Karl the Curmudgeon Joins a Fancy Club

"Hey Kid, you ought to join my club," said my friend Karl over lunch.

What, the Insufferable Geezers club? I asked. The one where you all sit at McDonald’s every morning and solve the world’s problems?

"Why would I invite you to join a club you’re the founding member of?" said Karl, rather immaturely. "No, I’m talking about the social club here in town, the Skytop Club." This was a well-known social club that occupies the top floor of one of downtown’s many skyscrapers.

We were sitting at First Editions, our favorite literary-themed bar, enjoying a couple cheeseburgers that we told our families were salads and sparkling waters. I was enjoying the barbecue bacon salad with a barley-and-malt sparkling water, while Karl was attacking a mushroom-and-swiss salad with sautéed onions and his own barley-and-malt sparkling water.

I didn’t know you were a member of the Skytop Club, I said. In fact, I don’t know if I know any members of that club.

"Actually, you do," he said, and he named several local business leaders in town.

Oh yeah, I said. I know those people. I took a bite of my cheesebu—my salad and chewed while I thought for a moment. And they still let you in? I asked.

"Why wouldn’t they?" Karl demanded. "I’ll have you know, I’m a noted author and a local celebrity."

I’ve known you’re an author for years, I said. But celebrity? That’s a stretch. It’s not like people stop you in the street for an autograph unless they’re a process server.

Karl harrumphed and took a big gulp of his sparkling water and plonked the mug on the table. "Anyway, it’s a place for people to gather, network, do business, and socialize. There are special events and themed dinners, and we have live music on the weekends. There are also several special interest groups within the Club."

But I already do those things. I go to writing events, I attend small business networking meetups, and I hang out with you a couple times a month. And I do that all for free.

I gestured to Kurt, the bartender, to give Karl the check.

"That’s all true," Karl said, "but it’s with more sophisticated people."

My previous question still stands, I said.

Karl ignored me. Plus, they have an award-winning chef in a gourmet kitchen, and the food is fabulous."

Better than this? I asked, gesturing with my salad in my hand. What could be better than this? A piece of bacon fell from the bun—bowl! I mean bowl. 

"Man, this place has nothing on the Skytop Club. It’s miles apart."

"Hey!" exclaimed Kurt, as he slapped the bill in front of Karl. "Our food is just as good as Skytop’s. In fact, our cook used to work there."

"As a parking attendant, Kurt," said Karl. "He was a parking attendant for two months until they fired him for losing three cars in one night."

"Yeah, but he’s a magician when it comes to pasta bolognese."

We all agreed, having had the pasta bolognese salad a few weeks ago.

"Tell you what," said Karl, after Kurt headed back to the kitchen after we ordered some sugar cream pie — I mean, fruit plates — for dessert. "Why don’t you meet me at my club next week for lunch. You can be my guest."

It sounds weird when you say 'my club' like that, I said. You sounded like Thurston Howell III when you said it. I raised my chin and tried to look rich and haughty. 'I say, old boy, why don’t we luncheon at the club soon? Then we can partake of aperitifs on the veranda.’

"I do not sound like that!" said Karl. "Oh, God, do I really sound like that?"

Kurt returned from the kitchen with our sugar cream fruit plates, and Karl said, "Who do I sound like if I ask you to join me at my club for lunch?"

"Thurston Howell III," said Kurt without hesitation.

"Jeez, I really do sound like that. So how else am I supposed to say it? The club? My hangout? The Skytop?"

It’s fine, Karl, I said. It just sounds weird. I keep picturing those gentlemen’s clubs — Kurt and Karl chuckled and nudged each other — not those gentlemen’s clubs! I mean the clubs in the Bertie Wooster and Sherlock Holmes stories. Like the Diogenes Club, where no one was allowed to say anything.

"I should implement that here," said Kurt. "Man, that’d be great. You guys coming in here, not being allowed to say anything." He stared off into space, fantasizing about his greatest dream come true.

"It’ll never happen," said Karl.

Yep, I agreed. You can’t get Karl to shut up for anything.

"So, what do you say, Kid? You want to meet me there next Monday for lunch?"

Ehhh, I don’t know. You remember what Groucho Marx said about joining a club.

"Oh, sure. 'I don’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member.'"

Yes, those are my sentiments exactly.

Karl flipped a finger in what I can only assume was the club salute. I think I’m going to enjoy it there.

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.