Slugfest

She fussed with the flower pin, dislodging the paper napkin that had kept the honey from touching Lucy’s silk rose. That would cost me, but at least she hadn’t said yes to borrowing the jacket.

“I’m going to the members’ lounge to fix this. Give me the postcard you wrote for the kid. I’ll post it on the bulletin board.”

After Nikki left, so did the drama. David and I took our places, waiting for the games to begin. I unearthed my recharged laptop, plugged it in, and pulled up the first page of the quickie slide show I’d slapped together.

“PowerPoint,” David said. “Cutting edge.”

It was. For a woman who owned a manual lawn mower. Fifteen minutes later, just as the reception was to begin, the lights went out and the entire convention center was plunged into darkness.

Twenty-nine

Cell phones lit up like fireflies in the summertime or cigarette lighters at a rock concert, and there was a faint Close Encounters–like glow coming from the main doors and the escalator beyond, where the nightly news cameras had been set up. But not enough to see by. My computer kicked into battery mode, so I had slightly more light than my booth neighbors. With no windows or skylights, the enormous space was like a giant cave, except for the few dots illuminating the exit signs.

After a brief moment of alarm—this was, after all, a public building in New York City—there was a ripple of nervous laughter, then the finger pointing began.

“It’s those damn lamps,” I heard someone say through gritted teeth.

David’s unflustered voice came out of nowhere. “I beg your pardon. What makes you think it wasn’t your tacky fountains. Not only are they hideous, eighties, new age crap, they’ve got everyone around here running for a pee at twenty-minute intervals.” That part was true enough, although I never really understood the biology behind that.

David and the fountain lady—his less friendly neighbor on the other side—had been engaged in a custody battle over the community outlet located squarely between their two booths. They were to share the power strip but with an outlet extender, or whatever those things were called. You could plug in as many items as you wanted and not realize you were reaching critical mass until the lights went out. Was that what had happened?

Fountain Lady, whose real name had been rendered unreadable by flowery, overcalligraphied lettering, had a twenty-by-twenty space in which she had attempted to re-create Niagara Falls, in tabletop miniatures, choreographed to canned harp music. By the end of the show, in addition to feeling that we’d all overdosed on diuretics, everyone within thirty feet of her booth would likely feel hypnotized.

In fairness, crammed with floor lamps, table lamps, and sconces, David’s booth was also a sensory overload, but we liked him so we minded less. Unfair but true. Since the day before, when one of the fixtures in his booth shorted out and temporarily stopped the waterworks, it had been all-out war between the two exhibitors.

“For heaven’s sake,” he’d said, in his playful way, “lighten up. The show’s not even open yet.” She hadn’t, and now under cover of darkness the sniping had escalated.

Background noises ranged from giggles to the occasional clatter of a metal object dropping to the purposeful steps and walkie-talkie noises of those trying to rectify the situation. Someone yelped as if she’d walked into a cactus.

Minutes ticked by as we waited for the convention center’s emergency generator to kick in. All over there were mutterings of “sorry” and “excuse me” as people bumped into each other as they foolishly tried to get around in the dark. I stayed put, feeling around for a water bottle and eventually just sitting on the carpeted floor of my booth with my legs stretched out in front of me, trying not to wrinkle.

“If I ever do anything like this again, the exhibitor is springing for the chair,” I said. “My pals who registered chose poorly.”

“That’s a newbie’s mistake. Everybody does that once. If you’re planning to leave that computer on battery, angle it toward the bar. I’m going to get us drinks and I don’t want to be bayoneted by a garden ornament.”

“I told you. They’re art. People suffer and die for art all the time.”

“All due respect to Primo—and Picasso—but I’m not ready to die for any art that started life as a bicycle.”

I pulled myself to my feet and obliged him by tilting the laptop slightly to the right. It threw off just enough light for David to make his way to the now unmanned bar, swipe a bottle of wine and glasses, and steal back to our booths.

“Success. I don’t know what it is, but it was easier to bring it back here and pour it by the romantic light of your laptop. I didn’t want to spill anything on myself. Doesn’t Nikki sell candles? Speaking of which…”

That’s right. Where was Nikki?

“Probably in the lounge,” I said, “repairing her eye makeup and tearstained cheeks. I hope she wasn’t mid– cat eye when the blackout hit.”

David dragged over the chair from his booth and we shared it, clinking plastic cups and waiting for the lights to come back on.

“I once heard that nine months after the East Coast blackout, there was a spike in the local birthrate,” he said. “It’s a sad commentary on our society, when people need to have the lights out in order to do the deed. Although in some cases, I can understand the need.”

The wine wasn’t bad. I held the bottle up to the computer screen and grazed the keyboard with my fingertips to resurrect it from sleep mode. “Looks like Sancerre.”

After a few moments of silence, I asked David if he suspected another act of sabotage. We kept our voices down.

“I hadn’t thought of that. I was too busy defending myself to the Maid of the Mist. But you might be right. The Javits Curse strikes again.”

Thirty

I didn’t believe in curses. Not since I’d read The Hound of the Baskervilles in the seventh grade. Someone was intentionally disrupting the show. But who? And why? What was there to gain by making a couple of hundred people uncomfortable? If it was the protesters outside, surely this wouldn’t gain any converts to their cause.

After ten more minutes, which felt like sixty, the lights clicked on one hall at a time, to the cheers of hundreds of relieved exhibitors. Kristi Reynolds handled herself well and kept the peace with a brief announcement declaring that, just like in the garden, sometimes the unexpected happened, but a good gardener was prepared for anything. Applause rolled through the convention center like the wave at a sports event. Somewhere a champagne cork popped. Those predisposed to outrage continued to be outraged.

The loudest comments emanated from Allegra Douglas, who was not only outraged but who advocated legal action—although against whom and for what wasn’t entirely clear. The rest of us were just happy to get the show on the road.

When the doors finally opened for the reception, members and press poured in, drinks in hand, and irritation and outrage were replaced by the heady anticipation of a successful and profitable event.

“My only complaint,” David said, “is that it cut short the cocktail hour.”

“The bars look open to me, although this one will be short one bottle of white wine.”

“Yes, but here they’ll have to stand in line. In the prefunction area, waiters circulate with drinks. The more alcohol, the more sales.”

“So, then it’s fortunate we’re near that bar?”

“Much better than the toilet. Everyone thinks proximity to a restroom is the best placement for a trade show, but they’re wrong. Better to be near the booze. One chandelier sale last year paid for my entire show. I credit the Bombay gin.” I made a mental note for my next show.

After the initial rush, the attendees spread out, some naturally gravitating toward the display gardens, others to the specimen plants already judged, and still others making a beeline for new products. In that area, as