Gray

Raul de Paulo sat in the high-backed chair against the back wall, his cane resting between his legs and a heavy frown resting on his face. Madeleine Hammerstein sat in front of him on a stacking chair with her St. John house dress and 65-year old gray bob. Jack Zimbalist and his hairless legs sat in his Izod shorts and Sperry top-siders. Rachel Brady and her tie-dyed faded blue jeans, Botox forehead, and permed blonde curls sat between Jack and Madeleine. And Laura Weisskopf with her Aunt Clara dress and bouffant hair-do sat in the front of the group, the avenging matriarch.

These five – and the faceless others at the meeting with the same expression, pursed-tight-white lips, flaring nostrils, and white going all the way to their ears – stared us down in those minutes before it began. We usually talked about each other’s month in those minutes before Ron Barlow called it to order from his perch at the center of the table, but not a peep came from any one of us – just looks that had question marks in the eyes and exclamation points in the eyebrows.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s call the meeting to order,” Ron said, and the five of them, as if on cue, began the assault.

“What in the hell were you thinking with that gray paint –“

“This is not the color we voted for –“

“It was supposed to be a light tan –“

“You people are always pulling the rug out from under us –“

“I’m filing a lawsuit –“

Ron closed his eyes, but kept talking, “A moment before the war begins, people. Roll call from the left …”

God help me when they got to my name. I’m the one who pushed everyone to vote for these colors. Perhaps I could run and hide in my bathroom closet.