“You’ve got to stop saying stuff like that, Terrence. The company isn’t named after a family, Grensfeld is the name of a place,” Emily chastised me in a whisper.

I, too, could play the whisper game.

“My God! A place called Grensfeld? Do people actually live there? I mean, can’t even imagine a place that sounds worse to…no, wait…Death Valley. Fine. But Grensfeld must be the second worst place.”

Emily was gritting her teeth, making her whisper come out like a hiss.

“Just stop calling people ‘the Grensfelds’ o.k.? There is no Grensfeld family.”

Aside from Emily’s incessant corrections, I was having a fine evening. I was seated at the head of a long table in an elegant restaurant, wearing the suit I was supposed to wear to the press conference. To Emily’s credit, the suit fit me perfectly. I looked fantastic.

And everyone seemed happy to be around me. For once in my life it seemed as if I could do no wrong. When I spoke, my audience laughed and gazed at me warmly. Even Dave Elmer, CEO of Grensfeld Industries — not originally my greatest fan — beamed in my direction from his seat at the other end of the table.

You see, the night before I was to close upon my new home, Grensfeld finally decided to hold the sweepstakes reception which my poorly received remarks at the press conference had indefinitely postponed.

Thanks to a bunch of bored teenagers on Instagram, all had been forgiven. Their viral support of the press conference video had helped Grensfeld’s social media accounts soar to dizzying new heights of popularity.

In the eyes of the Grensfelds, I had become someone to be celebrated. The reception was to be ‘my night.’ All eyes would be on me.

Truth be told, the event sounded awful, but I pretty much had to attend. My bodyguard Jim made that clear, under orders from Emily.

Emily’s hired muscle Jim was a very unwelcome intrusion into my life. Wherever I went, so did he.

It’s not as if a person can be subtle doing much of anything when they weigh three hundred pounds and it’s all muscle. I had someone fitting that description following me around everywhere I went. To see one of us was to see two of us. I felt like a tiny moon forever orbiting a giant planet. It was humiliating.

Tonight Jim was nowhere to be seen. Granted, I had to endure an evening with my conservator Emily in exchange for this brief Jimless moment, but it was worth it. His absence was not making my heart grow fonder.

But I digress. Back to the evening:

The light, repetitive clinking of metal on glass called attention to Grensfeld’s CEO, Dave, who had risen to his feet at the far end of the table to make a toast. He commenced by addressing me.

“Terrence, I would like to once again congratulate you on behalf of the entire Grensfeld family.”

I remembered Emily’s earlier lecture.

“So you say there’s no Grensfeld family,” I taunted Emily through my eyes. Emily’s eyes, squinting with annoyance, spoke back, “That’s not the same thing and you know it.”

Our eyes would have debated the point further, but Dave was distracting us all with a bunch of babble about his gratitude for everyone’s hard work on the sweepstakes, and how proud he was of the entire team, yada yada.

It was all a bunch of ‘insider stuff’ of no great interest to those of us who didn’t work at Grensfeld. I hoped Dave would move on quickly. It struck me as rude to spend time talking about other people at a banquet dedicated to me.

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At last, the topic switched to something more interesting.

“Did I hear that you are closing on a home tomorrow, Terrence?” Dave inquired politely.

“I am, yes. I’m looking forward to moving in.”

“Where’s your new home located?”

“The Hollywood Hills,” I replied.

”I’ve been told that I’m supposed to simply tell people ‘I live in the hills,’ but I’m not comfortable with that idea. Where I come from, someone who ‘lives in the hills’ is a crazy person who has gone off-grid and is surviving out in the deep woods. I’m not like that at all. When I go off-grid, I prefer to stay in Utah.”

There was some laughter, which perplexed me, as I couldn’t remember cracking any jokes.

“Homes in that area don’t come cheap. That must have taken a decent bite out of your winnings,” Dave observed.

“Yes,” I confessed. “But by playing hardball, I was able to negotiate an excellent price.”

I could feel Emily’s eyes burning holes in me. What was her problem? I was the one who told her to buy the house. Without my input, there would have been no good deal.

