The wannabe-VIP goes out on the town

One little perk at my cubicle farm that distracts me now and then from the insulting salary is the occasional free concert or theater tickets The Boss tosses at our feet like partially gnawed spare ribs. He has season tickets at various venues so that he can be seen attending cultural events, and when he can't use them himself or give them to his rich douchebag friends, he offers them up to his underpaid peons in a random giveaway. A while back, I won a pair of tickets for a comedy at the theater downtown. We figured we'd make a "date night" out of it, since we rarely do much to unwind after 40 hours of making our employers' lives easier other than drop by a dive bar down the street where The Boss wouldn't risk soiling his polished loafers. We put on our finery, my wife in her fake but convincing diamond earrings & bracelet, and I in the Brooks Brothers blazer from my trousseau, and took a taxi downtown. Hoping to economize slightly, we picked a restaurant that offered affordable cuisine, and although the interior was a little spartan and shabby, the food was dee-lish. From the wine at dinner and more wine in the lobby before the show, we had a nice buzz going, enhancing our enjoyment of the play. During intermission, my wife introduced me to a certain elected official whom she has known since childhood. Such a brush with greatness! Basking in the radiant glory of a genuine VIP's power and influence, I was thankful I had dressed my best and groomed myself well (and not consumed too much wine), and during our brief exchange I threw in a little comment about how I thought one of the actors reminded me of Nathan Lane, making me sound worldly and cultured. Part of being a VIP, real or fake, is sounding worldly and cultured, you know. After the show, since we were all dressed up, we walked to a nearby cigar lounge that caters to the upscale douchebag crowd with $12 martinis and a menu of fine cigars. Arriving in our finest, we were given the utmost courtesy and ushered to an open table with a commanding view of the street. When asked if I wanted to start a tab, I'm sure the waitress spotted my bullshit VIP card (see Fake it 'cause you'll never make it) and possibly even the fake Black Card sticking out of the frontmost credit card slot. She probably wondered why I pulled out a humble bank-issued debit card instead. Perhaps I was with my mistress and, not wishing my whereabouts to be revealed on my Amex statement, shrewdly used a debit card from a secret bank account instead! Maybe I made an impression, maybe not; all I know is, the manager himself brought me my cigar, and our waitress was very attentive. Swaddled neck-to-ankle in Brooks Brothers, my hand still redolent with the pheromone transfer from a high official's handshake, I sank into my armchair with a pint of Guiness, wallowing in my own smug sense of faux superiority while sucking on a smoldering roll of carcinogenic bliss. For a little while, this tired cubicle-jockey was getting the VIP treatment, all thanks to some clever props and looking the part.