Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 29-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
Last night “we” had “our” “staff Xmas party” at the home of “our” “manager.”
“We” were to be there at 7:30 for “snacks and hot drinks.” I worked until 7:30 after which I locked up, changed out of my stretchy hooded gym garb (into an actual dress with knee-high black boots) and walked the five or six blocks over there, marveling at how cold the air was rushing up under my burgundy Thinsulate duffel coat (that I’ve had since I was 19).
I’d emailed the manager earlier in the day to warn her that two more of the staff were making sounds about not attending due to colds, exhaustion and long bus rides. A 21-year-old said that 7:30 p.m. was too late. Christ; that’s sad.
I myself had contemplated not going (because I did not want to go), but when the “manager” knows you work until 7:30 and her place is basically on your way home, it’s pretty difficult to come up with an excuse. In my email, I said I felt another cold coming on. I said I’d basically just be dropping in, not wanting to jeopardize anyone else’s health, you know. She didn’t reply to my email, so I had to accept that my thinly veiled threat to infect everyone was not received.
I had the hood up with the big glasses on when my manager slowly opened the door and said, “You will be my only guest this evening.”
For the love of god that I do not believe in.
I stepped inside, the glasses fogging up immediately, and struggled to untie the now tangled string holding the hood tight around my face. I must have looked a fucking moron.
I was carrying a consumer shopping bag that may have given my manager the idea that I came bearing gifts or at least something to contribute to the “party.” No, just my hiking boots to change into for the walk home.
I took off my 20-pound pack, got out of the coat and removed the glasses. Cheese and crackers on the coffee table, I was guided into the kitchen for a hot drink. All of this was somewhat awkward because there is tension between us right now, these days. So it wasn’t exactly what I wanted to do; to be the only guest who turns up at the boss’ place for the staff Xmas party. Nope. Not really.
We moved back to the living room. I sat on the couch and watched her while she spoke. Every now and then I looked quickly at the cheese. She didn’t take any cheese. I like cheese. I waited. She talked. She said fuck more than she does at work. That was nice. She threw in some shits, too.
I picked up a tiny sliver of a hard and crumbly cheese and opted not to grapple with a cracker, thinking that structurally, the cheese didn’t require a cracker. I made “good cheese” sounds, and she described how the cheese was made. I commented favorably on all three cheeses, and she told me things about them, such as fat content and where she’d bought them.
I was careful to balance questions with comments, trying to pick points where she might notice that I was mostly just asking questions. I made statements at those points.
“I would have thought a cheese called borgonzola would taste more like gorgonzola,” I stated, while wondering if “bore”gonzola was a boring version of the entirely likeable gorgonzola (my favorite cheese), or does she shop at some place called Boresville. You know, stuff I couldn’t say in the grand scheme of being both underling and the only guest at party.
She told me she had made two kinds of soup.
“I am going to have both kinds,” she said.
Noting that I hadn’t been offered soup, I paused to figure out how to deal with this.
“If I was offered soup,” I said. ”I, too, would have both kinds.”
Pretty good, eh? We sat at the dining table in the kitchen area that was absolutely not a kitchen table. It was obviously a dining table that happened to be in the kitchen. Anyone could see that. The microwave bell rang, and a bowl was placed in front of me. I did not move. I’m not a fucking idiot.
She put her bowl in the microwave and sat down. I did not touch my bowl. See? She took her napkin out of her napkin ring and laid it on her placemat. I took my napkin out of my napkin ring and put it on my lap. See? One step ahead, people. One fucking step ahead.
The bell rang and she got her bowl out of the microwave, sat down, placed her napkin on her lap and picked up her spoon. I picked up my spoon. I’m doing good, right? But the fucking soup is too hot. Spoons down. I reach for a pre-sliced bit of cheese, move it above a plate piled high with crackers. Her eyes are on me. I put the cheese on a cracker and slowly transport it to my mouth. This move is watched very carefully. I think I may have made an error. OK, somewhere deep in my primordial understanding of manners, I know have, but what can I do? I should have lifted the cracker with my right hand, transferred it to my left before reaching the entirely acceptable distance to the cheese. Then I should have placed the cheese on my cracker within my own airspace. As it was, I did a sort of public drop of cheese, not from any height or distance, but yet, I know that putting the cheese on the cracker while the cracker was still with the other crackers is a violation. I know this, but I did it anyway. And it was noted. Actually, I did it again. Maybe two or three more times, but I definitely did not eat too much cheese; I just ate it the wrong way.
“A Kind Of A Girl,” from Flood Plain (K, 1993) (download):
