Luckily and perhaps mercifully, the Christmas office gathering is slowly disappearing. No need to talk glowingly about somebody you don't really give a shit about. No great need to knock back a few so you can get up the nerve to talk glowingly about somebody you don't really give a shit about. Or the worst scenario. Getting so drunk that you don't care that the Xerox machine has become a mattress and you don't care that you're swapping spit with somebody you don't really give a shit about.
When I think back of recent years, I've been to some glorious ones. At the Beverly Hills Hotel. The Ritz Carlton. Even a sound stage on the Universal Studios lot. But, as I wrote earlier, these years were the exceptions as company finances drop with business. The same place that hosted the parties at the Ritz Carlton just had their 2019 gala in an arcade during the afternoon.
You see what I mean?
So I live with the memories of office parties in both NY and then LA after I relocated here. And my mind wanders back to my very first office holiday party.
Because it was probably my worst. And, while there was definitely no bartering of saliva, my behavior could not have been worse. Unintentionally.
It was my first Manhattan-based job after college graduation. I was the lowest man on the totem pole that was below sea level in the first place. A junior assistant at a small media buying service that was run by some snooty Brit who would have been less pompous if he realized just how bad his teeth were. Clearly, there were to be no life-long friends for me in this collection of misfits. Except for one other media buyer who also detested the lot of them and became a long time friend, I had zero connection or emotion for anybody performing in this corporate three-ring circus.
So, imagine my horror when the memo came around about the holiday party. Forced socializing. Was that a pit forming in my stomach or was that a glob of last year's fruit cake? Attendance was not mandatory, but "expected." I was screwed. Fa la la la la la la la fucking la.
Since my only office chum lived in Westchester as well, we immediately made very strategic plans on how quickly we could get the hell out of there. Our transportation would be tied to her husband's work schedule. When he showed up with the car, we had to leave. Or escape, as the proper definition would have it. We rationalized that nobody would notice we had even left.
Except...
The snotty Brit owner then announced that our party would be a sit-down dinner in a small but exclusive French restaurant down in Greenwich Village.
Mon Dieu! And crap!!!! How the hell was this happening? And since when does a British guy want to patronize a French eatery???
To make matters even more tragic, we were advised that the dining establishment didn't even have a liquor license. No worries. Our pretentious boss had that all covered. He would be bringing along the finest of wines personally selected by himself. And, to ease our concerns even further, we didn't have to worry about a food selection either. He was personally working with the chef to design every single course of the meal. And, oh, by the way, there would be ten of them. Courses of the meal, that is.
On the dreadful evening in question, the dozen or so of us sat around a big table like a family. A family, of course, with two in-laws who couldn't wait to get the fuck out of there. But we were trapped. I don't remember the name of this place, which is not an issue since I planned to never again eat within a five mile radius. The kitchen was obviously taking great pains to serve up a delicious meal. Because each course took a half-hour to appear. How long would this party be? We were celebrating Christmas now, but dessert might be ready by Valentine's Day.
Our high-falutin' host had also carefully selected a menu without taking into account the personal likes and dislikes of his staff. Quail eggs. Salmon. Something with duck. One by one, each course presented me with something else that I wouldn't fathom eating.
The only thing on the table that wasn't offensive to me was the wine. I focused not on the solids, but the liquids. And plenty of it. Previously, I hadn't really been exposed to wine. Not on this evening, however. It slid effortlessly down my windpipe like Hawaiian Punch.
The lack of food and the abundance of drink, along with the less than congenial spirit around the table, morphed me (and my friend, as well) into a pickled mess.
By the time her husband showed up with the car several hours or days later, I was officially for the first time in my life drunk.
Symbolically, I was poured into the back seat of their car for the ride up to Westchester. I had no clue where I was, except that it was way too hot.
"Open the window."
And way too cold.
"Close the window."
And feeling like I was going to hurl chunks.
"Open the window."
Except it was too cold for that.
"Close the window."
I have no recollection how and when we pulled up in front of my house, except it was midnight and I wanted to die immediately. But, death was detailed for a few more moments as I ran into another vision of the Grim Reaper.
My father. Just home from work and out on the street emptying my dog Tuffy for the evening.
Uh oh.
I tried to play it cool. I spouted off some witty repartee with Daddy dear. And it probably was completely incoherent, which was not lost on my father.
"Are you drunk?"
Me? The audacity! I certainly was not drunk!
And I promptly threw up on the dog.
Tuffy was being emptied. And so was I.
Dinner last night: Bacon-gruyere burger at Monsieur Marcel.
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