Boss Cindy's First Office Party

      Cindy sat up at the screaming alarm, set two hours earlier than usual. On top of her morning routine, she still had more preparations for the afternoon’s Christmas party. Mr. Cuthbert, the manager, had taken a week off starting yesterday, so today, as the firm’s assistant manager, she would organize the festivities.

           In the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of coffee--percolated and waiting for her--and told Alexa to play iHeart’s hair band station. The guys at the office would be impressed that she knew the words to most of those songs. It was just as well they didn’t; there was plenty about her life she preferred to keep to herself, thank you. Her feet froze as she stepped across the cold linoleum. She’d left her slippers by the bed, and it was a reminder that today is not the day for rookie mistakes.

           She gulped the rest of the coffee and poured another cup with a yawn. She reached for a travel mug--an old habit. It was harder to drink hot, black coffee during the commute now that she drove herself instead of participating in the carpool group that she organized years ago. Being assistant manager, something she took seriously, meant that she had to take a step back from the other co-workers.

           She flipped open the cookbook on the counter and got busy clanging bowls and pans while the oven preheated. Thirty minutes later, the cookies came out, along with an aroma of sugar and charcoal. Cindy freaked. She followed the recipe exactly and stared through the oven glass watching them turn the required golden brown, but, for some reason, the bottoms were scorched.

           She started mixing up a new batch, had almost cracked an egg, when she caught a glimpse of herself in the built-in microwave/exhaust fan combo. She avoided the temptation to check her roots, since coloring her hair was one of the reasons she was up so late. Off to the side of the stove was a jam-packed, heavy wooden utensil holder. A stainless-steel hand-held cheese grater lurked behind a whisk, and she had an idea. A few moments later, a pile of black crumbs rested on the Formica countertop and the clean-bottomed cookies were perfectly sealed in the metal holiday tin that she was so grateful Amazon delivered yesterday. Victory favors the prepared.

           She put the tin inside a large Macy’s shopping bag, saved from her splurge when she got promoted two years ago, along with the box of homemade red velvet cupcakes she made last night, plus a holiday-themed Pyrex full of mixed nuts, something to complement Hunter’s Godawful punch. For years, he insisted it be the centerpiece of the holiday gathering. That image had Cindy pull out a wooden salad bowl and a fortunately-unopened bag of Ruffles, something else to balance out Hunter’s sugary liquid. She staged the goods by the front door of her apartment and gave herself a once over, head to toe in the full-length mirror.

           Her hair, blown out and sprayed, was perfect, so she didn’t have to linger over it for long. The tiny gold studs went with everything, no trouble there. Next, a lint check: a solid burgundy corduroy, almost-ankle-long dress with a conservative, business-like cleavage; a white pleather belt that, thanks to her collection of workout DVDs, accentuated her curves. Not yet forty, not bad, either.

           Finally, a glance at her legs, wrapped in ultra-sheer hose and black, open-toed flats. She gasped and jogged back to her bathroom and returned with a bottle of clear nail polish. Sometimes her shabby office chair snagged the nylon, and she’d be damned if it’d get the best of her, today of all days.

           After her promotion, Cindy started coming in early to work, something she thought managers should do. Also, her arrival usually preceded the daily gathering of addicts who milled about the entrance until their classes began: AA, NA, smoking cessation, and God knows what other programs the city’s public health department hosted in rooms occupying the east wing of the first floor. Cindy’s office was on the second floor of the west wing, above the Gate City Bank and Trust. She decided she’d never beat the early birds in her office, true drones who clocked in early so they could leave by mid-afternoon. They hardly ever spoke to anyone, but Cindy would start the party at lunchtime, and dare them not to mingle and have a good time. She was in charge today, and if she got in trouble kicking it off early, then damn it all!

           By mid-morning, Cindy couldn’t resist. The holiday mood had infected all but the most insular, and she took her shopping bag into the conference room. Others, already slacking in anticipation, followed after her with their contributions.

           “It’s happening,” announced Hunter, hoisting the gigantic punch bowl over his head, cans of fruit juice and his other secret ingredients clanking in a bookbag over his shoulder. Every year, his celebration reminded her of the mock grog bowl that the high-school JROTC instructors revered for whatever reason. Hunter took center stage at the long oak table, mixing his concoction as the others arranged pastries and veggie plates around him.

           Amy, the new, perky secretary set up her radio/CD/tape deck in the corner. Dance music exploded out of the twin speakers.

           “Sorry,” she chirped. She lowered the volume and tapped through the frequency spectrum several times until holiday music filled the room.

           When the last person deposited their contribution of paper plates, plastic cups and utensils, and two stacks of poinsettia-print paper napkins, Cindy swore it would be the last time she looked at her watch.

           “Okay, everybody. The office party is now underway. On behalf of Mr. Cuthbert, I’d like to wish you all a Merry Christmas and to thank you for your hard work over the past year. And don’t forget to use the big trash can in the corner, so we don’t have mice over the long weekend.” Cindy nodded at Amy, who beamed as she turned up the volume on her sound system.

