MICRO MEMOIR II: LEAVING TOWN CHRISTMAS PARTY

Leaving town used to be easy, if I remember right.

Pack a bag, get in a car, hop on bus, and leave.

“I’ll be there in a few days.”

Same story going out to Brooklyn as leaving:

Each move was spurred by a relationship, the kind that starts with, “if we don’t try we’ll never know.”

Two extremely marriage material women had a shared problem: they thought I was marriage material too.

I probably was, but not the sort of husband they’d planned on.

I back-talked Grandma, called my potential father in-law a refugee, and ignored all the sisters in the house.

Grannie:

“Well, you two seem to be arguing at the family gathering. May I ask why?”

“I asked your granddaughter why you treat your husband like a dog on a leash and if that’s what I’ve got to look forward too.”

Dad:

“My father is an electrical engineer on the cusp of great innovations.”

“Your father is an aging divorcee living like a refugee in an apartment stacked with hoarder-level electronics.”

Sister:

“Would you help me wash my car? I don’t want my t-shirt getting too wet.”

“No.”

Mom:

“Honey, is this really the best you can do? Maybe he’ll come around, maybe not.”

 

Off To Brooklyn, Then The Home Stretch

She was a good girl, a fine woman, and I’ve talked to her off and on over the ensuing years.

Just a little short on confidence in her judgement.

She left me short on confidence in my judgement, which as we all know can be dangerous.

Maybe I shouldn’t have back-talked Grandma, shit-talked daddy, and done more sweet-talk to the sisters?

 

In Brooklyn I knew one person, my cousin and she was always busy and gone.

She showed up at Penn Station on my moving day carrying my Army duffle bag on my back, three shoulder bag straps crossing my chest, and a heavy suitcase in each hand.

What was I carrying? Books. I cast myself as a writer ready to write great things, and this was my library.

I had the whole world in my hands, or so I thought. Most of it was an accumulation I couldn’t shake.

I waddled after her through tiled tunnels and platforms and up and down steps until finally, home.

At least home until I got my own place a few months later.

I was a free man in NYC with no job and no prospects and no girl, just carrying a bruised heart around town to see what it might bump into.

After a week of that I called an employment agency, went in for testing, and took one of the office jobs offered.

That’s when the stuff in the cafeteria started.

 

Up until then I’d sat to eat in a variety of venues from school lunchrooms to dorm dinners to Horn and Hardart.

I’d sat to eat in Army mess halls, restaurant booths and tables, and alone, but never anything like the third floor cafeteria inside One Battery Park Plaza.

More than getting something to eat, I was being recruited by a gorgeous young Italian woman who wanted more than a Mario or a Michael from their neighborhood.

She wanted someone exotic, and I was it. But that had its own problems.

 

Leaving Town Christmas Party

The company Christmas party was a big deal. Starting in October it was the office buzz.

By December I’d taken my recruiter girl out to lunch a couple of times and she was a great New Yorker.

She knew how to handle the male attention she drew. They’d never seen anyone like her and she knew it.

I knew it, too.

The day before the party my work buddy John who hung out at the cafeteria table with the data entry girls gave me a heads up.

John: Mary is going all in on you at the Christmas party.

Me: She knows I’m leaving town.

John: Yes she does, and her friends say she’s going to change your mind at the Christmas party.

Me: She won’t.

John: Yes, she will. You don’t know these girls. They are daughters of made men. They get what they want, or they tell daddy. You don’t want them telling daddy anything.

Me: What she going to do?

John: She’s going to dance with you, then it’s all over.

Me: From a dance?

John: Once you dance with her the way she’s going to dance with you, it’s a done deal. If not, she tells daddy. You’re the one, or else.

Me: Or else? Or else what.

John: Or else you’ll get your ass kicked into the hospital emergency room. That’s no movie bullshit. They’ll come after to you. They live to protect their delicate flowers.

Me: How do you know?

John: These are new front teeth, and the scar on my side is from a spleen operation. That’s how.

Me: What do I do?

John: Drink heavily. Can’t dance if your passed out. Am I right?

 

Once we cleared the security we started tossing back shots and beers. Like an old fashioned Christmas, except you need practice doing shots and beers if you don’t want a Christmas fail.

The band started playing and the guys found the data entry girls and danced the night away. My balance was shot from the shots.

I needed a place to rest and opened a door to find a room full of passed out people. They looked dead, like they’d been gassed.

They were my people, so I found a place and took my position.

Someone on staff said I couldn’t stay there.

I said I was leaving with the rest of the crowd and took a nap.

Around three in the morning something was bumping my foot. It was the vacuum. A cleaning crew was in the room and I was in the way.

Look for part three in the serial: Leaving Town: The Bus Station