Just home from the office Xmas party. What a bunch of shit. I probably won’t know any of these people in a year. I’m sitting around, eating, drinking, laughing - like we’re best chums. Fuck. I don’t like 2/3 of these people. Most of them are complete idiots, cushioned by money or total lack of self-awareness.
I’m sitting there - jammed in - next to the Dragon Lady. She’s wearing this horrific outfit: it’s got white flecks all over a black background, making her look like a Baked Alaska. I comment on it and she thanks me profusely, as is her way: “Thank you. Thank you. You’re very nice. Thank you so much. Thank you. That was nice of you to say. Thank you.”
She thanks me so many fucking times I just want to punch her in the gut. Hard. Then, when she’s doubled over, screeching in shock, in pain, I’d yell, “No - THANK YOU!!!”
How did it happen I’M sitting next to the Dragon Lady? I’ve come back from the bathroom late. I fucked up. Everyone else is seated, fifteen or so of them, on both sides of two long tables set in a “V”. The only available seat is next to her. Just for myself I do the Yosemite Sam “Excuse me, pardon me…” routine all the way down the back of the table. Then I’m pinned in. To my immediate right is SHE. To her right is HE, her husband - the radio veteran, a man who had a Mexican border-blaster station. Someone I’d love to talk to.
She leans over, whispers to me, gossiping about the morning man: “Why doesn’t Al have his fiancé with him? What’s wrong with her? He’s such a nice man! She wants to go off to Las Vegas. What’s wrong with her?’
“Gee, I don’t know. Poor Al.” I say, tasting the pasta. Excellent. Bowtie pasta, flavored. Tomato? And a wonderful sauce. Man, this stuff’s tasty! I dig in while trying to ask the husband a question:
“Is it true you put Wolfman Jack on the air?”
“And Al is so talented, don’t you think?” SHE asks, blocking his reply.
“Ummm, uh-uh.” I answer, swigging my red wine. Then I sip some Pellegrino. Not two feet away, Al is performing magic tricks. He works children’s parties. He does sleight of hand. He did some tricks at the bar, when we first came in. Great stuff, up-close magic. I love it because one of the first things I remember wanting to be was a magician. I got as far as buying TV Magic Cards.
Al’s a damn good magician. He’s got an excellent line of patter. I like him. He’s a diabetic and has been known to pass out in the parking garage. He gets disoriented when his blood sugar drops. He has a great radio voice, a really classic set of pipes. But you have to watch him and make sure he eats. Or he collapses.
I watch him fan out a deck of cards. The Dragon Lady taps my shoulder again: “And what about poor Ellen? You think they took her mother off life support?”
Ellen’s skipped the Christmas Party. Her elderly mother’s in a coma.
“I don’t know,” I say, moving on to the salad. Wow! The salad’s excellent, too. This might be a good meal after all. I try to get another question in to the old man: “Do you have any airchecks from the nineteen-fifties?”
“Sure! We have all that at home...” SHE answers, then asks: “And what about Doria? Isn’t she just the best? Look at her! Look how nice she looks!”
I look over at Doria. Jesus Christ on a bike. What a horror! She looks like a deflated punchball. She sags everywhere. Her skin is the color of band-aids. She’s wearing some god-awful shiny sequined thing, shooting off light in a million colors. It’s like putting diamonds on a turd. Worse, she’s been acting friendly toward me all night. Very insincere, very unsettling.
Doria is an ass-kisser of a caliber I’ve yet to come across (and I’ve known some world-caliber ASS-KISSERS). She works with surgical precision, smiling no longer than necessary, laughing when advisable, praising when desirable. Every act carefully calculated to make the right people like her. She’s totally incapable of being in the moment or being real. She’s a powdered carcass.
Doria’s husband sits alongside her, laughing like a jackass. What the HELL was HE thinking? She must’ve been a COMPLETELY different person when they met. Why would any man in his right mind marry THAT?
The husband shovels pasta in his piehole while Doria SUCKS ASS:
“And for the two of you, because you are the best people in the world to work for and WDOA is the best station to work for, we all got together and got you THIS!”
I didn’t “get together” - she joined me up. She came to me just yesterday, stuck that putrid, sagging face too near mine, whispered, “We got them something - you know, a gift. For tomorrow. It’s got an old-timey microphone on top.”
“Huh?” I whispered back, thinking What the FUCK is she talking about?!
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later. I got them a gift from all of us. Everyone’s putting in $10.”
Everyone? Me too?
“I won’t have it until payday.” I tell her. “That’s okay,” she answers, “I’ll get it from you then.” Shit. What if I don’t like what she got them? What if it’s some stupid piece of shit? I’m obligated to pay for some stupid fucking gift that fat fucking COW got them? Fuck her!
