(By Calvin Trillin, Slate.com, Jan. 13, 2012)
When I
entered the nearly empty bar near Grand Central, I was unsurprised—and, I’ll
admit, rather pleased—to see, sitting on the stool he’d occupied when I was in the
bar some months before, the mature gentleman who had told me that the economic
crisis was inevitable once smart people started taking jobs on Wall Street.
(“Our guys would have never invented credit default swaps,” he’d explained.
“They couldn’t have done the math.”) I
settled myself a few stools away, but I did nod; in return, he lifted his
martini in my direction as a sort of understated toast. He was dressed, as he’d
been the other time I saw him, in gray trousers and a tweed jacket and a blue
button-down shirt—none of which differed from what could have been purchased in
close proximity to a New England college campus in 1959. Again, he was wearing
a club tie. This time, it appeared, from my vantage point, to be decorated with
tiny artificial-heart valves.
No sooner
had I ordered a drink than we had occasion to exchange glances that
communicated dismay: Three men who were sitting at the other end of the room
had begun discussing wine in voices that seemed intended to enlighten
oenophiles who were strolling past Rockefeller Center. The man at the end of the bar nodded in their
direction and said, “Among people who think of themselves as wine connoisseurs
there’s a 61 percent ACI.” I was
puzzled. “What’s an ACI?” I asked.
He lowered
his voice a bit, as if he was about to use somewhat offensive language and
wanted to make certain no women (he would have said “ladies”) were in ear-shot.
“Asshole Correlation Index,” he said. I
said, “You mean that 61 percent of people who talk a lot about wine are—” “Correct,” he said, before I could finish.
“That’s not even particularly high, as these things go. That means that nearly
40 percent of people who think of themselves as wine connoisseurs are people
who have learned a lot about wine for one legitimate reason or another and are
not pretentious about it. Those guys over there are in the other 61 percent,
I’d wager. When they get through analyzing a few pinot noirs that they wouldn’t
actually be able to tell apart, they’ll probably turn to cigars or single malt
scotch. People who spend a lot of time discussing both cigars and single malt
scotch, by the way, have a 78 percent ACI. That’s high—much higher than
connoisseurs of either one singly. If you add wine to those two, it’s off the
charts.”
“But how do
you arrive at these ratings?” I asked. “I
have my methods,” he said. “You’ve seen those World War II movies where the
German line officer is talking to the downed American pilot in a room where a
blond guy in a long leather coat is sitting silently, and the officer is
saying, ‘I hope you’ll agree to tell us what we want to know. If not, Herr
Mueller here has his methods.’ Well, think of me as Herr Mueller.”
“But aren’t
you stereotyping people?” I asked. “Only
a certain percentage of them,” he said. “For instance, what do you think when
you see a guy who’s wearing a blazer over a sport shirt, and the shirt is
unbuttoned nearly to the navel? What’s your first reaction?” “Creep,” I said. “Not me,” he said. “I think 93 percent ACI.
Admittedly, that’s high. It’s one of the highest ACI’s on record. It’s 25
points higher than the ACI for males who wear designer jeans and 12 points
higher than males who wore Nehru jackets or bell-bottom pants in the ’70s. But
it still leaves room for the 7 percent who have their shirts unbuttoned for
some reason that makes perfect sense—maybe a skin condition that requires them
to keep air circulating across the chest hairs at all times. So you might say
that the ACI is a device that allows some people to be a bit more tolerant than
some other people—no offense.”
That sounded
disturbingly logical. Also, although I wasn’t quite ready to say so out loud,
I’d been thinking that a 93 ACI for the guys with unbuttoned shirt was a bit
low. Also, I happen to have in my safety-deposit box a list of people I know
who wore Nehru jackets in the ’70s. “Or
take the example of East Hampton, a community known for its luxurious summer
homes,” he went on. “I believe you were once overheard to say that anybody who
could take a bicycle ride around East Hampton and not be turned into a Marxist
by the hedges—just the hedges—can be considered safe for capitalism.”
“How did you
know what I said about the hedges?” I asked.
“I try to keep up,” he said, as if it were perfectly normal to keep up
with the conversation of someone he’d seen only once before. “At any rate, the
ACI for people who live behind particularly imposing hedges is
61—coincidentally, the same as the ACI for people who talk a lot about wine. Of
course, people who live behind the hedges and also talk a lot about wine have
an ACI of 82. I haven’t calculated yet how much that goes up if they also take
their winter vacations in St. Bart’s during the party season there, but there’s
definitely an increase. These things mount up.”
At that
moment, we both realized that we had finished our drinks. “I’ll get this
round,” the man said. “No, I’ll get it,”
I said. “I insist.” “People who insist
on getting the check have a 57 percent ACI, because a number of them are
show-offs,” he said. I threw up my arms
in surrender. He signaled the bartender to bring us each another drink, and
said, “That’s 9 percent higher than the people who always seem to let someone
else get the check.” “The next round’s
mine,” I said.
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