Let's be clear about one thing here, everyone has the same reason for looking forward to this event. The free food, drinks, resort and activities are nice, but people are there to "network". Read: people are there to kiss up. There is so much deep, nose-in-crack, butt-kissing going down at The Pinnacle, it should be sponsored by Listerine.
We get to the outdoor welcome dinner early and manage to grab a couple of glasses of wine before finding an empty table. A frozen coconut concoction sounds great in 58 degree weather, but we manage to resist the urge. We sit on the outskirts of the event and watch as the gravitational pull of VP and P create clusters of rubbing shoulders around them.
Above me, hierarchically speaking, are Assistant Managers, Managers, Area Managers, Directors, Vice Presidents and finally El Presidente himself, The Bulldog. The Bulldog's cluster is the biggest. He is actively smiling as his asshole is diligently cleaned and he meets "my wife" and "my husband" as if that were to improve anyone's stock in his eyes. I like to picture him taking off his shoes at the end of a night like this and wondering aloud, "where the fuck do we find these people?" These people who always start their script the same way:
"Hey, Bulldog, it's [name] from [department] in [city and/or state]. I'd like you to meet my [insignificant other]."
WHY?? Why the hell does this guy, who clearly doesn't know you, want to meet another stranger who is wearing:
a) an ill-fitting suit
b) a helmet of hairspray
c) a little bit of Pinnacle-ada on her sweater?
Sorry, that was a trick question. He doesn't.
Just as I'm thinking that they might let any ass-hat into this party, I see Cock Bombay and my suspicions are confirmed. He's pulling his wife behind him like a rag doll as they make their way through the crowd toward The Bulldog. I think, if this doesn't go well, he will blame it on her. He will find something outside himself--her dress or hairstyle or lack of stimulating conversation.
It's over quickly. It's a lot of jostling and what I imagine is the generic response from The Bulldog: "I hear great things about what you're doing down/up/over/out there in [city and/or state]. Keep up the good work. We've got our eye on you."
Cock Bombay's entire face is beaming. He is so happy that I almost forget that such a smile usually has a canary behind its teeth. But I find myself happy for him in that moment. Perhaps because, when things are going well, those around him are spared.
We drink our wine as our table finally fills with the latecomers who could not get seats closer to more important people. We meet them. I feign excitement about what [name] is doing down/up/over/out there in [city and/or state], because I know they're doing the same thing to me. I want to apologize for being the very bottom of the totem pole. Maybe tomorrow they'll fly a little closer to the flame.
