Back at the table, George is nobly recounting the horrors of Darfur, not much of a party starter, and surely lost on the half of the crowd that thinks it's a resort to be avoided until the service improves. Catherine is pounding away at the piano, her

Back at the table, George is nobly recounting the horrors of Darfur, not much of a party starter, and surely lost on the half of the crowd that thinks it's a resort to be avoided until the service improves. Catherine is pounding away at the piano, her hair somewhat mussed, the glass in front of her brimming with bills. Either the rest of the group has followed my lead, or Bryan has made change. The lights brighten slightly as a waiter apologetically announces last call. One look from CZJ and the lights are returned to their earlier setting. Maxine stirs, her head snapping back at the realization her alcohol supply is in jeopardy.

"I'm the one they wrote the song 'Tiny Dancer' about!'""Last call?" she asks, almost crying. Maxine holds up her hands, spreading her fingers like a child would as she counts to three. "Three. I want three drinks for ev—for everybody!"

Seth leans in, whispering. "You ever get so fucked up over a girl that you just wanted to give up?"

Being a great and compassionate friend, I reply, "If you are going to kill yourself, make sure you've paid the completion bond on the movie."

"No, asswipe! I mean give up! And then start looking, you know, somewhere else?"

I start to laugh. "I know you have mother issues, but don't jump any fences just yet."

Ignoring me, he replies, "George has really nice ankles, don't you think?"

A few moments later, the low tables in front of us are brimming with drinks. Must be 35 or 40 glasses filled to the brim covering every bit of available space. Maxine grabs one, downs it in a gulp, and quickly grabs another as she struggles to stand, looking like a newborn giraffe with a very large ass.

"Hey," she yells, as she attempts a one-legged ballet pose. "I'm paying for these fucking drinks!" And then, apropos of nothing: "I'm the one they wrote the song 'Tiny Dancer' about!'"

I turn away, as I would from any impending disaster. As if in slow motion, she topples forward across the table, arching her back and spreading her hands to break her fall. Seth grabs the drink from her hand and has chugged it by the time her body makes contact with the tabletop, sweeping her hands across the surface, which sends every glass on the table flying. Slick with alcohol, the table tips, sliding her body toward the banquet, wedging her head beneath it, while propping her ass in mid-air, inches from Michele's face. She is out cold, not a trace of movement, not a twitch, not a spasm.

Catherine stops playing, surveys the wreckage in front of her, and says quietly and elegantly to Maxine's suspended buttocks, "I think you should go now."

The rest of the table ignores Maxine, her ass now several feet higher than her head. All except George, who motions to the waiter, "She'll take the check."

The waiter places the leather envelope on the floor next to Maxine and puts a pen in her outstretched hand. George reaches down, scans the check, and says, "3,800 euros." He looks over at me and asks Maxine's room number.

"I think it's 508."

He scrawls across the check and gets up, pats me on the shoulder, and heads toward the glass door leading to the lobby, setting off a stampede in his wake.

I glance at the check, on which he has scrawled his own name.

Illustrations by Arthur Mount

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