dress it up in ceremonies and communiques, but you know what it was like. This is what it was like: You're flat on the couch. Your head is pounding and your stomach is turning somersaults. If you had the strength to get up and get the aspirin, you wouldn't need the aspirin. The place is a mess; you haven't cleaned it in months. The sink leaks. The floor creaks. And the phone is ringing. You ignore it for as long as you can, but it just won't stop, so finally you stagger across the room and mumble something that sounds vaguely like hello. "Hi, it's me!" says the too-too-chipper voice at the other end of the line. "I'm at the airport!" The voice means nothing to you. "Sorry," you start to mutter. "You've got the wrong num -- " Omigod. It's Bill. (We'll call him Bill.) Your old pal Bill. But what's he doing in town? He isn't supposed to be here until -- you flash a panicked glance at the calendar on the wall -- Until today. "Bill!" you cry, with whatever scraps of enthusiasm you can muster. "The airport! I wasn't -- I'll be right there." But your old pal Bill won't hear of it. Just give him the address, he says, and he'll take a cab over; he'll be there in half an hour. Which gives you 30 minutes to shave (when was the last time?) and shower (ditto) and make the place presentable for company, which you haven't come close to doing when the doorbell rings. You cross the room ever so gently, so as not to dislodge the smile you've hung on your face. You open the door. He looks terrible. Your old pal Bill -- smooth and suave and perfectly-turned-out Bill -- has a black eye and a swollen lip. His collar is frayed. His shoes are caked with dirt. "Maybe he'll cheer me up a bit," you'd been thinking as you scurried around stuffing random items into random closets; your old pal Bill always cheers you up when he comes to town. (And he always brings a very nice gift.) But you've never seen him like this -- he looks almost as bad as you do! He glances past you, into the room with the dirty dishes and the old newspapers still piled high. "Is this a bad time?" Not at all, you assure him -- come on in. You pour him a drink and tell him how great he looks; he tells you the same. You ask about the wife and family; he changes the subject. "Wasn't there more furniture last time?" he asks, staring at the empty spaces. "The place looks...bigger." Bigger, yes, you tell him. It's easier than trying to explain where the furniture went. He wants to take you to dinner, he says, just like always -- but what if we try one of those smaller places for a change? One of those smaller, less expensive places. No reason we have to go to a fancy place to get a good meal, is there? You couldn't agree more. (You're thinking there may not be a gift this time.) And after dinner, he says (he's still staring at the empty spaces), maybe we can get together with some other people in town. It's always fun to meet other people, he says. Your smile slips from its moorings. He's your old pal, you're thinking; why does he need to meet other people? He notices your expression change. If you're too tired, he says, I can always go by myself. "You do seem a little tired," he says. You pour him another drink and tell him how great he looks; he tells you the same. "So," you wonder, "when is your flight?" Posted
9/1/98. Fresh stuff right here twice
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