On the Verge (15 page)

I get up to get a drink. I have to walk past the evil duo, who are still complaining to the bouncer and manager about being kicked out. They look awful and disheveled. The heel on one of the women’s shoes is broken, which I think is total props for Tabitha. The manager is shaking her head, not listening to any of their arguments.

I can’t begin to describe the satisfaction I feel when I hear the manager say, “I’m sorry, but I mean, they are with MTV.”

O
n the first workday in December, there is a huge evergreen tree in the lobby of the Prescott Nelson building. There’s a lot to look forward to—people on vacation (Herb is taking two weeks!), special Christmas goodies and most importantly the notorious Prescott Nelson Christmas party.

The Christmas party buzz starts around mid-November. People always refer to it in a sort of threatening way. “Make sure you have the presentation perfect or we’ll pull out those pictures of you at last year’s Christmas party.” It was one of the things that they brought up at my orientation. Yes, even we serfs could go.

I’m dreading my first corporate holiday party. I can just feel I am going to do something stupid. (If this isn’t foreshadowing I don’t know what is.) I see myself twirling around the dance floor, shamelessly flailing my arms. I think this floozy behavior will only be intensified by the Christmas party. I don’t think it’s a good idea to date
or
drink with co-workers.

Tabitha thinks the party is going to be lame. Actually, she thinks it is going to be in a cool space but with “lame snoozers.” She tried to tell me that no one at any of the cool magazines (like hers) was going. Invitations to the Christmas party are coveted, which makes Tabitha popular with all her friends in higher places that work for other companies. I think she’s starting to come around. If there’s one thing Prescott doesn’t believe in skimping on it’s the Christmas party. Despite her misgivings Tabitha calls me moments after I arrive at my desk.

“Have you gotten any promo presents yet? I just got a gazillion bottles of wine from one of the restaurants that we reviewed favorably. The Big C got two baskets. One was totally healthy, I think she was secretly bitter at the implications. Nevertheless, she gave me the naughty one. I’m eating Belgian chocolate breakfast wafers.” She crunches loudly to prove it. “Did you hear the latest about the party? Hammerstein Ball Room.”

“No way.”

“One can dream. I heard they ordered five hundred pounds of sushi for it. Imagine. I love the season of giving. My season. Any thought to how we are outfitting ourselves?”

“No, I’m surprised at how long it’s taken you to ask me.”

“I think it’s time to pull out the beaded.” Now Tabitha is talking crazy. The beaded dress is this vintage dress we found on a shopping expedition. It’s red, flares at the knee, and has a super-tight bodice. I had to have this dress, and paid 175 bucks for it. I couldn’t have created a better dress for my body. I feel like there is some power attached to it, like I will be irresistible to mere mortals in it. I vowed to only pull it out when I was down and out.

“I’ve hidden that dress in Jersey. I can’t wear that to the company party.”

“Why? It’s fabulous! You thought I had forgotten about it, didn’t you?” Lacey comes over and stands by my desk.

“Tab, you are an elephant.” I knew it would make her hang up on me. I turn my attention to Lacey. “What’s up?”

“Eve, I heard an awful rumor.” She pauses, like I have some idea what the rumor is. “I heard you have to be working here for six months to be allowed to go to the party. I’ve only been here a month.”

Did you ever read those cartoons in
Highlights
magazine, “Goofus and Gallant”? Gallant helps his elderly neighbors rake up their yards, Goofus runs through the leaf piles. I loved those. Anyway, it’s true you
do
have to be here six months before you can get an invitation, but since we have a large freelance population what with all the writers we use, all you have to do is be on a list that says you contributed to an article in the past six months. Gallant tells his annoying, self-absorbed fellow employee not to sweat the invite, she can get as respectably sloshed as she wants if she speaks with Lorraine. Goofus tells Lacey that the rumor is in fact true, and she should hang out and see if anyone isn’t going that will give her their invite.

“But, I just have to go.”

“I’m sure it isn’t as exciting as everyone says.”

“Does that mean you aren’t going?” Fat chance.

“Oh, I have to, I make it my business to load up on as many free things as possible. Really we’ll see what we can do.” As if on some kind of sick psychic sibling cue my sister Monica calls at that exact moment. I tell Lacey I am having a personal family issue and won’t she please excuse me. She walks away, crushed.

“Hi, Monica.”

“How did you know it was me? Oh, you have one of those caller ID thingies. Why are you so happy? I hope you’re being careful, Ma will flip if you get knocked up.”

