My first office party went okay (as far as drinking with coworkers under Vitamin D-sucking fluorescent lighting in a tie can go). No vomiting, no doorway casualties (minus that one slight slip on the back stairs), no attempting to snog The Bank President against the copy machine.
D. BBoss got all excited and animated; he's one of those guys that lights up and shouts stuff like, "I cracked my first beer at 4:59, man!" in a coach-type of way. It turns out he got promoted into the position being vacated by the J.D.
20 bottles of wine and a case of beer chilling in garbage bag-lined Mail Totes filled with ice (that I bought, thank you very much), plastic champagne glasses, half the office's lights turned off (mood lighting!) and we were off. A Power Point presentation of J.D. in various bank photos on a screen and some gift opening and a farewell speech started the Inner-office Happy Hour(s).
Actually, on the whole, I had a pretty good time; and, got fucking hammered. Into the third Miller, I realized I'd skipped lunch. I hung with my office mate Big J. and some Scarf dude from Accounting. In between small talk, D. BBoss' shouts and murmurs, 93X on the portable radio (turned to 11), and my boss, Harley A. screaming, "Bartender! Hello! D. BBoss and J.D. need another drink" at me, I still found plenty of time to ogle the pack of Rumanian and Eastern Block ladies that work in the office....I'd like to fill their ink cartridges, knowwhatImean? Wink wink. ;-)
About ten seconds after The Bank President left, Harley A., myself, and a couple of others lit up cigarettes, and the Rumanian/Eastern Block Beauties finally started drinking some wine. Blue smoke under buzzing bright lights.
Soon everything began to blur and whizz around my head. At one point, I had to pantomime to one of the cleaning crew's Pretty Petite Polish women to key me into my office to get my coat.
Things were cleaned up, the cleaning company had showed up, so five of us split for some bar called Mullen's. I drove Big J. home and met the rest at the bar. They'd already finished their appetizers and were deep into work-speak. I hadn't a clue about what/who they were talking about, so I bought a Guinness and pulled up a barstool to the table. D. BBos reprimanded me for paying for my own beer.
Pretty much from here on out, I'm in my Nod-and-Smile Routine: "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than open your mouth and prove it."
Scarf and D. BBoss left, remaining time at the bar consisted of me on my barstool throne sipping the Guinness and staring down at the smeared ketchup and half-eaten chicken fingers left on the table while Harley A. and J.D. leaned on the back of me discussing more job stuff. I considered passing out, but thought that may not be the best impression for my boss.
Finally time to go; however, there remained one last test for the evening: I had to drive Harley A. and J.D. back to The Bank, to their cars. In my shitty, smoke reeking, Little Red Zipper.
I found out the following Monday, I didn't need to do any "damage control" to anyone in the office. Harley A. said I did fine. She also admitted that I wasn't the only one doing the One-eyed Squint on the way home.
I woke up the Saturday to discover this self-written note laying on my wallet:
Another time I relate to this Age Old Question.
I also found out I got four hours overtime on this paycheck because I didn't clock out for the party. Oops.
Harley A. said, "it's cool... you little shit!" and laughed.
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