The wounded

By Philip José Farmer
Women wondered how he could be so cruel—and so utterly charming.
The winged and shining fancy that hovers with irony-tipped talons about the writings of Philip José Farmer needs no introduction to our pages. We can no longer hail him as a brilliant new discovery, for in two short years he has become an established writer with a widely discussed novel to his credit. It seems peculiarly appropriate that the author of THE LOVERS should grace his present theme with a wit barbed so entrancingly.
Those polaroid glasses they give you at the 3-D movies were the cause of my downfall.
When the show was over I went into the lobby and stood there a moment while I studied my schedule. I was supposed to go to a big party given by one of the prime numbers of the Four Hundred. I didn't have an invitation, but that never bothered me. Biggest gate-crasher in the world, that's me.
I heard a gasp and looked up to see this beautiful young woman staring at me. She had forgotten to take off her 3-D glasses and that, I instantly realized, was the trouble. Somehow, the polarization was just right to make me visible. Or let's say that I was always visible but nobody recognized me.
The view she got enabled her eyes to make that subtle but necessary shift and see me as I really am.
I thought, I'd have to tell Mother about this . Then I walked out fast. I ignored her calls—she even addressed me by the right name, though the accent was wrong—and I hopped into a taxi with my violin case under my arm. I told the cabbie to lose the taxi in which she was tailing me. He did, or seemed to.
As soon as I entered the penthouse, a house detective seized my arm. I pointed to the violin case under my arm. His piggish eyes roved over it as he munched upon a sandwich he held in his other hand. He was one of the wounded, always eating to stuff the ache and the hollowness of it.
Listen, kid, he said, aren't you sort of young to be playing in an orchestra?