Barry suffered the sting of subordination. He did not enjoy the devotion his friends heaved upon John and all his charm. There were times when he was humiliated by the attention they lavished on his longtime friend. There were times that the diminutive Barry wished he could sway their group to see it his way. But no. The tall extrovert, John, ruled the roost. John, John, John. It was always John.

Take last Friday’s dinner, for instance. John discussed ideas for food during happy hour at Jane’s, “It has to be Thai food.” Again? “Great,” his adorning admirers chimed. Barry fumed, thinking, ‘I hope he gets gored in the groin by the antlers of a towering stag. Yeah, a behemoth with a huge rack. Take that smarty pants.” But this was the way it always went. Who likes Thai food, anyway? Who? “How about pizza,” Barry suggested. The bunch was already out the door.

**

The sidewalk along 11^th Street led several blocks to the Bangkok City Restaurant. John led the charge through the front door and surveyed the room for a table. “Over there,” he directed. Without hesitation, they swarmed behind him to a booth in the back — a  setting by the men’s bathroom. What was that smell?

Barry flinched. This had gone far enough. “Are you serious?” he quipped. The group winced at the notion of a subordinate questioning the supreme ruler. “Do you mean we have to suffer the smell of spicy chili-garlic sauce and the perfume of deodorant bars in urinals?” Puzzled faces looked at each other, looked down at the floor, and looked like they agreed with the sentiment. “How about pizza?” Barry suggested. “Yeah,” they chimed, “Why always Thai?”

**

Out the door, back onto the sidewalk, the former John devotees looked at Barry. Now what? “Follow me to Angelo’s for any kind of pizza you can dream of.” The fledgling leader laughed and smiled and beamed. His dinner mates smiled back at him. The blocks flew by; the air seemed invigorating; the night seemed full of adventure. John trailed behind the revelers as they burst through the front door and into the smell of wood-fired ovens and their savory contents.

“Who do I have to kiss to get your best table for my fine friends?” Barry asked the nearest server. Gasps. The employee smiled. A sense of relief washed over his entourage, and they laughed. Seated at the red and white checkered cloth covering a table that overlooked the small dance floor, Barry relished his achievement. The often-disregarded, now-empowered comrade declared, “First, we get some Chianti, then we trip the light fantastic.” Barry tossed back his head so far in glee that his antlers touched the floor.

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