“Wait, you don’t work with Nelson? You’re just some guy?”
I could barely believe it either. I’d been in Glasgow less
than twelve hours and had already found my way into a party in someone’s
apartment. Most of the party was made up of a group of friends, with an
assortment of significant others and coworkers. This last designation
constituted the pretense of my entrance to the party.
I’d met Nelson on the street. I’d been walking to a bar the
Guardian had said was cheap and cool when the group of drunks ahead of me
paused to take a picture. Nelson was the photographer and used his artistic
license to demand that I join the photo, which of course I did. I like
imagining them looking through the night’s photos and seeing me but not knowing
who I am.
I hadn’t expected to be engaged in conversation following
the photo, or to be invited to a party with these people as a result. Nelson
made me promise to tell the other guests I was a new coworker of his, the old
ones being the group with whom I’d just been photographed. We rehearsed my role
while shepherding the rest of our office (they’d been drinking since 3 pm; it
was nearly 10) to the apartment where the party was to be held.
We were greeted by a line of huggers – most of the people at
the party had known each other since college and were good friends. (The fact
that I would even be able to start a sentence with ‘we’ on the first of five
nights traveling alone in Scotland was a luxury I’d not anticipated.) When I
reached each new person in the line there was a pause, as I was of course a new
face. I mostly stuck to handshakes so as not to be strange but got a few hugs
anyway.
The ruse lasted about an hour and a half. In their friendly
inquisitions, Nelson’s friends forced me to make up a background for myself. Apparently
I was in Glasgow as a social worker as my first clinical experience for credit
in my graduate program back in the US. My school had set up an exchange program
because there was greater need in Glasgow than locally, and I was enjoying it
so far, having only lived here for a few weeks. My flat was on the east side,
and no I hadn’t seen any crime there yet, but I’d be sure to keep my wits about
me. I hadn’t been in the office long enough to witness any tension between the
psychologists and the social workers (apparently this was a complaint of
Nelson’s) and would attempt to stay clear of it should I encounter any.
In an eventual lull in conversation between Nelson and
myself and one of his closest friends, he leaned in close and gave me a
conspiratorial look.
“Todd, you know Dan here, he told you he’s a social worker?”
“Yeah, told me all about it. Says he likes it so far.”
“See, funny thing is, he’s not. I met him on my way here.”
I was enough of a fixture at that point that they let me
stick around, having proven myself friendly and unthreatening (are there people
who agree to come to parties on such terms who aren’t?). It was a “bad holiday
jumper” party, and having not dressed for it I was without one until one of the
hostesses leant me an extra one. I was introduced to of the guys who’d been in
the other room, and I asked if he’d been told anything about me, to which he
responded, “Oh yeah, I heard. You’re the talk of the party.”
It was 3am by the time I left. In their hospitality they’d
ensured that I was drunk, and as such I was inspired to wander back to the hostel, which
was about a 45-minute walk. I went to the bathroom to consider my exit, and
through a combination of not wanting to make a scene or an imposition (God
forbid, right?) and hoping to preserve an air of mystery about my presence that night decided to slip out without saying goodbye or thank you.
