“His name is Mister Man. He is twelve years old and has diarrhea.”
Is this any way to get introduced at a dinner party?
I will not shame the staff member responsible for this introduction, other than to say it was Danielle.
Then again, between you, me, and Mister Man, Danielle might be a genius.
It is Mister Man’s default assumption that you are a genius. It does not matter if you are a poet laureate or petrified of lightning. You may be the world’s foremost authority on olives. You may be Willie Nelson. You may be the smallest child on the kindergarten bus. The only gateway for genius is entering the dinner party formally known as Suite H.
Mister Man was born debonair. He is dressed for dinner before other earls and archdukes get up in the morning. We are in the presence of a cat with a sense of occasion.
The occasion happens to be a Board meeting of the Mutual Admiration Society.
As you join your fellow geniuses, Mister Man will personally conduct your orientation. Mister Man is exhilarated by your Jimmy Buffett T-shirt. Mister Man has scientifically determined that your hairs are each independently magnificent. Mister Man has never heard anyone laugh more musically than you.
Mister Man would trust you with matters of national security, such as the preservation of endangered string cheeses. Mister Man would trust you to bear the full heft of his tuxedo splendor, even if your legs are thin as pretzel sticks and prone to tremble from the weight of being alive.
Mister Man knows you are a genius, because you have survived every day of being alive.
The cat clad like a Downton Abbey footman is not one to brag. But Mister Man is first among geniuses. He has been saddled with the letters FeLV (feline leukemia virus), but he decided this means he has a doctorate.
He has been labeled “infected” but remained enchanted.
He has been called “Mister Man” while remaining a Great Big Baby.
He has worn rejection but remembered it reverses to a tuxedo.
He has unbuttoned assumptions and run naked through the shocking sprinkler of every new morning.
He has been waiting all his life to meet all these geniuses, starting with you.
Moments ago, he received a tax-free chin skritch from an actual, verified human being. Do you have any idea how rare and electric it is to experience a human being sighting? They come in many sizes. Some are as bald as beans, and others have braids long enough to sit on. They are a cacophony of comedy, always doing daft things like plucking their own eyebrows or wearing pants.
But each one is unrepeatable, and improbable, and — around here, anyway — infatuated with Mister Man.
Is it any mystery why Mister Man lives amazed?
Mister Man hopes to someday meet the genius behind Mr. Men. Did you know that someone drew a multitude of multicolored disembodied heads in the 1970s, Mr. Happy and Mr. Bump and all their associates? Did you know that, in France, the Mr. Men are collectively known as Monsieur Bonhomme?
Did you know that Mister Man thinks Regina was the inspiration for Little Miss Splendid?
When you are a gentleman, you try very hard not to have favorites among your geniuses. But Mister Man cannot help himself. Regina is the color of the moon when it is full. Regina has been labeled as “paraplegic,” but Mister Man knows she is actually intergalactic. Regina owns a growing wardrobe of gowns, handmade by genius volunteers. Some gowns are groovy enough for a Grateful Dead revival. Some gowns look like denim aprons, in case Regina wants to make some genius biscuits. Some geniuses say the gowns are there to protect Regina’s knees from abrasions. Mister Man knows that Lady Regina Splendid likes to dress up for dinner.
Mister Man does not mind if you, Willie Nelson, or Regina knows that he has diarrhea.
Which brings me back to the dinner party.
When names are exchanged over prosciutto-stuffed figs, we default to stale serial numbers to suss each other out. We exchange polite metrics. We recite titles and silently kick each other’s tires.
We seldom ask, “what are you looking forward to?”
“What was the last thing that made you slaphappy?”
“What terrified you the most this week?”
“Do you ever get diarrhea?”
Alright. I may not be a genius, but I’m not suggesting you get gastrointestinal at your next cocktail party. (Mister Man is a welcome audience for ballads about your bowels, but your great-aunt might become a bit faint if you uncork the colon talk before dessert.)
But there’s something to be said for an honest introduction.
We are all twelve years old under our formal-wear.
We are all excited and afraid, pretty much all of the time.
We are all missing out if we are not a lot like Mister Man.
Party on, geniuses.