“What is your new home like?” inquired a woman at the far end of the table. The way she asked made it seem as if she genuinely cared about my answer. I would have put money on her being the VP of HR.

I pulled the pamphlet I had picked up at the open house from my suit pocket and began to read.

“This charming seven thousand plus square foot treasure in the Hollywood Hills,” I spoke slowly, selling my listeners on the vision, “is a deco masterpiece. Constructed in 1932, it still has most of the original fittings. It is simply timeless. 7 bedrooms. Pool. Bowling alley.”

I looked up from the pamphlet and added my summation.

“It’s really quite an attractive cottage. I can’t wait to move in.”

I started to get some odd looks.

“Only a four-car garage, though,” I added modestly. I didn’t want anyone to think I was boasting.

Something had changed. The crowd’s attitude had grown decidedly less pro-Terrence. Perhaps some humor could win everyone back?

“The only thing that bothers me,” I said, picking up my wine glass and gesturing vaguely, “is the architectural disaster of a house next door.”

“It’s as if someone instructed an architect to design something revealing no evidence of ever having been designed, like the place simply accreted over time, like a slime mold.”

Definite laughs. I got definite laughs.

They were warming up to me again. The alcoholic beverages, which had been served to the table moments earlier, no doubt aided my cause.

Looking back, I see that I could have stopped there, and things would have turned out so much better. But I didn’t.

I always chase laughs, some might even say excessively.

“And the lawn ornamentation these people have. You wouldn’t believe how over the top it is. It’s as if they received a postcard of Versailles and gave it to their gardener, telling him to recreate it as best he could.”

Some of the snickering I heard may have been guilty snickering, but it was snickering nonetheless. I was on a roll.

“Why not just buy it and tear it down?” inquired a jovial marketing exec. I could tell that he was the top brainstormer of the Grensfeld Industries C-Suite. He probably filled an entire whiteboard with good ideas in every meeting.

“That’s true,” I agreed, amused by the thought. “Scraping the lot would be a public service.”

“To tearing down 1206 Hossenbury Way in the Hollywood Hills and making this world a better place,” I cried out, raising my glass in a toast. “To no more ugly houses!”

Glasses were raised, and clinked together, as the gathering joined me in my toast. I felt a warm flush of triumph. I was killing it.

As the joy died down, I noticed that CEO Dave’s smile had slowly transformed into a scowl. He stared at me from the far end of the table with the corners of his mouth twitching.

“1206 Hossenbury Way is where I live,” Dave’s tone of voice grew dark, as I watched his eyes narrow. “That is my ‘ugly’ house you want to tear down.”

I reeled. I often deliver surprises to my audiences, but I’m not used to them pitching zingers like that back at me.

“And it was designed by my brother, a very successful architect,” Dave added, showing any final holdouts that I had no redeeming qualities whatsoever.

For a moment, I was struck speechless, feeling the entire table’s gaze shift toward me. No jaw remained undropped.

“It’s a small world,” I observed, feeling claustrophobic at how particularly small it felt at that moment.

Dave was looking at me in a menacing way.

“Am I to understand that you are closing on the property next door to mine tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I acknowledged.

“Not if I can stop you,” Dave growled in reply.

I managed to plaster a smile back on my face. I could salvage the situation. I was sure of it.

It would seem I could not. Dave stormed out of the restaurant while I was still formulating a game-saving witty response. In my defense, I was not operating at top speed under the strain of events.

I began to feel very upset. The evening had supposed to have been a celebration of my sweepstakes victory, not a messy, embarrassing public scene.

Everything had gone terribly wrong and Emily was clearly responsible. Anyone could see. I glared at her,

“Why didn’t you know about this?” I demanded. “Didn’t you do your research on the neighborhood?”

Emily stared at me aggressively, rolling the handle of a steak knife over and over in her hand. She didn’t blink. She didn’t respond. She just rolled the knife over and over in her hand.

I sensed she was not yet ready to accept blame. That was fine. Humility would come with time.

“I’ll see you at the closing tomorrow,” I said, backing away slowly. When enough distance was between us, I turned and fled.

The worst part of the entire evening was that — as I made my escape — I realized that I missed having Jim around. I didn’t feel safe without him anymore.

How pathetic.