Friday, March 24, 2006

The Social

Subj: Company Meeting and Happy Hour
From: Social Committee
To: New York Office; New Jersey Office

Good Afternoon,

Please note that there will be a Company Meeting today at 4:45pm followed by Happy Hour at Windfall.

Windfall 23 W 39th Street New York, NY 10018
Between 5th and 6th Avenue

Last night was the monthly company social.

I’ve written before about the dangers of office social events, and last night was no exception to the rule. Armed with extra drink tickets pilfered from non-attendees, Sandy and I strutted into the bar and immediately remedied the awkwardness of our “newbie” status by getting extremely drunk.

In the course of one hour, I became acquainted with twenty coworkers I had seen every day for the past month and never spoken a word to.

An hour later, Greasy Salesman, full palm grabbed Sandy’s ass before even learning her name.

“Holy shit, are you serious?” I say, puffing a Camel Light. “What did you do?”

“Nothing! I was just… flabbergasted.”

Flabbergasted – adj. (flah’-ber-gas-ted) of or relating to flabber; Sandy’s state when inappropriately fondled by Greasy Salesman

People start dropping like flies at around 8 o’clock, but an end is nowhere in sight for the remaining stragglers. We exhausted our drink ticket supply an hour ago and are quickly moving through the contents of our pockets. 9:30, 4 screwdrivers, 4 pints of Sam Adams; my tolerance is starting to wane.

“Yo, how much will you give me if I get that guy’s number?” I gesture towards the attractive man who has been parked at the bar all night flirting with the bartender.

Rockelle, fellow producer, new drunken coworker friend, ponders the situation for a moment, “Ten bucks.”

I’m out of my seat before the words even come out of her mouth, stumbling to the bar.

“Hi.” Big smile.

“Hi.” Big smile.

“You’ve been sitting here all night. Having fun?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m L.” Stick out my hand.

“I’m…” My memory fails me.

“She your girlfriend?” I point to the pretty bartender.

“Nah, she’s just my friend.” Who he obviously wants to sleep with.

“Then, can I get your number?”

He laughs, blushes, looks down.

Grabs a napkin.

I strut back to my seat, triumphantly waving the procured napkin, thrust it into Rockelle’s flabbergasted face and take a dramatic bow.
To: 1 718 640 xxxx
Sent: 10:50:38pm, 3/23/2006
Message: Hey hun. My friend made me get your number, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re cute! Gimme a call sometime. –L

From: 1 718 640 xxxx
Received: 10:51:38pm, 3/23/2006
Message: lol, ma you crazy. hit me up, let me know when you're free.



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