Joseph Conrad
I could run but I could not hide. The relentless forces of holiday cheer, in the person of Ms. Natalie Brew from accounts receivable, hunted me down in the supply room closet where I was hunkered among the cases of copy paper trying to look like a carboard box.
“Honestly, Mike, you’re being silly. It’s just an office Christmas party.”
Hah! There is no such thing as “just” an office Christmas party, especially when those mailroom clowns spike the punch with high powered rum and the boss plays his goddamned accordion and leads the troops in a Christmas carol sing-a-long. Happens every goddamned year, and every goddamned time it does I feel like the doomed Mr. Kurtz in Joseph Conrad’s The Heart Of Darkness when he utters, “The horror! The horror!” I don’t think Joseph Conrad went to Africa at all. I think he wrote those words after attending an office Christmas party.
Ms. Brew sighed. “Mike, people will think you’re anti-social.”
Oh yeah? What was their first clue? The Anthrax warning I’d written on a Post-it note and stuck to my computer, which everyone ignored, or the bomb threat I’d phoned to the receptionist, Ms. Winkleman, that morning? When she got around to putting down her nail polish and answering the phone, even she saw through my little scam. Ms. Winkleman has the IQ of your basic turnip, but it took her two seconds to unravel my idea of a foreign terrorist’s accent. “Zere isss a bum vich vill eggsplode in fife minutes. Joo bedder ged efferyone oud off ze buildink!”
Ms. Winkleman sighed in her usual bored manner, and said, “Um, Mike? You’re coming to the office party, right?”
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. I said I had my doubts, explaining that I had just been diagnosed with leprosy and I was afraid something would fall off if I so much as tried to pick up a piece of catered cake on a paper plate. She was unimpressed. “Whateverrrrrr,” she said, and hung up.
And now here was Ms. Brew, the office party’s field artillery, with me cowering in her sights. “Look,” she said, adjusting her aim for range and windage, ”Some of our heavy hitter clients are here, including the Woonsocket rep you’ve been hammering on for the last few weeks. Just come out and make nice for awhile.”
Right. Most of the hammering has been done by that Woonsocket guy. He’s been hammering at Ms. Winkleman with flowers and chocolates for as long as I’ve been hammering on him, the horny old goat, but without apparent success. Either Ms. Winkleman is devoutly loyal to her boyfriend, a 30-year-old bass player in a band called the Fuddpucker Express who still lives in his parents’ basement, or she’s holding out for a new Toyota. I was rooting for the Toyota.
Ms. Brew took a seat on a short stack of boxed receipts and crossed her Stairmaster and yoga shaped legs, her pantyhose making a “zzth” sound. Since sweet reason had failed to accomplish her mission, she was resorting to the weapon of killer sex, or at least the hint of it, which had all the sincerity of a campaign promise. Of course I saw right through her ploy -- and fell for it anyway. What a chump. I wondered if she waxed those legs herself or had it done.
“Talk to me, Mike.”
Probably waxed them herself. Saved money that that way. I imagined her, all dewy and pink from a bath with a towel folded over her hair like a turban, applying a layer of wax and…
“Mike? Are you listening to me? Why do you hate Christmas so much?”
Hm? Oh. Christmas. Right. I explained that I liked Christmas as much as any other watered down nominal Christian this side of Baghdad who had not uttered a single prayer in adulthood other than “God, get me out of this one!” in moments of extreme peril, such as a flood, fire, police booking or a wedding, but actual Christmas parties at the office gave me a running rash.
“Why?”
Because of all the forced bonhomie, the hail-fellow-well-met manner of people who’d steal your biggest account and your favorite stapler if given half the chance, who’d audition their mothers as crash test dummies and sell their teenage sisters to a Saudi prince for the right commission, that’s why. Some Christmas.
Ms. Brew sighed. “Oh, honestly, Mike. You need to develop a thicker skin, you really do. It’s just business, and this is our busiest time of the year. Now stop being silly and come out of this cave. It won’t hurt you to mingle a little.”
No. I’m not moving until the fat janitor sings. Ms. Brew gave up and left to go mingle. Mingle bells, mingle bells. Fooey. Maybe I’ll mingle next year. In the meantime, I like the dark. Maybe I have that in common with Joseph Conrad.
Comments?
You are NOT helping. Come pack up my Christmas presents and take them to the post office. Yes, still. -- Deb
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I imagine it would be hilarious to hear a 'materMike say, “Zere isss a bum vich vill eggsplode in fife minutes. Joo bedder ged efferyone oud off ze buildink!” -- Pirate
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This piece made me roar with laughter. "The horror! The horror!" BTW...I don't think Conrad went to Africa either, especially after reading your insightful breakdown of the tradition of office Christmas parties. Thanks for the smiles -- Penny
