The sign board outside the general purpose room reads Pity Party. This is where they squeeze in to commend each other for their lives of strain and struggle. Yes. This is where they seek the praise needed to push forward; where they discuss their common enemy, and evaluate new ways of existing. Yes, hard times, yes.
The beginning, at the top of the hour; this is when they pair off. By either pre-destiny or calculated maneuver, the general lump of pity is divided and each person selects another, the pair then forming their own precious sphere of pity. Blushed faces are cupped in angel soft hands. Strained, sympathetic gazes are matched. Tears squirt forth onto four dollar beaded necklaces, and collars and shoulder pads are smeared with sobbing mascara.
- Oh, me, oh, my: I know, I know.
- My life has more meaning than most people because I’ve struggled: I know, I know.
- I learned the old fashioned way, not because I was old fashioned but because I was poor: I know, I know.
- I grew up in a rough spot in town; therefore, this gives me the innate right to chime in at inappropriate times during class discussion to tell a story or share a bit of my wisdom even if it has no relevance to the subject matter, because people know I’ve had it hard and want to hear what I have to say: I know, I know.
The love-energy from these communions grows so intense that gravity is soon defied. Pairs will eventually levitate in their own pity bubbles. The harder they grip, the harder they sob, the higher they float. Soon after, their bowels glow with an aura of righteous light. Yes, a golden light that beams upward and bursts forth from upturned eye sockets and open mouths. The room quakes at the power. The ceiling lights flicker out and there the pity party hang, drowning in the drone of pity, awash in the light of each other’s bubble guts - flushing away all that bad juju.
Eventually things will calm down. The metaphysical power of pity abates and the ceiling lights timidly come back to life. Feet are returned to this raw and tyrannical reality. Folding chairs are placed; they moan under the under the pressure of usage. Accompanied by the scattered sniffles and delicate sobs left over from the ascension, the Pity Party president goes to the lectern: Welcome, sisters. Any visitors? Please stand and introduce yourself. Usually more than a couple will stand and wipe, swabbing tears from their faces as they say how thrilled they are to be here and what a release it has been so far. Sometimes others opt to remain seated on their thrones, either by choice or physical infirmity (more commonly a dramatic approach to the latter) and lean to either side to ensure being witnessed. As always, the newcomers are warmly welcomed.
The Pity Party president will then usually read from the announcement sheet which is usually extensive. They are usually of benign importance, just an opportunity to hear her own voice. At length, she can tell that she’s been there for too long because her legs become tingly; the Pity Party must proceed.
Most meetings will have a special speaker, usually one of the regulars who invited herself ahead of time to do so. She is received warmly. Topics usually involve oppression and the ever-present common enemy. One speech was given the stirring title ‘The Emotional Woman Trying to Define Herself’; another was ‘Breaking the Masculine Mold”. The speaker chronicles her hardships, usually beginning in childhood, and usually involves the saintly presence of mothers and how they worked fingers to the bone and never complained and how that way of life has always been an influence. The listeners will bob their heads in agreement, a perpetual zen pool of pity. Afterwards, the microphone is made available to anyone who seeks praise from the entire group. This… This is the real happening. Immediately, a line forms and snakes through the oval room, double-backing on itself, eventually peeping out the door a little bit - and even from this distant place, praise is still shouted; the potency from which emanates through the entire building. A profound thought from the lectern quivers its way through the ranks of pity until the very end of the line. Yes, through all the churning, these gems come out unscathed. They are all alike. Once a member is finished with her oratory, she leaves. Life must continue onwards, y’see. The party abandons a multi-purpose room littered with used tissue and program outlines whose corners are fold over and held fast with wads of chewing gum. A maintenance man comes in, contorts his face, waves the air before his nose, and opens a window. “Lord, have mercy!”
