Dinner Party (standard:horror, 1542 words)
Author: radiodenver	Added: Aug 29 2004	Views/Reads: 3380/2240	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Nothing beats good food and good company

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“He's lying on the couch.  Out like the dead.”  Lilly responded.  “Al
and Tate were up late last night drinking and celebrating.” 

“When does dinner begin?”  Billy asked. 

“When ever Albert say's it's ready.  I'm guessing another 20 minutes or
so.  Depends on when everyone else gets here.” 

“This bread is delicious; you'll just die when you taste it.  I found
this bakery on Fillmore that makes the best bread.”  Fran said to 
Albert as she gathered plates for the dinner table.  “I'll get the 
table ready.  How many are you expecting?” 

“Shit, I don't know.  Probably 10 or 11 people, depends on who show's
up.”  Albert replied.  Fran collected a dozen place settings and began 
setting the table. 

As Tate's music played, the participants continued to arrive, each
bringing their own particular delicacy for contribution towards the 
celebratory dinner.  A few gathered in front of Albert's paintings and 
were immersed in muted conversation on the finer points of oil 
painting.  Others milled about the kitchen, sampling the assorted 
culinary creations, discussing sculpture and whatnot.  Another small 
group had gathered near the dinner table, discussing the music business 
and Tate's many years of struggle for recognition as a world class 
blues guitarist. 

“Did I ever tell you about the time Tate played with The Rolling Stones
in Chicago?” 

“I remember when Tate filled in with Johnny Winters band and saved their
album...” 

“One time Tate paid for everyone to take a trip to Cancun, just to
celebrate my daughters' birthday...” 

“Tate is the kindest musician; I can't recall him ever blowing up at
anyone.  He is always doing things like that...” 

“Once, Tate and I were stuck in the airport in Des Moines...” 

“If it wasn't for Tate, we'd never have finished that Tour, everybody
was ready to walk, he stepped in and...” 

The stories continued to flow from every corner of the loft, the music
grew louder, and Tate continued to lay on the couch oblivious to the 
gathering and his own music playing in the background. 

“When is Tate going to join us?”  Lilly asked Albert as she carried the
baked salmon to the table. 

“I'll wake him up.  He said to wake him when it's time to eat.”  Albert
replied . Albert walked across the room, crowded with Tate's admirers, 
and approached Tate who was still sleeping on the sofa against the 
wall. 

“Tate.”  Albert placed his hand on Tate's shoulder and shook lightly. 
“Tate, time to get up, dinner's ready, everybody is here.” 

Tate did not respond. 

“Tate, come on dude, everybody's hungry, time to eat.  You might want to
freshen up a bit.” 

Tate lay motionless. 

“Tate.”  Albert shook Tate with more vigorous force. 

“Tate.”  Albert was almost shouting.  Albert felt Tate's head.  His head
was cold.  Lifting Tate's arm, Albert senses perked with a rush of 
panic.  “Hey, Lilly, get over here, something's wrong with Tate.” 

Lilly rushed to the sofa, the room full of guests muted their
conversations and gazed across the room.  Lilly placed her hand to 
Tate's cheek then again to his chest. 

“Oh my God!  He's dead!”  Lilly shouted. 

Billy approached the sofa and examined Tate's lifeless form sprawled
upon the couch.  The remainder of the guests crowded around. 

“No shit!  He's dead as a doornail.  The poor bastard.” 

What began as a soft murmur amongst the gathered dinner party now had
turned into a steady roar as each guest turned and found their way to 
the dining room table.  Albert pulled the rumpled blanket upon which 
Tate was sprawled across Tate's lifeless head.  Lilly gave Tate's 
motionless body a rub on the shoulder and she too turned towards the 
table and the guests now beginning to seat themselves.  Albert sat at 
the table and gazed at the group of guests now seated. 

“Dinner's getting cold.”  Albert said. 

The now seated group of dinner guests sat motionless in silence for a
few moments. 

“The bastard.  Here we go and have this fucking party in his honor and
he has the nerve to lay on my couch and die.”  Blurted Albert. 

“He was always like that.  Never cared about anybody but himself.” 
Lilly replied, lifting her hand crafted pottery bowl of spinach salad. 

“Before I met Billy, Tate and I had a thing.  He fucked me and dropped
me like a brick.  Lilly was his next prize.”  Fran said. 

“He got my daughter pregnant in Cancun, big fucking secret, did you now
that?  He told me that...” 

“That shit still owes me money...” 

“Did you know that the Stones wouldn't use him because he...” 

“He was always an asshole with the band.  He never could...” 

“He never got a record contract because his voice sucked.  Everybody
liked his songs but he couldn't sing them worth a crap...” 

The guests continued their conversation as Albert made delicate slices
in his baked salmon.  Lilly passed her hand crafted pottery bowl of 
spinach salad around the table, each filling their smaller hand crafted 
pottery bowls as they sipped their imported wine.  Tate lay motionless 
on the sofa, his head covered with a rumpled hand crafted blanket. 

In the background, the sound of Tate's razor sharp blues guitar echoed
through the cavernous loft. 


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