Sunday, March 7, 2010

High Fives

At what age can one be expected to abandon the practice of giving high-fives?  Twelve?  Fifteen?  Perhaps eighteen, the age at which one is legally recognized as an adult?  The end of childhood seems to be a reasonable--if not generous--point at which one can leave high-fives behind.

Not so, if you happen to be the Rich Dude or are fortunate enough to belong to his inner circle.  High-fives are freely exchanged, particularly between The Rich Dude and Bobby Gift, the alpha and beta males of the group.  The fact that both men are nearly fifty years old does not phase them in the least.  The resonant slap of palm on palm echoes throughout the room, so that all present can be certain that The Rich Dude and Bobby are in full appreciation of each other’s sense of humor.

One can only assume that the jokes are sexual in nature, since the Rich Dude and his circle comprise a rather well-known sex cult that makes frequent trips south of the border to the Rich Dude’s Mexican Pleasure Palace for weeks-long bacchanals (and, mostly likely far beyond that, to international waters, where the law of man cast no shadow upon the writhing, flesh-hued pleasure ball that for them represents an ideal existence, from which all deviations in life--besides that of cramming sushi down their throats or talking about Avatar--are mundane and trivial).

Though it’s difficult to hear above the din of the chatter, laughter, and clacking chopsticks, the basic anatomy of a high-five goes something like this.

The Rich Dude picks up a piece of tuna and puts it in his mouth.  He chews.

The Rich Dude:  Wow, this tuna is really good today.  So fatty.

Bobby Gift: Kind of like _______’s thighs.  (Where _______ is the latest initiate into the cult, who, after some days spent in the clutches of the Rich Dude, was released from her servitude to be passed around like a form of sexual currency by the subordinate members of the group).

The Rich Dude laughs so hard that a piece of tuna shoots out of his nose.

Rich Dude:  Too true, Bobby.  Too true.  Here.

The Rich Dude raises his hand, palm facing Bobby.

Rich Dude:  Hi five!

Unable to resist the invitation, Bobby Gift slaps the Rich Dude some skin on high.  The crack of palm on palm in the small dining room is not unlike that of a high-powered rifle being discharged.  Other diners in the room flinch, spilling cups of green tea and fumbling pieces of sushi from between their chopsticks.

Bobby Gift, second-in-command in the Rich Dude's band of sensualists, silver fox, mustachioed Lothario so secure in his own sexuality that he need never diverge from his pink-shirted uniform, still harbors a secret fear that his invitation to high five will be snubbed.