“I can’t believe that expression is still in your vocabulary. For your information I have not been naughty in quite some time. Too long. Thank you. I can’t just be happy merely to talk to you, my flesh and blood?”

“Are you on drugs? No you’re allergic to aspirin. Well, whatever it is, I guess it’s good you’re happy. What do you think about Ma totally not calling me on Thanksgiving? She must be going through the change or something.”

“I think Ma realized you were dead set on rescuing the downtrodden.”

“Funny. I was thinking of not doing Christmas this year.” I know when my sister is trying to get a reaction. There is nothing that makes my sister happier than the one time of the year when my father actually raises his voice and gets involved in family dramas. Every Christmas morning, right after I get a better gift, she makes some liberal comment to try (invariably successfully) to get a rise out of him. This sets off a whole chain of events— Grandma spewing forth a whole bunch of Italian, Mom running into the kitchen and coming out with plates of rock-hard biscotti and me sizing up the gifts under the tree, desperately trying to figure how much more loot Santa got me and how long it’ll be until I can open it. I know how to handle her. I know how to appeal to my sister’s socialist principles to the part of her that rejects what she believes are the downfalls of American society: materialism and commercialism. I take a deep breath and clutch the phone like a champ.

“That’s fine, Monica. More for me.” I can hear her breathing, dying.

“I guess I can’t do that to Dad. I can’t ruin their holiday like that.”

“They seemed okay on Thanksgiving, despite your absence.”

“Yeah, but Grandma’s sick. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Awfully considerate of you, Monica.”

“Besides, I wanted you guys to get something special for Chuck.”

“A new Porta Potti for his van?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I can’t help it; I imagine this guy as a Grateful Dead loving hippie.

“Nothing. Keep in mind, nobody knows him yet.” Or wants to. “When will you be home?”

“The thirteenth. Can we go shopping right away?” Hold those horses, honey.

“That is the night of the party.”

“Oooh, the Prescott Nelson Christmas Party. I saw something about it on TV. Can you get me a ticket…?”

Lacey went straight to Herb about not getting a ticket and he instructed me to unearth every stone to make sure there’s an extra one for her. I am serious, he said “unearth every stone.” Well, actually he e-mailed it to me. People have a tendency to get a little overzealous when e-mailing. I saved it. I want a record of this ridiculousness.

It’s another instance of blaming the illustrious “them,” but since I already know the solution, I decide to hang out and sit on my info for a while.

“I’m getting the runaround. No one is sure who to ask. Maybe you should try calling,” I say to both Lacey and Herb when they ask what the ticket status is.

They both say, “Well, why don’t you keep trying?”

With the big P (party) approaching, my mother comes into the city and brings The Dress with her. She also brings a shawl that she refers to as a “wrap,” that I can wear over the dress, as well as some apartment supplies: toilet paper, paper towels and a box of rubber bands.

She’s actually in town because she has a doctor’s appointment.

Her appointment is at 10:30 on the Upper East Side, so I suggest we go out to breakfast. My mother calls me before she leaves home (I’m still asleep), when she gets into Penn Station, and once on the corner. She’s neurotic like this, because one early morning when my parents came to visit me at school, I wasn’t alone. I opened the door up at crack and suggested they should probably wait in the car. My father’s mouth did not move from the straight line it was in for the entire day.

I take my mom out to breakfast on 8th. I’m aware that every man in the place is gay and I keep trying to gauge if my mother notices, too, but she keeps chatting on about my dad and my sister and what I want for Christmas.

“So are you doing okay here, honey? Don’t you miss us at all?”

“Of course I do, Ma, but living here is more fun and close to
work.” An appeal to practicality and a stitch in time saving nine will always win big with my mother.

“So are you going to this party I keep reading about?”

“The Prescott Nelson company party? Yeah. I doubt it’s going to be that big a deal.”

“Well, it seems like it’s going to be at a nice place and you’ll have fun.”

“No one knows where it’s going to be.”

“Well, I was reading an article in
Daily News
that it’s going to be at a place right near here. I think it’s near the Hudson River on 15th or 14th.”

There is no justice in the world if my mother knows the location of the Prescott Nelson party before the employees. We actually have a nice time, then I put mom into a cab and head home.

That night, Roseanne is making her Christmas cards. She is painting trees and reindeers and abstract Santas on each card, personalizing them for their receivers. She holds up a card. “Eve, look.”