           Everybody, even the zombies, were on their feet, talking to others and nibbling at this and that from small, holly-green plates--Chinet, no less, and the music seemed to get louder. Some of the spouses showed up, too, adding even more snacks to the assortment on the table. Cindy gave herself a mental back pat for the last-minute thought to encourage workers to invite guests--no children, please.

           In the corner of the crowded room, Amy stood next to a man, late twenties or early thirties, in a brown leather jacket holding a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. Cindy approached the pair.

           “Who’s your friend, Amy?”

           “He’s interning with the bank downstairs.”

           “Hi, yes, our manager heard about your party, and said I should meet others in the building. I hope you don’t mind.” His voice was deeper that she expected, especially since he had his chin down and lower lip protruding a little. He held up the bagged bottle and said, “At least I didn’t come empty-handed.”

           “Yoink!” said Hunter as he grabbed the sack from the newcomer, and unwrapped the prize. “Irish whiskey? Son, welcome to the party!” By the time he got to his punch bowl, the cap was off and he poured half the bottle, then a little more, into the mix. He dipped a silver ladle and splashed some into a Solo cup, knocking it back with an “Ahhhh,” exhaling as he shook his head.

           “The line forms here,” Hunter pointed at the bowl. “Everyone gets a cup.” He filled his cup again and stepped to the side so he could watch everyone’s reactions to his masterpiece.

           Louise, one of the bookkeepers, and her husband joined Hunter after they got cupfuls. Cindy, as acting boss, made a point of greeting everybody. Louise’s spouse, whatever his name was, rivalled Hunter in boisterousness, and, with his full beard, he was the clear winner of that contest. She bit the bullet and sidled up to the trio.

           “Well,” said Hunter, “I can’t argue that your RX-7 probably has a more equal front and rear weight distribution, but nothing beats German engineering.” He was always bragging about his twenty-year old Porsche, bought used and almost paid off. Cindy was glad he was only talking about cars. Often, he’d bring up female companions, no matter who was around. One night, way before her promotion, Cindy had let him take off her Victoria’s Secret bra, but nothing else, wanting to take it slow. Hunter moved on; she was a speed bump on his highway.

           “Merry Christmas, and thank you for coming,” Cindy said loud enough to make her own ears hurt.

           “You know I thought about you the other day,” the man said. Louise said “Stop” and slapped his arm. “We were watching Cops. It must’ve been a twenty-year old episode.”

           Cindy’s stomach dropped into her frilly underpants.

           “You’re from Vegas, right?” he asked.

           “Well, originally.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

           One of the drones, a man bordering on elderly, backed into the Great Dane-sized fake ficus; it hit the wall and knocked the radio’s plug out of the socket, and the room went quiet.

           “It looked like a young you that the cops arrested!” He gave a great belly laugh. “I even told Louise, you know who that looks like?”

           Every employee had improbably jammed into the conference room, and everybody--all of them holding a cup of punch now paused mid sip and aimed their eyes at Cindy’s burning face. It was the quietest the place had ever been.

           “You were a juvie?” asked the man who knocked out the radio.

           Moving across the country years ago lulled Cindy into a sense of security--she never thought it would come up, ever. The memory was still there, clear as day.

           She had had an argument with her stepmother, and jumped out of her crappy sports car while it was still moving. A cop car with a camera crew had been right there. Cindy had made it half a block before the cops corralled her.

           “She slapped me,” and the camera zoomed in, five red fingers clear on Cindy’s freckled cheek. “You should arrest her for child abuse.”

           “You’re fifteen years old,” said the tanned old cop, a woman, enunciating each word perfectly. “You need to look up child abuse one more time.”

           “She doesn’t care about me.”

           “I do care, Cynthia” said her stepmother, finally catching up on foot. “The school called. You were absent today. You were with that boy again, weren’t you?”

           “It’s none of your business.” Cindy tried to hide from the huge TV camera staring at her. She turned and almost fell over the sound guy with his big stupid fuzzy microphone.

           “Listen, young lady,” said the lady cop, grabbing Cindy’s wrist with an iron grip, gently turning her so they faced each other. “You’re a minor. When you’re eighteen, you can do what you want. For now, you need to go home.”

           The cop had plenty of reasons why it was better that way, but fifteen-year-old Cynthia protested and tried to run again, so the cop cuffed her as she cried with her hands behind her back over her huge rump. She was the first girl in class to have her breasts come in, which made her instantly popular. When her metabolism slowed, her classmates had dropped her a few caste levels. Even running and push-ups--her JROTC instructor’s cure-all for everything from laziness to bad attitudes, failed to keep her waistline from expanding.

           After the lecture, Cindy calmed down. The cuffs came off and she stormed over to her stepmother’s car.

           “No, Cynthia, get in the back,” her stepmother said.

           She was immortalized in the final image of the segment: her face in full cry-pout, fumbling with the seat release and squeezing behind it, settling under the N.H.R.A. sticker on the back window. The woman’s car, a beat-up Camaro with a jacked-up rear end and extra-wide tires, was farthest thing you could get from a hot-rod.

