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Playing the Fool
I was never much for parlor games. They always struck me as something a group does when it does not know what else to do with itself (like have interesting conversations.)
Nonetheless, I have found myself on occasion 'roped into' playing parlor games at social gatherings. After all, I was there to socialize, and this was what the group wanted to do. (As Lenin famously said, "When among wolves, howl like a wolf.") I shall describe three of these situations below.
Before I was married, I was a young man yearning for his first taste of a social life. So I would be invited to gatherings at peoples' homes. And one thing they liked to do at those gatherings was play parlor games. At first I did not know any better; after all I was a neophyte at that business of socialization. So I said to myself, "Well, if that is the price that I must pay to have a social life, I suppose I'm willing to prostitute myself to that extent." (Though it be subtle, the reader may be able to glean my general view of parlor games at that time.)
So I participated in parlor games. I remember one in particular -- I think it was called Twister. It consisted, if memory serves me correctly (the facts of the following may or may not be right; however, they are correct in essence), of a large square sheet of flexible plastic. On the plastic was printed in bright colors (always use primary colors whenever you the manufacturer have a suspicion that your game may otherwise be a complete flop) twelve circular areas, each containing a numeral -- perhaps the numerals on a die. Each numeral had two areas associated with it, and those areas were a tantalizing distance apart (that is, the distance between your feet when your legs are spread fairly wide.)
The first person threw the die and then proceeded to place his/her feet upon those areas. The next person rolled until they obtained a numeral different from the first person; they then would attempt to place a part of their body on their two areas. In doing that, they would find that the first person might be in the way a bit, but it was no big deal.
But the more people who had to place their bodies upon their designated numerical areas, the more entangled the people became. And the entanglements were the be-all and the end-all of that game.
What was the attraction in such a silly game as this Twister? Well, for one thing the choices and the ensuing entanglements made for much humor. Then too, there was another level: it placed people who scarcely knew one another into unusual and provocative ("Do I go around her hip with my other foot or between her legs?") physical proximity to one another. In other words, it was mildly titillating -- a good ice-breaker, a scintillating oiling of the pre-dating mechanism for young single adults getting their first taste of a social life.
As long as we're on the subject of titillating entanglements in the literal sense, let us slide ahead two decades or so: now we have married couples in early middle age who are playing such "games". Except now the title isn't something cute like "Twister", but rather a little bit too serious for its own good -- like "Group Sensitivity Session".
My wife and I were friends with a fellow who had sung Leonard Bernstein's "Trouble in Tahiti" (about a marriage on the rocks) with us in our chamber opera company. One Saturday he invited the two of us to accompany him and his wife to their church that evening for what he called "a Group Social". Not knowing any better, we accepted his invitation. The "social" would be held in the church parlor -- hence the rightful designation of whatever we would do there as "parlor games".
What we didn't know until that evening was that there was trouble in our friend's Tahiti (that is, he was having an affair with a woman in his church), as well as the Tahitis of some of the other people there. (The rest -- other than my wife and myself -- were contemplating the possibility of trouble in their own Tahitis.) Apparently the purpose of these "parlor games" was to grease the engine of extra marital dalliance.
I forget what the 'rules of engagement' were for the five or six couples participating, but they lead to a situation remarkably like that of Twister -- but with a twist: by dint of careful 'tweaking' of the physical relationships (by whom? An external god-like "group leader"?), various limbs of the participants were subtly moved. So what had been a loose collection of entangled bodies became one tightly enmeshed seething mass. If this was supposed to have turned into a group grope, it failed; for no one could move a muscle.
But here is the bizarre, the ironic, indeed the miraculous thing that happened there in that mass: that I, the only male there with no lascivious motive (in fact, I was trying to figure out what the hell was going on) found myself at that point of utter stasis with my right hand cupped firmly over someone's breast. And, despite my best intentions (in such a way will I address myself to the Ladies' League for Public Decency), I could not move that hand at all, nevertheless remove it. I had to put up with it, stuck there on that breast with no hope of extricating it -- until the group dissolved.