Doria produces a misshapen, poorly wrapped box, plops it down in front of the two of them. “Oooh,” coos the Dragon Lady, “Look at this, dear! What do you think it is?” Her husband shakes his head, annoyed: “I don’t know. Why don’t you open it up?” She turns to me, repeats the question: “What do you think it is?”
“A human head?” I guess. She frowns. “The head of your enemy?” She laughs.
Doria continues: “This is from all of us - because you are the best station owners ever.” She helps Dragon Lady pull the wrapping from the box. Their painted talons tear and shred, open the top, toss tissue paper aside, finally revealed TA-DA! - a trophy. With an “old-timey” microphone on top. Doria hoists it for all to see. Oohs and Aaahs go up. I look at it and think What the fuck? and What a piece of shit!
I butter some bread.
Doria can’t help herself. She grabs the trophy, puts on her bifocals: “Let me read the inscription: “TO THE BEST STATION OWNERS EVER. FROM ALL OF US AT WDOA.” Everyone claps. Dragon Lady and her husband beam. “Look at that, honey!” she says. Doria hands the husband the trophy. He examines it. In case he can’t figure out what that is on top, Doria points it out for him: “It’s an old-timey microphone!” She is beyond content.
The trophy is passed around for all to see. It’s a nice job, for a goddamn trophy. But such a tacky fucking gift: a trophy from all of us that none of us knew about. What a cunt. It doesn’t look worth more than $60. Doria’s collecting $10 from twenty-two people. What’s she going to do with the extra $160? Buys bon-bons?
“How old do you think Al is?” The trophy moment has passed. Dragon Lady is playing a new game. “How old?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, digging into my newly-arrived salmon. Oh my! This is the BEST salmon I’ve ever tasted. “42, 43?”
“Really? 42? And Dan? How old is he?”
I look over at our afternoon guy. He’s got bulging eyes. I hadn’t been on the job a week when he led me into the studio, very seriously. “See this?” he said, pointing to a red button on the console. “If anything ever happens to anyone on the air, push this.”
“What does it do?” I ask.
“It switches the computer on.” The computer is loaded with programming: songs, commercials, IDs, PSAs, announcements, etc. It’s assembled days in advance and broadcast 7 PM until 6 AM, usually. “More people should know about this button.” Dan tells me. It isn’t until weeks later I find out about his bum ticker. “Enlarged heart,” he tells me.
I guess Dan’s age: “50? 49? I don’t know.” I fill my fork with salmon, raise it to my mouth. Dragon Lady grips my forearm. “And Bill? What’s his age?”
What the...? Will she really make me guess the age of everyone at the table?
Bill’s our Program Director, earning sixty-five grand a year. For God--knows-what. “39, 40?” I guess, lifting my fork again.
“And Roger? How old does he look to you?”
“41, 2?” I still can’t get the fork in my mouth.
“And Brianna?”
“40.” I stop hemming and hawing. Maybe I can chew some fish between questions.
“And Ben?”
“53.” Chew.
“And Doria?”
“32.” Chew, chew.
“Darren?
Darren Drucker, on the air between Al and Dan, is drunk as the lord on free drinks. A cop, were he to meet Darren on the way home tonight, might write in his little pad, “Visibly drunk.” The cop might also note Darren’s slurred speech, the eyelids at half-mast, the drunkard’s deliberateness.
Darren’s my ride home.
I asked for a ride because my car didn’t have enough gas to get to the party. I’m between paydays so I can’t even fuel up. Darren’s the only one who offers to take me, saying: “Okay, you can go with me. I’ll swing back this way coming home. Do you know how to drive stick?’ He’s overly curious.
“Ummm, not really. I can fake it.” I tell him. He shrugs
In 1989, while working as a shipping clerk at a small electronics firm, I spent many lunch hours driving a co-worker’s beater VW Bug around the parking lot. I had gotten it in my head I should learn to drive stick (I felt like half a man, letting my damn transmission shift itself). The co-worker wanted to unload the car, hence the free lessons. I got pretty good but the Bug died before she could sell it to me. I hadn’t driven stick long enough to feel competent. Downshifting still threw me.
“I’ll be alright,” Darren says, reassuring me. “I’ll be fine.”
Right now his head is bobbing like an ear of corn on the stalk. “You okay, Darren?” I call to him, across the table. He squints his eyes at me, frowns: “Yesh. Of coursh.”
Others notice, too. I’m embarrassed for him. Except it’s the office Christmas party and they all have a drunk, right? The Dragon Lady’s son (my boss) said to me earlier: “Don’t worry about getting home if you don’t feel like it. We’ll put you up at a hotel. Or get you home somehow.” It was a touching gesture. I saw myself ordering a nice Lincoln Town Car for the ride back to work. I’d sit in the backseat, partition up, smoking a fatty.
