We’ve all been thrust together at a celebratory business dinner for Mr. Lido, who got the promotion. There is lobster and steak and the busting of chops. So many chops to bust at this table for twelve in the back of this suburban steakhouse at the end of a maze of leather booths and walnut four top tables.
Who picked this place, anyway? And why is it always steak on the menu and why do you have to ask the waitress if the 42 ounce ribeye comes with a saddle? It’s just a crap thing to ask her, and you are only doing it to it to impress the other folks at the table with your wit, because you think this is funny stuff. She does not understand the joke.
“A saddle?” she asks, staring at me for guidance. Her eyes scanning mine.
“Because it’s so big you can ride it,” I say. I ruined the punch line for him by answering. But I had already heard this joke three times previously, as this was not my first time at the rodeo, another business dinner colloquialism. “Oh,” she says, and laughs a slight, soft laugh while shaking her head up and down, looking at the monogram-cuffed, clean-shaven, bald-headed moron in the bad suit whose silly mouth just made that stupid joke.
“That’s funny,” she says.
I roll my eyes at her and look long and hard into her clear-blue, bone-tired eyes. She grins. I get you, hon.
It’s inane conversation here at this table as we wait for our dinner.
The guy sitting across from me, the boss of the guy who got the promotion, tries to strike up a conversation. He talks about the hassle of moving into his center hall Colonial in Paramus, near all the shopping, with the low taxes, so convenient to New York City
But he doesn’t really go to New York City. Well he goes, he goes to The Garden for games and concerts. He’s been there so many times. Rockefeller Center, yes of course. Every Christmas. Little Italy for dinner you know a few times a year.
But not Ground Zero. He specifically calls out Ground Zero as a place he’s never been. “You really need to get down there,” I say. “It will be heavy. You have to prepare.”
“Go to the Museum,” I say. “The museum goes down, down, down. It’s deep.” I’m not quite sure what I’m saying or why I’m saying it. The 9/11 museum is not on my top ten list of things you have to do in New York. But for some reason, on this night, I insist this guy must get there.
“I know”, he says. “Yeah. Totally have to prepare for that whole scene”.
“Absolutely”.
Then I wring my hands, put my knuckles on my chin, remind myself to sit up straight, and take a sip from my water glass. Again. Because I’m no good with you at this long table, with all the other gentlemen. I can’t do this like I care, or like it matters. And I’m shit out of luck in the liquor department because I have to drive an hour home after this dinner meeting. So I must stick with the water glass, which makes this whole situation even more dire. My mind can’t relax, I can’t shake off the strange vibe. I just keep looking around, smiling, taking my sips.
We are really only here for business. Just make the business with these gentlemen. But not in that way. Think about big deals and promotions. Think about salesforce.com and maybe recognition from top management. Just eat the dinner and make the chit chat. There are long, awkward pauses, we have nothing left to say. He looks for someone else to talk to, perhaps the guy on my right.
The food arrives and we eat which is a reprieve because it gives my mouth something else to do besides talk. I wonder if anyone else feels this way. Am I the only one who feels uncomfortable, bored and irritated?
Now the gentleman to my left is trying to figure out if it’s worth it to get rid of cable and switch to Amazon TV. He is concerned about his ability to watch ESPN. But he’s tired of paying so much for cable.
He asks me if I have solar panels because he might want to install them on his house, but only if they can be placed on the back of the roof, because he doesn’t like the way they look. He doesn’t want anyone to have to see them. The solar panels don’t look good.
Also, will he get tax credits?
I say I don’t know but I like everything about solar panels. Everything.
Back to the 30-something go-getter sitting across from me, the I never go to NYC guy, the mid-level manager, who is preparing his team for an ISO audit, and all his people are going through the motions, making sure the i’s are dotted and the t’s are crossed. This is important stuff. It’s being monitored. He will be judged on the outcome of this. The work of his people.
I just smile and say, “I’m sure everyone will be amazing.”
“Yeah, totally. It will all work out.”
“Then you can forget about it and make a day of it in New York City”, I say.
“Yes, I’ll go in with my wife and we’ll see a show or something.”
“You can get a babysitter!”
“Maybe we’ll take a carriage ride in the Park. I haven’t done that since I got engaged to her.”
“Oh don’t do that, I say. Those poor horses. It’s so cruel.”
“I don’t know about that. They’re horses. I think they like walking around in the park.”
I feel myself tense up. My mouth slacks open as if I’m going to say something but I bite my lip instead. I literally bite my lip and stare at him, my head cocked. And as we sit on the edge of a serious conversation, and I pause at the thought of turning your polished, manicured face toward an empathetic light, the check arrives.
He winks at me as if to say I know you don’t like to see the carriage horses. And maybe I get it, Jessica. I get you. I’m only busting your chops. I don’t like to see the horses pulling fuck twats like me around, either.
As we say our brief good-byes, shaking hands, all smiles, I think maybe for a minute you all aren’t so bad. Maybe you hate the chit chat as much as I do, but you’re just better at it. You see the end game and make the plays and go home and forget.
Maybe next time we should try the dinner without the chit chat and really engage with each other. Make a new play, set a new tone, dig into the dirt. Let’s learn something new and meaningful about each other. Let’s open up our minds to new realities.
Or nah.
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