That was it for us: my wife and I had no use for such extramarital hijinks; for our marriage was healthy and well-lubricated (whatever that means -- I promise to retire that metaphor after its very next use!) I had experienced what I assume was the very pinnacle of parlor games; for me it would be all downhill from there -- right to the very bottom.
A bit later in our marriage, my wife and I would play parlor games once in a while with our extended family during the summers up on Lake George. At that point I had all the socialization that I needed and wanted. So when I played parlor games, it was usually to humor my relatives.
One of the games we played was Charades, the exercise in which anyone has the right to make a fool out of him/herself -- and usually does. I must admit that at the very point of writing this article, I had a rather contemptuous view of Charades. But when I conveyed this to my wife, she replied in her good levelheaded way: "Well it's silly but fun. It gives everyone a chance to do a little bit of acting. And it's refreshing in its lack of pretense."
So I decided to revisit one of those evenings of Charades. The problem is, I can only remember one such game, and that is probably because the outcome in my case was so (there's that word again!) bizarre.
The first one to go was my sister-in-law, who had to act out "SWEET BIRD OF YOUTH". Like everyone else, she had two minutes.
She began by miming in code (she pulled down imaginary curtain cords and turned the handle on an old movie camera) that it was the title of a play and a movie, and then (by holding up four fingers) that it was a four-word phrase. She then gave the sign (by holding up three fingers) for "second word". She flapped her arms and even got down on her knees and made as if she were picking up worms with her beak and within ten seconds the crowd (of nine) had guessed "BIRD". She now gave the sign for "first word", and then "sounds like" and pointed at her FEET. She then...
Well, obviously she was well on her way to revealing her phrase within two minutes time. But I have a question here: are you aware of how stultifying, how deadly, how mind-numbingly boring it is to describe even one round of the game of Charades? It is nothing but a bunch of "she then's" and "she gave's" strung together and containing descriptions of decidedly idiotic behavior. (This is what is called "the Stream-of-Consciousness Method" of description.) The problem is that, whereas the Twister-type games required a minimum of description ("entangled limbs" seems to summarize most situations pretty well), Charades apparently needs the blow-by-blow account of a boxing match. I realize that the reader is probably bored to death as well and even now may be looking at me with the accusing bloodshot eye which appears to say, "Yes, bored stiff, and what are you going to do about it?"
Actually, I really do have an idea as to how to improve the reporting of a round of this game: I would write it out line by line, a new line for every new gesture. (Since this is how they write programs of code, I will call this "the Programming Method" of description. So at least the Charades geeks can appreciate it!)
I've decided to cut to the chase and describe my own pitiful (there, the cat is out of the bag) performance that evening. The phrase I drew was:
"THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE"
But before I tell what actually happened, I will describe succinctly how I should have played my phrase:
Book (hands together, open one end)
six words (hold up six fingers)
last two words (hold up five, then six fingers)
great person (solemnly put hand in shirt)
man (clutch crotch with other hand)
Play-wright (pull curtain ropes, imitate writing)
word two (hold up two fingers)
two syllables (two fingers on arm)
first syllable (one finger on arm)
(make shaking motion)
At this point, they would easily have guessed "WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE". And from here it is all downhill:
First word (hold up one finger)
Small word (hold fingers a tiny bit apart)
(guess: "THE"...)
... and so on it would go until I emerge triumphant at the end with plenty of time to spare. Ah, it is so easy in hindsight!
But that is not how I did it. Why not? Well, in such off-the-cuff performances, I tend to get very nervous. And when I get nervous, I get forgetful. And when I get forgetful, I begin to panic. And at that point my case is all but hopeless.
So I'll tell what happened in all its lurid detail. But I will first note that the above slavish line by line regurgitation of individual actions has something cold and lifeless about it. What we seek and desire is the warmth of the human element, the revealing of genuine emotions accompanying the play. This I attempt to do below.
"THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE"
I felt resentment well up inside me as soon as I saw my selection on the sheet of paper I had drawn. Six words? Whom are they kidding?! No one else had more than three or four. (In fact, my brother-in-law had had exactly one word: "SOCRATES". It had only taken him a quick 17 seconds to reveal it [famous philosopher -- first syllable -- point to sock -- bingo!] And yet here I was, expected to be able to reveal a six-word saying in the same two minute time frame as everyone else. It just wasn't fair!
That business about the six words and the time frame threw me off, so that I forgot to reveal the fact that the phrase was the title of a book. This may have been the most serious error I made, perhaps even the fatal one.
Then too, I became worried -- and more resentful -- about how to convey the information that there were six words. The problem was, I only had five fingers on each hand; so I would have to use both hands. But how? The quick way was to hold up five fingers of one hand and one finger of the other. But that was so -- unbalanced; better to make it symmetrical, with three on each hand. But that was a bit awkward and it wasted precious seconds.
But now I got a hold of myself, vowing to do my best within the constraints of the game. ('When the Going gets tough, the Tough get going!' as my brother-in-law liked to say.) There were some easy "pushover" words in this problem, and I was determined to exploit them. (Meanwhile I had used 10 seconds of valuable time.)
So I held up two fingers and proceeded to act out the word "COMPLETE". I opened my arms wide and made extensive gestures, as if I were including absolutely everything. And the guesses began to fly in: "lots", "wide", "mishmash", "expansive", "gesticulater", "motions", etc. As you can see, the guesses cut a wide swath; but that is because all those things were consistent with my gestures.
They had guessed virtually every word except the right one. And now 30 more precious seconds had elapsed.
I signaled for the first syllable of that word "COMPLETE" and began to make elaborate gestures toward myself with my arms. Again the guesses began to fly toward me: "welcoming", "inviting", "gathering", "collecting" were some of them. But once again they had managed to somehow avoid the correct word. And meanwhile 20 more golden seconds had transpired.
I had used up half of my time already. I needed an easy win in order to build some momentum.
I gave a sign for the third word "WORKS": that should be like rolling off a log! I began to dig vehemently with an imaginary shovel and threw the dirt aside again and again. In came the guesses: "pound", "pulverize", "dig", "scoop" were four. I switched to a pick ax and dug with increased vehemence: the guesses were no better. And now the clock had elapsed another 30 seconds.
Things were not looking good. But I could still pull it off. It was my ace in the hole, and I knew that I could always depend upon it. I tugged at my ear ('sounds like [WORKS]') and began to act out a peculiar part:
First I bugged out my eyes and allowed my mouth to drop open to reveal a set of buck teeth in a silly grin. Then I staggered about while flailing my arms around at random. Drool began to pour from my mouth all over my shirt. My legs became entangled (this was quite by accident, but it made for a good effect) and I fell flat onto the floor.
What about the guesses? There weren't any -- everyone was laughing too hard (my brother-in-law was rolling on the floor.) And then, after a few seconds of this hilarity, there could be heard the voice of someone declaiming through the din: 'Time!'
I had acted to the best of my abilities for two long minutes, and no one had guessed even a part of any of my words. It was easily the 'worst' performance of anyone in that extended family in any parlor game we had ever played.
And yet -- this is the one round of the one parlor game that members of our family can recall to this day. And why not? After all, it was the one time that someone could deliberately act like a Jerk in Charades because the word was part of their intended pantomime.
PS: a few short years after the above game of Charades, my wife and I found ourselves at a social gathering with some fellow musicians. It was decided that we should play Charades. Here is the phrase that I drew (it is the title of a little known book by musicologist Nicolas Slonimsky):
"THE LEXICON OF MUSICAL INVECTIVE".
I didn't even know where to begin.
(8 February 2009)
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