Marvin's Rigid Reception

Surviving a Social Minefield

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Marvin adjusted his tie, a polka-dotted monstrosity Sylvia had gifted him for their 50th anniversary. He felt a familiar flutter of anxiety. The annual "Meet the Donors" gala at the Metropolitan Art Museum was always a trial.

It was not because he disliked art – he genuinely enjoyed a good landscape with cows – but because of the relentless social maneuvering required at such a reception.

Sylvia, a more social butterfly, thrived in this “plastic” environment. Marvin, on the other hand, preferred the company of his stamp collection.

Sylvia, a more social butterfly, thrived in this “plastic” environment. Marvin, on the other hand, preferred the company of his stamp collection.

The night was particularly fraught. Sylvia had insisted he practice the names of the museum’s benefactors. “Darling, it’s crucial,” she had said the night before, her voice laced with the same urgency she reserved for reminding him to take his blood pressure medication. “These people practically own the place. We need to make a good impression.”

Marvin had dutifully memorized the list, repeating the names like a mantra: “Eleanor Van Derlyn, Charles Worthington the Third, Beatrice … Beatrice … Oh, blast it all.”

They arrived at the museum, a gleaming edifice of glass and steel. Sylvia, resplendent in a shimmering blue gown, immediately launched into conversation with a group of impeccably dressed individuals.

Marvin trailed behind, feeling like a damp puppy at a dog show. He nodded politely, offering vague smiles and hoping anyone would ask him anything about the current Congress. Or the stock market. Or anything, really. Anything beyond small talk.

Sylvia, sensing his discomfort, placed a hand on his arm. “Marvin, darling,” she said, her voice ringing with forced enthusiasm, “I want you to meet Eleanor Van Derlyn.”

After a bit of “nothing” comments about the current exhibit, Marvin was ready to move on and circulate. He straightened, attempting to summon the practiced name from the depths of his memory. He extended his hand, beaming what he hoped was a charming smile. “So great to have you with us, Mrs … Mrs …”

His mind went blank. Completely, utterly, blank. He could feel a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. He knew her name. He knew it. It was right there, on the tip of his tongue, taunting him.

“Marvin,” Sylvia prompted gently, her smile now strained, “This is Mrs. Van Derlyn, one of our major benefactors.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Marvin stammered, his smile faltering. He looked at Eleanor, a formidable woman with a tightly pursed mouth and a diamond necklace the size of a golf ball. “It was so lovely to meet you, Beatrice… No, wait… Agnes?”

A ripple of awkward silence spread through the small group around them. Eleanor’s eyebrows arched so high they nearly disappeared into her perfectly coiffed hair. Sylvia’s face flushed a delicate shade of crimson.

Marvin felt a wave of panic wash over him. He wanted to disappear, to melt into the polished marble floor.

“Eleanor,” Sylvia said through gritted teeth. “... Thank you for all that you’ve done for the Metropolitan, Eleanor.”

“Yes, yes, of course – Eleanor!” Marvin mumbled, feeling his face grow hot. He tried to recover, to salvage the situation. “Names can slip away sometimes.” He chuckled nervously, hoping to elicit a sympathetic response.

Eleanor, however, was not amused. She was miffed. He could see the disdain – and sympathy – in her eyes as she politely drifted back into the crowd with an austere nod.

Marvin shrank back, feeling smaller than ever. He fixed his gaze on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug beneath his feet. He could feel Sylvia’s eyes burning into him.

The rest of the evening was a blur of forced smiles and awkward chat. Marvin stayed close to Sylvia’s side, trying to avoid any further social mishaps. He felt a constant undercurrent of embarrassment, a nagging feeling that he had somehow failed.

Later, as they drove home in silence, Sylvia finally spoke. “Marvin,” she said, her voice tight, “That was mortifying.”

Marvin sighed. “I know, honey. I’m so sorry. It just … it just went blank.”

Sylvia paused, then let out a small chuckle. “You called her Agnes,” she said, shaking her head. “Agnes! Of all the names!”

Marvin looked at her, surprised. He had expected anger, recrimination. Instead, he saw a hint of amusement in her eyes.

“It wasn’t funny,” he said, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“No,” Sylvia agreed, “It wasn’t. But … it could have been worse. You could have called her Bertha.”

Marvin chuckled and then found himself laughing. “Bertha?”

“Yes, Bertha,” Sylvia said, her laughter growing. “Can you imagine? ‘Nice to meet you, Bertha Van Derlyn.’”

The tension in the car dissipated, replaced by a shared sense of relief. They had survived another gala, another social minefield as 80-year-olds who still knew how to not take themselves too seriously and to step lightly around the unshakably smug and serious.

Also hear and read Marvin’s “parent story” from 2024

Go to “Bernie’s Need for Mercy”

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