“...this
little twerp, name Shirley was taking this character Laurence's
side,” Frank was saying. “I mean, she's menial, got nuthin'
better to do than pass out the stick rifles at ROTC, and here she is,
tryin' to tell him how to get with society people, like the Corbins!”
“Frank,”
Karyn quibbled. “The Corbins are nouveau riche anyway. They're not
exactly known for their manners.”
“What
makes you so sure?” Frank was contrary, and he saw no great divide
between his manners and those of the Corbins.
Neither did
Karyn. “Frank, you're an idiot. What kind of society matron names
her daughter after a kind of coal? Bitumen is a kind of coal, Frank!”
For once,
Frank did not react with bluster to correction. “What losers!” he
proclaimed.
It amused
Karyn to return scorn for scoffing. “Your dad told me, that he
named you after a hot dog he ate on the Fourth of July,” she
lied. “He said you turned out to be made of chicken, have the
brains of a Turkey, and be full of bull!”
Frank was
not about to give an inch. “I could sell ice to Eskimos,” he
countered.
“Fine.
Prove it,” Karyn challenged. This seemed to be a fair battlement,
behind which to take cover.
“Well,
it's construction material for igloos,” Frank gloated. “The
better the quality of the ice you start out with, the better the
finished product of your igloo will be.” Frank had swung for the
fences, and he adjudged this to have connected.
Karyn had
been looking for an excuse to ease tensions. “That's actually a
pretty good argument, Frank,” she capitulated. “Want to take me
dancing? I'd enjoy it.”
Frank's
business connections, and the access his network would afford a
political interest, were not a social currency, but he was a good
dancer, and “the life of the party.”
The bridge
building exercise was a success, and the two returned home tired,
happy, and with a good buzz.