Al’s doing magic tricks again, over dessert. He does one card gag too many, loses the order of the spiel, the sequence of the cards. The whole thing is thrown off and crashes to a halt. Everyone razzes him. “Maybe you should practice more at home.” the station owner offers. Everyone laughs. Al is visibly concentrating now, re-shuffling the cards, trying to salvage the trick. He keeps up the patter but it’s all just mechanics now. We’ve seen the man behind the curtain. There is silence. He tries to cover with a joke, “I asked Fred if he was getting bald. He said ‘Not as much as I’d like to’.” The joke settles like a wet fart. I drink my coffee.
“You sure you’re okay to drive?” asks the doctor of Darren. “I’m FINE!” he insists. “You sure? I can call you a car. It’s okay.” The doctor won’t take “No” for an answer.
Darren’s annoyed: “I said I’m fine. I’m fine!” He doesn’t look fine. Everyone in the room knows he’s thoroughly stewed. He shouldn’t be driving home a POINT. Al pulls me aside: “Can you drive his car?”
“It’s a standard. I could learn. I could learn right now. How hard could it be?” I feel thoroughly emasculated. If only I had stuck with it, learned to shift like a pro, I might not be embarking on a death ride. Darren’s bundled up, ready to go. The doctor makes one last try: “We can put you in a hotel. It’s no problem.” I picture myself in some nice Holiday Inn room, free cable, room service, the same big fatty. “Let’s leave.” Darren says to me. I turn to the doctor, shrug. The look of concern on his face is surprising. I didn’t think he cared.
Somehow, I’m following Darren out, saying goodnight as I go.
We’re walking out to his car and Darren blows off steam: “I thought I’d NEVER get out of there!” He asks me for a cigarette. I tell him I don’t smoke. Apropos of nothing he says, “I bet you’ve done drugs.” He’s trying to be hip with me. I’m still not sure why I don’t just go back inside and take the doctor up on his offer. For some damn reason I’m more worried about embarrassing Darren than possibly getting killed on the roadway. Schmuck! I’m going to die on some rain-slicked road just because I can’t drive a stick. FUCK!” I’m mumbling to myself while Darren tries to figure out how to get the wipers off of INTERMIITTENT. “Fuck,” he says, flicking one switch after another. “Fuck. Where IS it?!” I sit there noticing the lack of a supplemental restraint on the passenger side. This is no Volvo. To pass the time, I talk about cars.
“What year is this thing?”
“Let’s see - bought it ten years ago and it was two years old.”
“An ‘87?”
“Yeah.”
“Four liter engine?”
“Yup.”
“Pretty fast?”
“Oh yeah.”
“You still put the top down?”
“All summer long.”
“Any airbags in here?”
“I don’t know.”
He finally finds the wiper switch and tries to peel out of the parking lot. The light rain has brought the grease up from the asphalt. The car slides to the left, heading for a small lawn statue. “Whoa!” Darren laughs. I grab the edges of my seat. “Now how the fuck do I get on the parkway?” I begin feeding him directions. Left here, right there, third light, here’s the sign. Soon we’re on the parkway, snaking south. It’s unlit. The car’s headlights just make out the sheets of water on the roadway, though. Hydroplaning I think. Hydroplaning occurs when your tires lose contact with the roadway because they’re floating on a bed of water. You might as well be on ice. I can’t get the word “hydroplaning” out of my mind.
“Some fucking party, huh?” Darren asks. He almost mounts the curb. “Whoa!” . He laughs. “The food was excellent.”
“What did you have?”
“The salmon.”
“I had the sirloin strip. It was very good.” I can’t wait to be home. I close my eyes and try to picture my bed. Darren nearly kills us four or more times on the way home. He keeps losing the road, shouting “Whoa!” as he does. The car slides around like its ass is buttered. Fifteen more minutes and we’re back in the parking garage. “I bet you’ll never drive with me again.” Darren jokes as he drops me off. “Hah hah. Be careful on the way home, huh?” I tell him, as I climb out of his car. You fucking maniac… I think to myself, then I’ve GOT to learn how to drive a stick.
...our attorneys will be contacting you shortly...
WDOA Radio Mgmnt. ;-)
Posted by: The REAL WDOA Radio | December 19, 2005 at 06:43 PM
oh man. that Reminds me of something....
umm DOA? D.O.A.? ok, now I remember, it's christmas day in about 1968 or 1970, I guess, and we're calling W.F.I.L., an AM station in philly, and requesting "D.O.A." by BLOODROCK... but they don't play it, in spite of taking oour request. so we call back again (or my brother does, to be accurate). The DJ gets on the phone and says " But..No one wants to hear that !".
Posted by: mister caz | December 20, 2005 at 10:31 PM