           “Um…” Cindy began, but had nothing else.

           “You were arrested?” Hunter thundered. “You?”

           “I wasn’t arrested.”

           “Yeah, they cut her a break.” Whatshisname started to narrate the whole story for the group, and Louise mouthed an “I’m sorry.”

           “I need some air,” mumbled Cindy, and she weaved her way out to the long white aluminum filing cabinet drawers that served as the cubical farm’s border.

           “That was rough,” came a low-bass male voice from behind. The intern offered her a red cup. “Maybe this’ll help.”

           She accepted the cup with a thanks. It was a nice gesture, but if he realized how much she feared wearing a Hawaiian Punch-red tongue all night, he’d have brought her a cookie instead. She held on to it until he asked if she was going to try it.

           She took a sip, a little one to avoid impoliteness, and looked around for a napkin. Not seeing any, and refusing to go back into the conference room, at least right away--a burst of laughter blew through the doorway--she sucked her lips, hoping the sugar didn’t stain them.

           “How is it?” he asked.

           “You didn’t get any?”

           “Oh,” the man’s eyes flicked sideways and back. “I’m diabetic,” he nodded, rubbing a stubbled chin. “Too much sugar for me.”

           “I see. No, it’s actually good. I don’t think I’ve had it before, and he makes it every year.” She felt a nice, warm glow inside, and took a small sip, then a decent gulp.

           “It’s none of my business,” he resonated with a shrug. “Lots of kids have trouble with parents and cops.”

           “Not everyone gets on T.V.” Cindy never heard the end of it at school. Even the JROTC instructor, an old Army colonel, took her aside threatened to kick her out of his program for poor citizenship. He decided to give her another chance, and help her from being a bad influence on the other cadets. Her stepmom wouldn’t let her change schools; they watched T.V. there, too. Two years later, students, and a few teachers, still addressed her as “Jail Bird” in their yearbook dedications. After graduation, she moved east, settling in Greensboro.

           The pair talked for a while, and then Cindy excused herself. She passed by the conference room but didn’t look in. Amy must’ve found her dance station; pounding bass pulsed into the open area and followed her into the ladies room. Alone in a stall, she dropped her hose and panties and sat on the cold seat. She would rise above it. After all, didn’t troops give their leaders respectful ribbing at times?

           When she was finished, she pulled up her knickers and adjusted her dress, and her head started spinning. She held out her arms, pressing the walls and easing herself down on the commode. She laid an arm over the stainless-steel toilet paper holder, and rested her head.

           A banging noise startled her, and she almost fell off the seat.

           “Ma’am, are you all right in there?” A man’s voice, one she never heard before.

           “Yes. I’ll be right out.” Her mouth was dry, and her head felt like a balloon. In the mirror, she had to smooth out her dress a little, but gave up on her mussed hair--something was wrong, and she had to check on things.

           Throughout the cube farm, policemen talked to dazed employees. Paramedics moved among those seated in chairs and on the floor, every one of them rubbing their temples and eyes. Inside the conference room, a man with a badge on a chain around his neck examined the empty punch bowl.

           “My keys are gone, too,” Hunter told an officer. “Whoever did this probably stole my car. Listen, it’s an oh-two Boxster, Zanzibar Red, but the front right fender is white.”

           A man wearing a tan blazer and no tie stood next to Amy. He unconsciously rubbed the badge on his belt with a thumb until Cindy wandered over. His eyes widened briefly before settling back into no-nonsense. She didn’t recognize him, but did he know her? If so, from where?

           “Is she the last one?” he asked Amy as he gave Cindy a once-over before finally resting on her face.

           “Yes. Wait, no,” said Amy, eyes bloodshot, a half-cleaned off barf stain on her blouse. “Her friend isn’t here.”

           “Ma’am, where’s your friend?” He squared off with Cindy, studying her head to toe before quickly returning to her face.

           “What friend, Amy?” Cindy squinted under the fluorescent lights, and fluffed the hair by her right ear. She needed to get to the aspirin in her desk.

           “The intern, remember?”

           “He wasn’t my friend.” Cindy vaguely remembered the scruffy, deep-voiced man who offered her punch after--oh God! But maybe everyone already forgot. “Someone else invited him. From the bank, I think.”

           “That makes sense now,” said a lady detective who snuck up behind Cindy, giving her the eye as well. “There’s a straight shot through the ductwork from here to the bank vault below.”

           “Yeah,” Amy nodded, “Cindy and the guy were out here talking after…” Her eyes bugged and she clasped a hand over her mouth.

           “After what?” The detective folded his arms, and cocked his head to the side. His partner, the lady, stood next to him in an identical pose.

           “She’s an ex-con,” Hunter jumped in. “She was on Cops. It was in Vegas, and…”

           “Ohhh, right,” said the male detective, turning and pointing a finger at his lady partner.

           “Yeah, I saw that one, too, the other night,” she said. “You’re the runaway! I knew I recognized you.”