My office at the Democratic Party of Georgia is smaller than a Village A bedroom and I share it with three other researchers. I drew the short straw and was stuck with the desk that blocked the doorway into the room. Everyday coworkers have to decide whether to give me the crotch or the ass as they brush the back of my head on their way in and out of the room.
I work with two buddies from high school and a boss old enough to be married with an infant daughter. He and the kid are cool. Jury’s still out on the wife.
Life was dismal during the two or three weeks leading up to the primary election in July. I was spending 12-15 hours a day in my mini-oven of an office. After the primary, the last thing I wanted to do was see anyone from work. Sadly, work is life for a lot of these people whose social lives don’t extend beyond water cooler gossip.
One Friday we decided to leave the office early and head out to dinner and a bar in Atlanta. Early meant we cleared out of the office just after 7:30. By 9:00 most of the office was hammered; an hour later, they were just plain embarrassing.
We were all sharing a long table in the middle of the bar and I was sitting at a far end with my two buddies. We’ll call them Bert and Ernie. By 10:45 Bert and Ernie had exhausted their lame, and at times painful, passes at Kristen, a weathered 20-something we worked with, and were ready to go.
Desperately searching for a polite way to excuse ourselves and head out, we were beaten to the punch by a guy you never want to get caught with alone, Frank. He’ll talk to anyone who will listen and I once made the mistake of giving him an audience. Forty-five minutes later I knew anything and everything I could want to know about Genghis Khan.
As he was making his move to the door and saying his goodbyes, Frank bent over and smacked an awkward kiss on the top of Kristen’s head. We were all a little stunned by the kiss. I made eye contact with Frank and didn’t know how to react, but the first thing that came to mind was to tell him he couldn’t leave without planting one on Bert’s head too. In a misguided attempt to save face, Frank forcefully took hold of Bert’s head and got to work thrashing his lips through Bert’s hair. It looked like Frank was running out of gas when Bert frantically started screeching, “Tongue! Tongue! Tongue!” What do you do in that situation? Is that sexual harassment?
Bert’s new saliva hair gel left his head looking like a sloppy bird’s nest. Frank offered to fix it but Bert passed on the gesture and we promptly got up and left. On our way out the door, Libby, another friend of ours from the office, decided to join us. Since Bert was abusing the wounded soldier routine and lapping up all of Libby’s attention, Ernie and I decided to give him some alone time.
The new bar had an older crowd but I was feeling great and spotted two girls who looked relatively close to our age. I don’t remember their names, only their ages, 27 and 35. Within seconds of approaching them, an angry boyfriend appeared and took 27 with him. Probably a bad sign.
I was now alone with Ernie and 35. She was a pleasantly plump third grade teacher and seemed excited to be the focus of two guys 14 years her junior. Probably another bad sign. I needed a beer.
I was double fisting and working my way back to Ernie when I saw him spooning 35 while standing up. It was an interesting feat that left me thinking, “What the hell is he doing?” I stood there, frozen, and watched his dignity drift away. Then I considered, “Maybe he’s too drunk to stand on his own? Should I go save him or let him wake up next to her tomorrow?” I downed the two beers and left.
Regardless of how it went down after I left him with 35, in the morning I woke up to an Ernie punch in the back of the head. So much for the crotch or the ass.