“That’s pretty, I want one like that. The red nose reminds me of one too many drinks.”

“No, my arm, my arm! I haven’t been to the gym in four days and look—the muscle is turning flabby.” She smacks it a little, nothing happens. “Oh, my god, disgusting.”

Roseanne had an eating disorder sophomore year, now she has learned through counseling to love food. She has forced herself to enjoy it and that’s why she gets so in to making it; she’s in control. I think she’s just replaced her food issues with other body issues, and thus her fanaticism with exercise. I tell myself that a lot as I watch her on the treadmill for fifty minutes, while I sort of circle the machines trying to decide which one won’t bite.

“Roseanne, your arm looks fine. Really, what’s more important, sweating off a few hundred calories at the smelly gym or the pleasure you’ll give all the people you love when they receive your Christmas card and cookie plate?”

“Don’t forget, I’m also making ornaments.” It’s hard to live with Roseanne sometimes. As her cheesiness slowly erodes, I am left with a woman who can do everything. It’s not easy being inferior.

“So, Eve, can I get the heads up on this party? Oops! I’ll put a dollar in when I get up.”

“I have no idea where it is except what my mother told me. I’m actually dreading it.” I’m waiting for Roseanne to ask me
why and assuage my fears by telling me how charming I am, how I can show a little restraint and have a great time. Instead, this: “Just try not to publicly embarrass yourself. I mean try to at least find a dark corner with your chosen victim of the evening.”

“What kind of slut do you think I am?”

“Well, it has been a while.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“So, any hope of getting me a ticket?”

“What do I look like? Besides, aren’t you having your own company party? The Kirsch Christmas Company Craze?”

“Yeah, at a bar near the Seaport. It’s the worst.” I appreciate Roseanne, she amazes me everyday as she leaps and bounds away from all that is New England.

“I really don’t think I can get you in. They have guest lists and everything.” Roseanne looks at me and rolls her eyes. She is absorbing too much. Just the other day, she listened, captivated, to Tabitha’s speech on charming bouncers and evading the velvet rope. She is not accepting the power of a Prescott Nelson list. I used to think of Roseanne as my fair lady (Tabitha said she was my Frankenstein), but now its gotten out of control.

“What’s with that dress your mom brought? It’s nice.”

“I’m thinking about wearing it, but I might switch to basic black, always the acceptable choice.”

“No, try it on. It’s really pretty.” I don’t really want to try it on, but
Law and Order
is over. I figure I should decide whether or not I am going to wear it, so I can determine how to deal with Tabitha if I opt not to.

I look at myself in the bathroom. It’s great. I mean it’s powerful. It could make anyone look spicy. If only I could flatten my abs. Roseanne calls for me to show her. When I come out, she starts nodding her approval.

“I think it’s cool, but then there’s this.” I point to my stomach.

“What? You have to use it while you got it. And what is ‘this’?” I stick out my stomach more.

“Your tummy. It’s fine. It’s not flat, but it’s better. It’s your poochie.”

“My what?”

“Your poochie. When we were juniors and I was still dating Billy, I was hanging out at his place with Jake, Liam, Cav, and Carlton. I was outside the living room and they were watching some guy thing, maybe football. During the commercial they started talking about girls. It was amazing how they just jumped
into it. They all started talking about how important it was to find a girl who wasn’t too skinny. Jake said, ‘Yeah, you know, Vitali, she has my perfect body.’ Carlton said, ‘Yeah, she’d be warm to sleep next to,’ and Liam said, ‘She’s got a great ass.”’

“You are lying! What did Cav say?”

“‘Let’s smoke the resin out of the bong.’ But all those guys agreed you had this great body and I thought, Wow! Eve doesn’t even try, she just is.”

“Well that’s profound. I wish I had known about Jake, I always thought he was a cutie.” Roseanne and I share a moment of regret.

“So are you going to wear it?” I stare at my poochie again. I can learn to love it. I will love it. I nod. I’ll do it. I pity the man that stands in my way.

The invitations come in a manila envelope addressed to the department assistant—that’s me, folks. Someone must have smelled them because everyone gathers around my desk like vultures, waiting for me to tell them where it’s at. In the time it takes me to get the tape off the envelope, five of them have placed bets. I am feeling a little claustrophobic. Herb comes over and suggests that they give “my assistant some room to breathe.” He is, in affect, huddling like the rest of them, only disapprovingly.