THE OLIVE BRANCH

by Andres Jauregui

You feel their stares before you even introduce yourself. The Marina People. How reputable they are, and how well-loathed. Their bank rolled condos and their cars in their private garages precede them. Their nesting habits, long-term relationships and future plans. Their money makes you feel small. Their success, filthy as you deem it, deep down, makes you feel stupid with regret. "Were I not so principled, I might be in their shoes," you think. It's not that you don't want their money it's that you don't want to earn it their mainstream, corporate way, you tell yourself. Demons of your laziness claw at you internally. Outwardly, you're just another struggling artist.

You with your attitude, your bike, and your job hawking espresso, exist on their dime. How you aspire to tend bars where you would still live off their tips or, to sell your art that they might hang in their bathrooms or, to form a band whose album they might buy from iTunes. The silent, festering knowledge of your symbiosis pisses you off.

Yet, there you are: standing in the portico of a cavernous atrium of a living room, listening to a guy named Chad talk about motorcycles. Your leather jacket, thrift fare, had prompted the ice-breaker: "Do you ride, or do you just jacket?" The wit on Chad kills you, really.

Smiling politely, you excuse yourself to fill a drink from the impressive spread of liquors and wine laid out on a table in the room, where people stand in small groups or couples talking about bars, clubs, and restaurants you knew about before they were featured in the Guardian yearly short list. You feel a surge of cultural superiority as you overhear them talking about jam bands and top forty singles. An iPod in a speaker dock somewhere is bumping that Black Eyed Peas song where they say "retarded" every fifth word. You are beginning to ask yourself what you are doing here when the reason walks up to you: Her name is Kellie--with an "i-e". You met her last month. You served her a double-shot, non-fat, organic mocha latte, charmed her with your broken down charm, and got her number. You played phone tag for weeks. She finally invited you to her boyfriend's party, and despite romantic preclusions, you came.

Her blue eyes shimmer with excitement upon seeing you. The small, pink lips crack to reveal a pearly smile. Her bare shoulders are brown from the sun, the curve of her shapely breasts just visible under the billowing fabric of her expensive top. Her perfect ass is poured into delicately sequined jeans. She rattles on a little about how great it is to see you, but "Hi!" is about all you can muster: you're as nervous as a virgin on prom night. The cool composure you so willfully cultivate hangs on a hair trigger of nerve. For all your skinny, black jeans and thick-framed glasses, for all the social importance you place on games of pool, your lapsed vegetarian tendencies and uncomfortable reliance on bummed weed and cheap booze, your hookups and the hangovers that follow them, you cannot--you simply cannot--resist a gorgeous blonde.

"Are you having a good time?" She asks, voice sincere. "I saw you talking to Chad."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. He"s kind of a dick when he drinks. Don't pay attention to him."

"Okay."

"You don't look like you're having a good time."

"Sure I am."

"Really?"

"Sure. Let's have a drink."

You pour a glass of pinot gris for Kellie, and one for yourself, then allow yourself to be led, like a blind man, into the foray of chit-chat and networking. You meet Robert, Kellie's boyfriend. He's a doctor. He's discussing the particulars of bidding on a condo. You meet Rachel. She's an event planner. She likes Madonna, especially her new stuff. She likes that you're from Kentucky. Do people marry early in Kentucky? You meet Chad. Chad went to Duke. Chad likes cars...

You have another glass of the pinot gris, which is surprising since it's not cheap Mexican beer. You wonder if you even like Tecate. You read the bottle and discover that the wine is from Oregon, from a place called Rogue Valley. This sounds mildly exciting to you. The wine even has a name. Its name is Roxanne. You decide that Roxanne boasts the most character you've encountered all night. And, as a beverage, at least you have a functioning relationship. You don't have to put on the red light. You don't care if it's wrong, or if it's right. You decide Roxanne likes you.

