Bob Deakin Short Stories

Rough versions of the yellow and blue topaz.

I’m at this party Friday night following a poetry reading and meet a diverse group of interesting people. It is held at a beautiful home by the lake and many of the guests have very exotic names including Felicity, Brando, November, Heath and Brock. My name being Bob, I almost feel too common to be in their company but I make the best of it and welcome the opportunity to meet new friends.

The poetry was very well done. Much of it inspiring, some of it funny and of course the depressing poets were well represented too, bringing us down with the dexterity of a concert violinist. Not being a poet, I feel out of place at the reading but I’m happy to be there and glad to make my way to the party afterward at the invitation of Rain, the poetry group leader. It’s a step outside my normal bounds and I find myself discussing things I haven’t pondered in years.

The food at the party is wonderful and I’m discovering fascinating personalities, exchanging ideas and views of the world and fitting in rather nicely. It’s a rousing soiree and Vespa, the hostess, is quite the social butterfly with a habit of sternly yet eloquently pronouncing the name of each person she is conversing or joking with, usually Felicity, Brando or November.

After a while however, the names are starting to get to me.

Why would someone name their daughter November? I ask myself as I glance in her direction. Nice name, but everyone who meets her must wonder if that’s the month in which she was born. If not, there must be some long-haired story behind it.

Just then, Brando walks up.

“Hey man,” he says, asking my name and clicking my glass with his. “Brando. What do you do? You an author?”

I don’t even ask him what he does. He’s Brando, and that sounds like a full-time job in itself: I guess I’m starting to get a little bitter.

I then bump into Felicity as we both walk into the kitchen to freshen our drinks and she is quite the sassy lass. She’s had a few already and asks me if I’m friends with Vespa. I think to myself that I once rode a Vespa – the brand of motor scooter – but that doesn’t seem an appropriate reply. She then tells me, ad nauseam, all about Vespa and how she tunes into the human soul with her poetry and that she’s also a brilliant painter.

My patience is waning and I’m sensing a slow burn at the bottom of my stomach. Just then, Heath strolls up and introduces me to a woman named Topaz, and that brings me to the boiling point.

“Your name can’t be Topaz,” I say, condescendingly, refusing her handshake and drawing uncomfortable stares from around the room. “Topaz is an aluminum-based mineral, as far as I know. No offense, but what block head gave you that name?”

Turns out it was her father.

“Were you named after the mineral or the car sold by the Mercury Division of the Ford Motor Company?” I continue, burning every bridge in the room and bringing all happiness to a halt.

She cynically explains that her father was a geologist, that the Topaz held supreme significance for him and that the Blue Topaz was her birthstone, from the month of December. I reason to her that before I was born my father drove my mother to the hospital in a Rambler Station Wagon and that perhaps my name should be Rambler.

“Imagine the number of songs I could put onto a custom CD mix for friends with my name as the theme,” I say to Topaz as she prepares to throw a drink in my face. “You could be talking to Rambler right now. Imagine Rambler asking your daughter out to a movie next Friday? Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” was Number One on the Charts the day I was born. Perhaps Babe should be my name.”

The good spirit now sucked from the room, Vespa’s sister, Polaris, swiftly escorts me to the door explaining that the Yellow Topaz is the November birthstone, and that November’s parents gave her the middle name of Topaz, which means there are actually two Topaz’s at the party.

“It’s time to leave, Bob,” she said, sternly.

Copyright 2010

Tags: aluminum-based mineral, bob deakin, comedy, exotic names, felicity, satire, Short stories, Short Story Humor, topaz