by Ariella Papa
“Ro, the holidays are a very tough time for everyone. Don’t you ever watch those news shows. Suicide rises.”
“I doubt we have to worry about Tabitha. Really.”
I’ll spare you most of the details of my Thanksgiving. Everyone loves everything Roseanne made, my aunt actually passes my uncle the potato gratin when he asks for it, and in the middle of the quietest most reflective moments of our feast, my grandmother, who’s going totally senile, leans over to my mother and says, “Do you hear them, too?” My mom shakes her head and my grandmother goes back to chewing loudly.
Roseanne and I spend two days on the couch in my living room, literally. We sleep there because my bed is in the city. We don’t even bother to get the bed out of the sofa; I sleep on the sofa and Roseanne sleeps on the recliner. Roseanne doesn’t even go for a run, which I was certain she’d try to drag me to within moments of eating. On Friday night, we go to a local bar.
“These look like the people who work at my firm,” Roseanne says, repulsed. There is an awful lot of cheesy, high hair around. I realize how far Roseanne has come. We have a drink and walk home (yes, I had my dad drop us off, thinking we would have to take a cab home).
I call Tabitha from the couch on Saturday. She picks up during my message. “How’s the Shore?”
“I don’t know, I’m nowhere near it. Not all of Jersey is the shore. How’s your weekend going?”
“Boring. Jaques hasn’t called at all. When are you and Roseanne coming back?” Because she includes Roseanne, I tell her I’ll call her back.
“Hey, Ro.” Roseanne is working on her toenails now, a very respectable red. “Wanna go home early?”
Tabitha has an urge to go dancing Saturday night. She is happy we came back early. She calls up the club and uses the old MTV thing. She temped there for about three weeks and held onto her ID. Now whenever she wants to go somewhere it’s either the standard NY By Night line or she pretends to be a producer from MTV scouting locations. Occasionally, they have asked for credentials and the ID does it, but usually if you’re dressed well enough, they’ll believe anything.
We get our own special reserved section. Someone obviously wants an MTV segment shot here, because we get drinks on the house. Roseanne is particularly impressed.
“Do you come here a lot? It’s so cool.”
“I need to be in the right mood,” says Tabitha, reminding me that it’s all about her whims. She is still a little bitter about Thanksgiving. I am not in the mood for the abuse.
“Should we dance?” I ask, wondering if Tabitha would prefer to sit and sulk.
“I’ll dance,” says Roseanne. I raise one of my nice eyebrows at Tabitha, who glares at me. She just should have come home with me. Then we could still be on the couch, instead of sucking our guts into impractical dresses.
“I am not nearly drunk enough to start dancing.”
“Well, Tabitha, it’s totally dead and no one is talking to us. I don’t want to sit here all night, hoping they’ll buy us drinks so we won’t have to spend eighty million dollars.”
“Fine. Let’s go dance. I’m loving it now.” She gets up and hurries out to the dance floor, where she starts to dance near a guy whose girlfriend jumps out immediately, and all but pees around him to mark her territory.
“Eve, I can’t deal with her anymore. Why is she such a witch?” Roseanne grabs me before we get onto the floor. I, myself, am not nearly drunk enough to dance.
“Okay, c’mon, she’s just pissy. She’s warming up to you. Really. Remember how she tried to help you get a job?”
“What an honor.” I lead her onto the dance floor. We dance next to Tabitha, who ignores us. We’re all pretty uninspired. The dance floor is not nearly full, so our silly shuffles seem even more ridiculous. Finally, Roseanne and I shrug at each other and decide to head back up to our couch. Tabitha is so annoyed, she follows us. Unfortunately, two Amazon über women take it up. They’re spread all over what is rightfully ours; the couch and Tabitha’s jacket. We hover nearby, glaring at them. Tabitha is clearly livid.
“Well, eventually, they have to get up and get more drinks,” I say, trying to be positive. They certainly are managing to suck down their drinks and avoid us. When they start slurping on their straws, I think we are pretty much all set to pounce. But then, in an unbelievably sneaky move, the bustier one pulls out her cell phone and calls the bar (which is twenty feet away) to bring them drinks. Oh you have got to be kidding me! Of all the low down moves!
“This is ridiculous,” says Tabitha, loud enough for them to hear. “I am not going to be ignored by some catalog models who are barely this side of over the hill. Look at those awful heels.” The heels don’t look that bad to me, but I can tell the models are a tad self-conscious. Tabitha has hit a nerve. Shit! The last thing I need is a confrontation.
“Bitch!” sneers one of the models at Tabitha.
“Get off my jacket!” Tabitha yells.
“Whatever!” The other model yells, not moving.
“Did you get those shoes at Sears, you whore?” Oh, my God! The blonder model’s eyes narrow.
“Why don’t you lose some weight?” Curses! I should probably be right up there to get Tabitha’s back, but I move a little slow (okay, so I’m chicken).
Roseanne gets right up in their faces and says, “Hey fuckface! Why don’t you get some dick?”
Then, drinks go flying, words get hurled and then the bouncer is escorting the women out and apologizing to us for the trouble.
We settle back into the couches and sympathize with Tabitha about the damage she claims has been done to her jacket. The waiter comes over with the drinks that the models ordered via cell phone. He tells us they’re on the house. I defer them to Tabitha and Roseanne. They truly deserve them for all their hard work. I have to admit that in the thick of things, I remained untouched. (I’m a lover not a fighter!) Hopefully, this battle will solidify Tabitha and Roseanne’s friendship.
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.”
December
On 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 revie
wed 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 an
d 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?”