Lest you believe this party to be a frivolous display of The Company's benevolence and generosity, you'll be glad to know that the other shoe drops with the rude blaring bells of a 7am alarm clock after the previous night's Bacchanalia and karaoke revelry.
We have a meeting to attend.
Yes, even here on this weekend of celebration, of thanks-taking, we must file into the reserved ballroom at 8am for an all-hands meeting. There are two genius reasons for this. First, it pleases the accountants who can file the event into the expenditures column that includes all other meetings. Second, it provides the Bulldog with crucial insight into how well his employees handle their hangovers. Having left the festivities well before the inevitably degrading karaoke sessions, my hangover is non-existent. Last night, Wifey and I absconded with a bottle of wine and enjoyed our balcony on the far side of the resort property.
And now we're all here. 8am. Ready to go. The Bulldog looks rested as he eyes the room and has the 15-20 staffers take roll. Ahhh, that's why they're here. His wife, who was last seen drunkenly busting stray cougars who were trying to crash our party the night before, was NOT in attendance. I'm assuming she was dismissed from active duty just this morning. Cock Bombay is here, his wifey with him.
You know how graduation from a large school is 2 hours of sitting through other names for the 5 seconds of celebrating your own?? Now imagine doing that, but without ever having wanted to graduate in the first place. I am too tired to crack jokes. I start wondering what's wrong with me. Why am I so ungrateful? Why can't I feel a little bit excited that the work I've been doing for the past ~10 years is being recognized? Maybe because it isn't? A computer stacked the numbers and I somehow made the cut. Nobody acknowledged me. I wasn't nominated, elected, confirmed. SkyNet said I could be here. What the hell do robots know? I try to be excited, but even that is a lie.
They read my name. I walk up onto stage, between The Bulldog and a VP. I stare into the camera that is SO MUCH MORE EXCITED THAN I AM TO BE TAKING THIS PHOTO and I give it a dead, wry smile as I sarcastically lift the...oh shit, is this acrylic? No! It's glass! trophy(?) above my head. The Bulldog snorts, "That's the spirit!" as he makes note that I am one to watch, one who can clearly hold his Pinnacle-adas. He pats my back and I exit, back to the rows of interlocked seats in the large ballroom.
I sit down and Wifey leans over to take a look.
"Wow," she starts as she turns it in my hands, "it's heavier than I thought it would be."
We laugh and take note of the inscription. [First Name][Last Name] Pinnacle Winner [Year]. I'm sure the template never gets it wrong.
You might think that a misspelling would be appropriate here, but it's accurate. Instead, there's a slight inconsistency with the line as my name trails around the glass Mikasa vase. It begins to dip. Maybe a 4-5% grade decline as my name fails to wrap evenly around the side. I chuckle a little. That's seems appropriate; It's not wrong, but it's not exactly right, either.
The vase and I are just a bad fit. It's useless to me and I'm no good for it either. The whole thing feels wrong as I feel even worse that I'm here. I feel like I broke something. I look down again.
It's a vase defiled by my name being engraved into its side. Worthless.
We get back to our room just before noon. There are gifts waiting for us. Today, they are flip-flops with bottle openers in the the middle of the sole. Unlike the worthless vase I am holding in my hand, I treasure these little multi-taskers. Finally, something of value! I've long looked for a way to transmit the germs from the ground I cover all day into the beverage I enjoy at night. Maybe my attitude has been wrong the whole time. Maybe I should have been looking for a way to kiss the very ground I walk on.
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| Identities of The Bulldog and VP have been protected...by very comfortable masks. |
