3
A COMPANY PARTY
Vivi textsme first thing in the morning:Did you get that meeting request for today?
I write back:tragically yes
The entire New York office is being called in to the large meeting room on Murano’s second floor, a sloping space that feels like one of those big lecture halls where I caught up on sleep during my statistics courses in college. We haven’t been given any information about the purpose of the meeting, which is never a good sign. This could mean layoffs, or leadership changes, or just an irritating piece of software we all have to learn. It could mean anything, and it’s coming the day after April 15th, Tax Day… right when those of us who work as individual and small business accountants are coming off a stretch of frantic phone calls from desperate clients.
I arrive early at the meeting so Viv and I can sit in our favorite spot: the second-to-last row. It doesn’t single us out visibly as slackers, but it allows us to sit next to each other and write occasional amusing notes on legal notepads. It’s a strategy we worked out early in our work friendship: it helps us blow off steam in the various torture sessions held by a rotating cast of managers and V.P.s who always have a ‘vision’ for the newdirection of the company, usually involving something that has been tried before and failed spectacularly.
The meeting starts with general information about trainings that are being rolled out across the company in our seven worldwide offices, and Vivi draws a picture on her legal pad of someone rolling their eyes, and then writes a little arrow showing the direction of the eyeroll whenever the presenter talks about howuseful and engagingwe’re going to find the sixteen-hour training module that we have to do on top of our regular work over the next five weeks.
Then there is a brief discussion about benefits changes, which translates, as always, to the company charging us a little more money for a little less service while spinning it as offering us more choice.
Unionize!I write to Vivi on my notepad.
She writes back:Can you imagine this crowd agreeing on anything, let alone a union?
Next up is a woman named Destiny, one of the department’s Human Resources Directors who was hired three years ago and has shot up the org chart like a blazing meteor or a childless, competent woman who doesn’t mind answering weekend emails. She wears a structured cream linen suit, her cropped grey hairstyle flattering against her warm brown skin.
“So.” Destiny takes in the room with the look of someone about to deliver bad news. “Some of you may be aware that an employee in our Dallas office was investigated for sexual harassment last year after a relationship with a subordinate. I can’t speak to the details of that, but part of our settlement was that we will be reviewing our policy about inter-office dating and making sure that it is as clear as possible. We have asked each manager to suggest trustworthy and impartial people to serve on this committee.”
I write to Vivi:note to self: stop being trustworthy and impartial.I flip up the notepad to she can see it.
There is a brief, muffled chuckle behind us, and I turn around to see Oliver, my office crush, lowering his eyes to his laptop from the seat behind me. Apparently Vivi and I were not being as subtle as we thought.
When he glances back at me, I give him a shocked, scolding expression to try to shame him for reading our notes, and he raises his hands in a gesture of apology before returning to his laptop.
Destiny continues. “If you are asked to serve, I hope you will take it very seriously. It is an important and legally mandated task that the office needs to fulfill within the next few months.”
Vivi watches my expression and then smirks a little as she looks down.
I haven’t asked Katy about Mr. Redhead,she writes to me in tiny, barely readable letters at the top of the notepad.
What about him?I write back in equally small letters.
She points back to her drawing of someone rolling their eyes.
When I get back to my desk, my co-worker Brant is waiting at my desk. He is tall and muscular with a nearly shaved head, the kind of guy who was ruggedly handsome in college but now has a sharp, disaffected air, like life and his hairline have both disappointed him. He and I used to be decent work friends during my first couple of years at Murano. We were hired at the same time, and we became buddies during the initial endless training sessions. Then he received the promotion that I missed out on when I left to try things again with Nick last summer, and now he is essentially my manager. I need to keep on Brant’s good side if I want a promotion, but this has grown trickier since his divorce two years ago. He has developed a tendency to share deeply bitter sentiments about love and marriage with me on the assumption that I will agree, when what I usually want to tellhim is that it sounds like he needs therapy. There are only so many times you can say that to someone who has the power to fire you, though.
“So, Laura,” he says with a dry tone, “I promise this is work-related, but you’re not dating anyone in the office at the moment, are you?”
“Uh…no?”
He gives a dry half-smile. “Great, because I volunteered both of us for that committee on workplace relationships. I thought it would be good for you to get some face time with people from other departments. Show folks you’re here to stay after your thing last summer.”
He is referring to my disappearing act when I moved to Atlanta, of course, and I nod with my best appreciative smile. I can never tell whether Brant is trying to help me or just remind me of how close the company came to firing me so that he can keep me on my toes.
“Yeah, of course. I can do that.”
“They asked me to try not to recommend someone who was already in the middle of an office romance, since that might undermine the committee’s credibility.”
“Well, I am safely single.”
“That’s because you’re smart,” he says. “Who needs the misery?”
“Yep!” I try to give him as little fuel for his smoldering pile of pessimism as possible, even though I secretly share it. He hangs out at my desk for another few minutes, asking me about my weekend plans and whether I’ll make it to the company’s yearly office party.
