With MAGA Republicans threatening to gerrymander their districts into oblivion and Trump leading America into a new black hole called Iran, it’s a good time to talk about rejection in all its forms, social, romantic, academic, giving special attention to a general category that might simply be described as “work.”
I recently met a very nice lady who was shocked when I confessed to not socializing in East Hampton. It’s a bit like a hermit choosing to hide out at the intersection of Hollywood and Vine.
At this point in the conversation my wife gently kicked me, which is her way of indicating the horse should come to a stop. I was actually doing very fine, babbling away effusively in my usual self-deprecating way, she later told me. However, when I’m in a conversation with a tony person, I remind her of the Hindenburg.
And it’s not a pretty sight.
Spoiler alert! I suffer from a reverse Midas touch, which is actually listed as a condition in the DSM-IV.
I have lived in Wainscott for decades and can’t say I have been invited to many social events. But I’ve managed to turn ostracism into a profitable pastime. A number of years ago I wrote a “Guestwords” about a service that rents Mercedes-Benzes, Bentleys, and Rolls-Royces, which they park outside your house to make it look like you have a lot of rich friends — under the theory that there’s success as well as guilt by association.
The only problem was that some readers of The Star believed me and wanted to know how they might avail themselves of this luxury.
All kidding aside, I have the distinct feeling that the few invites I have received are interviews.
You went, did your interview at Harvard, and several months later received a form rejection letter. “Dear candidate: We are sorry to inform you that we have reviewed your application for admission to our social circle but are unable to offer you a seat at the table.”
The letter generally thanks you for coming and explains that there are loads of other people whose profiles have been reviewed.
Who are these people who have said they are going to “pass” on your existence?
It’s not many but I still feel the sting, which reminds me of being winded after getting punched in the stomach by a bully as a kid. It also brings back the memory of a girl I was madly in love with in elementary school by the name of Aline, who told me she “just wanted to be friends.”
Rejection is the putative subject — and a delicious topic, that’s the writer’s bread and butter — but isn’t it really interiority that’s up for grabs?
This may all fall under the category of the predicament of the Diderot character in “Rameau’s Nephew,” who did everything to push away the very people he sought to get the attention of.
What’s worse? Being stepped on by an arriviste stampeding his way to the top of the social ladder? Or having to endure another year of watching Pete Hegseth presiding over his Department of War?
Social life takes many forms. While others go to parties, there’s a whole secret society that enjoys waiting patiently on the 10 Items and Under line at King Kullen, before wheeling their spoils to a modest Subaru waiting patiently for them in the parking lot.
Francis Levy is a Wainscott resident. He recently completed a poetry collection, “The Unavoidable Imminence of the Inexplicable.”