Going in Reverse

I drive the 40 minutes in Route 10 traffic to pick up Ben and his two friends from Ethan's Bar Mitzvah. This is Ben's seventh Bar Mitzvah, held at Powerhouse Studios in East Hanover. As they pile into the backseat of the car Ben announces, "This party was so much better than mine will be."

I'm shocked, floored, pretty much decimated. I've never heard him make such a comparison of venues before, or to put it so succinctly.

"The foods better, the dancers are better. I screwed up. I made you pick a place too soon."

His friends all agree.

What I should have said is, "well, Ben, that's all fine and good, but we already put down our deposit at the Maplewood Little Club and Maurice's Party Animals and basically we don't have a choice."  Or maybe, something along the lines of, "well you just came from this party so of course this one seems the best."

But instead I panic.  Is it too late to change everything I wonder.  It's still 6 months out, maybe I should at least try. Against all better judgement, I decide to put everything for the next few days on hold: my job search, the dishes, laundry, my writing. I will try to reverse everything I've done so far for Ben's Bar Mitzvah.

Monday morning I call over at Powerhouse Studios to see if there is availability and to get prices. Next I call the DJ Maurice to see if I can back out.

"It's so far in advance," I tell him. "I thought maybe you could fill our date."

"Is there some kind of emergency?" he asks.

Why, I wonder, does everything have to be such an ethical issue.  Why can't I just say my fickle 12-year-old son found a place he likes better.  No hard feelings.  Kids will be kids and such.  But no, I have to come up with an emergency.  Fine.

"My husband has a problem. It's medical. We may not be having a Bar Mitzvah at all."  I can't seem to stop myself. My voice seems to be coming from an echo chamber, far away, foreign sounding.  And yet, technically, it's true, just last month he was disgnosed with a prostate problem like millions of other men in their late 50's and early 60's. So, well, technically, ptth, ptth, it could turn into a more serious prostatic problem.  In which case the Bar Mitzvah would be off.  Ptth, ptth.

"Well I'm sorry to hear that.  But we already contracted out our dancers and this date has been set aside. "

Oh great, now I'm stuck with him. He knows I'm full of shit, I know he's an arse and we will now have to do the pretend we like each other dance for Ben's big day.