You also decide that everyone else does not. In fact, you slide into despair. You've had just enough to drink to eek open the floodgates of self-loathing that ask, why, why, why didn't you study marketing or management or mass communications? Why didn't you listen to mom and dad? Graphic design? Did you secretly want to die in a ditch? Did you think you would graduate to anything more than serving coffee alongside cute girls, ten years younger than you, who know you are a loser and are smart enough not to sleep with you, and one day will be here, living in this very apartment, working at their real jobs, after Robert moves into his new condo with Kellie and marries her into a life of security, and comfort, and luxury that you will never, ever, come close to attaining?

Wait. Wait! At least you're cool!

The sensation of the ground breaking away under the burden of your regret underscores an urgent need for a cigarette. You tap your pockets and realize you've left your American Spirits in your other, other black jeans. Silently, but with the telltale lip curl of smoker's agita peeling across your face, you scour the room for anyone from whom you might grab a smoke. You tell yourself how easy this should be when you realize you're having a hard time pegging the smokers. Sure, all Marina Girls smoke for fear of being fat, you tell yourself - just like your average Mission Girl - but you're not about to subject yourself to their talk of Napa weekends and baby showers just to find out if any of them feel charitable. Furthermore, their airs of sophistication are keeping them from smoking indoors, and, it being August, it's far too cold a San Francisco night to venture out onto the deck in search of would-be donors.

So, predictably, you move on to the next best thing: the hors d'oeuvres. Confronting the massive table, you marvel at the bounty of the spread and how incredibly familiar some of this stuff is to you: hummus, cheeses, crackers of various color and consistency. Chips and salsa? And here you thought they subsisted entirely on caviar, vitamin supplements and brand-name energy drinks. A particularly delectable looking plate of chicken on a stick entices you, so you grab one, and without thought, take the largest bite imaginable.

Happily, your smoking anxiety is somewhat sated by this thin log of meat. But somewhere in the mire of your visceral satisfaction - the unsung joy of sinking your yellow teeth into this portion of finger food - you detect a pang of familiar shame. You almost don't want to look up, because you already know.

The Marina People are staring at you. They stare. A covert glance confirms your unsettling inkling, now a vulgar reality. You are an object of scrutiny, looking stupidly back at your observers like a caged ape: a bamboo stick-pierced hunk of grilled chicken raised to your lips, curry sauce dripping from the side of your simian face.

You hadn't wanted to blend, but you hadn't particularly wanted to be noticed, either. With a single chomp, you have all but sealed your otherness. The sauce dribbles down the knuckle line of your clenched fist, as you hold onto the skewer like a faint last chance. They can probably smell the wine on you. They can defi nitely smell the grime of your dive bars, your crummy apartment, your life, your world. Your clothes are different. Your hair is longer, greasier. Your complexion is imperfect. Every awkward difference between you and them bubbles to the surface like a fart laid in a hot tub. You feel silence, tension, the gurgle of slow laughter.

A blonde, much shorter than you, looks up with a smile of amusement, if not mild disgust. "How's the satay?" she asks, her chirpy voice spiced with a faint hint of what could be sarcasm. For a moment you hesitate. The room feels like an amphitheater. You pick Kellie's face out of the crowd of spectators. You can't read her: she's got the same polite mask of a smile on as the rest of them. You think of lies to tell. You think of covers. You think of turning away, running away, shrinking away, never to return. But you don't. You compromise.

"They're delicious. Have one," you say, sincerely, grabbing a stick of chicken and offering it her way. "They're free-range organic," you add, hoping that it's true; hoping that these people care about that kind of thing.

She accepts. A dainty bite follows, and then, a smile! "These are good!"

The olive branch extended, a cool wave of relief sweeps over you.

"I brought those!" says Kellie, with that same yipping inflection. "Everyone, try one!"

The crowd descends upon the tray of chicken sticks, and suddenly, you're swept up in a wave of belonging that feels so weird that it makes you smirk. Kellie is beaming at you, happy that you've popularized her contribution. Your smirk curves into a smile.

"Does anyone have a cigarette?"

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