The Grill Room

2010

It’s the investment firm of Wilson & Wilcox’s company Christmas party. They have it here every year. It’s an easy gig. Around forty-five guests. Passed hors d’oeuvres. Open bar. Buffet. Viennese table.

I’m passing around a tray of designer pigs-in-the-blanket when I spot her. She’s standing against the wall, partially hidden behind the giant fern, her hands dutifully clasped across her stomach, watching the party unfurl.

I don’t remember her from last year’s fete. Probably a new hire.

She’s unnaturally tall, wears an olive green party dress hemmed below the knees, under a cardigan she probably knit herself. Her shoes resemble hooves and must be killing her because she’s constantly shifting her weight from left to right foot. The Maybelline she slathered across her cheeks proves ineffective in hiding her acne scars. She did own her hair, up high, and lacquered. She might be in her late twenties, but she looks like Madame Tussauds’ wax version of Margaret Thatcher.

She spots someone and waves. They don’t wave back. She lowers her arm, takes a step back, her smile tightening.

She’s breaking my heart.

Breaking my heart, because that was me at my 7^th grade Holiday Dance extravaganza at William Prescott Middle School. I was twelve. My mother had insisted I go. “You watch too much tv. You need to make friends,” she had said. I was terrified, but also desperately wanted to be a part of the festivities, any festivities.

Mother dropped me off. She told me not to be intimidated by anyone, for they were no better than me. I slipped into the gymnasium, planted myself against the far wall, praying my bullies (I had seven) would not take note of my new suit, the one Mother made from material she bought with her tip money. It was a groovy suit, a light-paisley pattern with a Nehru collar, very sixties. I liked wearing it, but it could get me killed.

Our teacher, Mr. Thompson, was manning the Hi-Fi. After “California Dreamin’” by The Mamas & the Papas, he threw on “I’m a Believer” by The Monkees.

On the dance floor my classmates bounced and weaved, a forgathering of raised elbows, jutting legs and bobbing heads. I fantasized showing my class what a good dancer I was, for I had been practicing, but all I could manage was quietly stepping back-and-forth to the beat.

Then Mr. Thompson played the theme song from Hawaii Five-O.

I loved Hawaii Five-O. I had a crush on Jack Lord. I had even sent him a fan letter asking him to be my secret father.

A minor epiphany took hold. There was nothing stopping me from dancing to my favorite song. You can do this, Ted, I said unto myself. You must do this. Now go. Go. GO!

I rushed to the floor and began gyrating, wildly, crazily, not caring who saw me, not caring if my bullies ripped me to shreds. I was dancing for Steve McGarrett! I closed my eyes and stomped like the hula kāne dancers I saw on the very first episode, as I grunt-chanted the oli ipu pahu, loudly emphasizing the Pahu! Pahu! Pahu!

The song ended. I opened my eyes. I was out of breath and sweating in all the right places. I looked around, waited for someone to say, “That was wild, Ted.” But I was alone on the dance floor. The entire class had backed up and had now encircled me.

And after a piercing silence came the yowling laughter. It echoed off the polished gymnasium floor, a deep roar from hell. Even Mr. Thompson suppressed a chuckle.

Sometimes, when I’m really sad, for some reason the top of my shoulders hurt. That night they throbbed. I left the gymnasium, skulked home. Mother wanted to know why I was home so early, and why didn’t I call for a ride? My wet eyes told her what had happened. She didn’t pursue the matter.

When one’s boat is moored on Lake Sadness, one tends to notice other boats in distress. Watching the lonely woman at the Wilson & Wilcox party go through the same annihilating humiliation I had gone through is unbearable. I need to step up.

I walk the tray of pigs-in-the-blanket over to her.

–Care for a wienie?

She smiles, slightly startled. She takes one, eats it.

–You don’t have a drink?

–I may not stay.

–Have one at least. They’re free.

–I don’t know.

–How about a glass of white wine? Nice and chilled.

Her eyes narrow, her chin lifts slightly. I wonder if she’s sensing pity. I forge on…

–C’mon. It’ll take the edge off, I say, almost pleadingly.

–Well, okay.

I hand her the tray of wienies.

–Do me a favor and hold this while I get your wine.

She takes the tray. I step over to the bar, pour her a glass of Savignon Blanc. I beckon her to follow me, and walk her to a table of four young, sophisticated women. I place her wine on the table, pull out a chair. She hands me the tray of wienies, and sits.

I offer the tray to the other women.

–Grab yourself a wienie, ladies?

They giggle. I leave the tray.

–Enjoy.

As I walk off I hear:

–Hi, I’m Jean. Who are you?

–Teri.

–Hello, Teri, you’re new in the company, aren’t you?

–Couple of months.

A little later I hear laughter coming from table. A little bit later I hear more laughing.

Mission accomplished, I return to work.

The party’s dying down. There’s Teri leaving with her new-found friends. She catches my eye, waves, and smiles. It’s a gorgeous smile; the kind you see on brides.

A Year and a Day Later

Wilson & Wilcox are back. I stand at the front entrance, waiting to get a glimpse of Teri.

Here she comes. New dress. New hairdo. Fabulous make-up. Brilliant smile. Head high. Proud. She’s leading a group of co-workers into the restaurant.

I approach with maybe a bit too much enthusiasm.

–Teri, it’s good to see you again!

–Oh?

–How’ve you been? I was looking forward to see–

–I’m well.

–You look great.

–Thanks. Okay, we’ll need — she counts her friends — one, two, three, four, five. Five Sauvignon Blancs. Please bring them over there to…to…that table. Thanks.

She walks off, chatting amiably with her co-workers. One of them says:

–Do you know him?

She turns and looks at me.

–No. Just a waiter.

I serve them their wine, head for the kitchen, where I pick up a tray of designer wienies even though my shoulders are throbbing.