Tonight was the night. Linda and Marjorie had been talking about it for weeks: the annual Pemberton Christmas party. I had been regaled with tales of sumptuous feasts and extravagant gifts, such as bonus checks, computer equipment, and cameras, not for the hard-working teachers but for management only, of which I was considered a part because I was slated to become a director. I was surprised to learn even Crystal had managed to get herself invited as the enrichment coordinator for our school. I was not excited about spending another evening with the Pemberton administration away from my family, particularly tonight, since it was my birthday. However, duty called and at least the food promised to be worth the inconvenience, since Beverly was rumored to have rented out a private dining room at one of my favorite local Italian restaurants for the event.
I dressed in my best black sheer blouse and skirt, put on my heels, and drove the hour it took to reach the venue through the holiday suburban traffic. The night was bitterly cold making it painful to breathe when I opened the car door and tottered precariously on my high heels through the icy slush in the parking lot to reach the front door.
Just for the record, I hate social events. I’m always uncomfortable and count the seconds until I can gracefully leave. I also hate arriving at uncomfortable social events alone, like tonight. I didn’t know where to go; the maître d’ was nowhere in sight; I didn’t recognize anyone I knew; and there was no sign directing new arrivals to the private dining room. I stood there awkwardly until the hostess finally appeared and directed me to a door behind me that I’d already passed.
Once inside the closed, unmarked door, I was greeted profusely by Mrs. Beverly Martin with Mr. Martin standing quietly at her side with a smile frozen in place as icy as the slush in the restaurant parking lot. The room was crowded but mostly with unfamiliar faces. I didn’t know which way to turn among the mingling sea of strangers. Finally, to my relief, I spotted Marjorie already seated at a table off to the side, nicely situated out of the blast of cold air from the doorway and unobtrusively out of the social interaction. There appeared to be one unclaimed seat remaining across the circular table from her, and I nabbed it. I removed my coat but declined the offer of one of the servers to take it to the cloak room for me. The private room was like ice both in temperature and in social discomfort, despite the warm atmosphere from the glowing candles in the seasonal centerpieces Beverly had ordered for the tables. For that reason and the fact that I wanted to be able to make a hasty exit when the time arrived, I was unwilling to relinquish it and draped it over the back of my chair instead.
Marjorie smiled at me but little else beyond the initial “hello.” I tried to make small talk with her, but she was uncharacteristically tight-lipped. Evidently she was as nervous as I but unable to make any effort to hide it. When chatting proved unsuccessful, I turned instead to people-watching. The specimens for viewing were plentiful and interesting. The room had divided itself into separate schools. I recognized among the various entities the director, Debra, from the St. Peters school (a.k.a. “the Dragon Lady”) near one table and the co-directors from the school near my house in proximity to another table and the upper administrative staff huddled together over their drinks in a corner.
As the dinner’s arrival approached and people began drifting toward their seats, I also recognized that Beverly had planted a member from the main office at each of the tables. It would be nice if she had done so with the charge that they were responsible for the comfort of the guests at each of their tables, but this is Beverly we’re talking about. It is much more likely that she set them there as spies and control agents to keep the conversation from turning to gossip that might malign Her Majesty or allow us to become friendly enough with one another to form alliances that might lead to a revolt against her absolute rule.
Sorry! That probably sounds disrespectful. I don’t really mean to be. I’m just not feeling very charitable toward her right now. You’ll see why in a minute. I’ve also just seen and heard too much of her true nature the last few months to think very highly of her business management. She insists on being an absolute dictator.
Therefore, presiding over all, from the moment I set foot inside the door, was Beverly. She was dressed fit to kill, but conservatively so of course, and I doubt that the jewels glittering at her throat and clinging to her ear lobes were imitations. She had arranged the seating in the room so that there was one head, rectangular table over which she presided with her husband and the top two henchwomen in the organization: Cate, the general area manager, and Millie, the enrollment director. One thing I learned quickly at Pemberton is there is a definite hierarchy. There is a place for everyone, and everyone must remain in her place. No one was worthy to sit with Beverly other than Cate and Millie. God help them!
Once the crowd cleared as they were seated, I noticed another smaller table set up in front of the head table. On it was an artfully arranged jumble of robin’s egg blue boxes, each tied up with a red satin ribbon. I’d only seen such boxes in movies. I’d never thought I’d see one in real life, and I certainly never thought one would be given to me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I glanced over at Linda who was sitting at the next table, and she caught my look. I must have shown the amazement and incredulity in my eyes, because she smiled and nodded, as if to say, “Yes, Annie. They’re really from Tiffany and Company, and they’re really for us.”
Suddenly, a parade of dishes entered the room with the precision (if not acrobatics) of the servers in the hot chocolate scene of The Polar Express movie, each moving confidently to a particular table with great skill and coordination in their choreography. Heaping platters and bowls of extraordinary Italian delicacies were laid before us to share and pass around the table. I had to try a little bit of everything, and for a few moments, I was able to forget the circumstances that had brought me here and enjoy myself.
All of that quickly came to an end, however, when the platters were whisked away as precisely as they had entered to clear the stage for the “Beverly Show.” I call it that, because that’s what it painfully obviously was: a show, and the star of that show was unmistakably Beverly Martin. She tinged her spoon on the side of her wine glass and became irritated when the talking in the room did not cease immediately. She began to clang rather than ting, and just when the poor glass was in danger of losing its integrity, the unruly group of employees finally silenced their voices and settled their eyes on Beverly, right where she wanted them.
The air of expectancy electrified the room, as each eager recipient of a blue box turned with rapt attention. So Beverly began. First, she regaled us with tales of how difficult it was to decide what to get her loyal minions this year. [The “minions” is my interpretation, of course.] Then, we were treated to the trials of selecting the right gift for each one of us and how kind and accommodating and personally attentive (aha! there’s what she was after) Tiffany’s had been through her ordeal. (Poor Tiffany’s! I imagine they must be used to pandering to wealthy, demanding clients, but still, Beverly can be quite a handful.) Finally, we had to listen to the crises she experienced trying to get them back to the office and hidden and how many trips back to Tiffany’s it had taken to get everything just right.
After having to listen to this dramatic monologue for over 20 minutes, being expected to laugh and moan sympathetically at all the right places, Beverly began to bestow the individual gifts upon their recipients. Even the presentation was scripted hierarchically. She began with the lowly assistant girls, like Crystal, whose ambitions led them to dreams of one day sitting at the head table with Beverly, or at least controlling one of her schools. Amazingly, she had something personal and vaguely appreciative to say of each one of them. It was hard to believe there was any sincerity to the performance, however, when Beverly spends the rest of the year telling us how worthless and expendable we all are.
Then she proceeded to the support staff, like Marjorie, with an increased bump in the price of the article found inside the little blue box. The only reason I know this is because I overheard the ladies at my table from the main office discussing each item as it was revealed. Apparently Beverly hadn’t been as secretive as she would have liked, and they had caught wind of the nature of our gifts, after which they had spread the word to a select few chosen favorites in the organization. Apparently they all had been perusing the Tiffany website ever since, appraising the value of each piece and trying to guess which one would be theirs.
Lest you begin to judge these women as pathetic as I did at that moment, let me say in their defense, most of them are not as mercenary as they sound. Rather than trying to estimate the value of their gift, they were really trying to estimate their value in Beverly’s eyes. They are taught and encouraged to do this. Beverly wants it this way, all the eager dogs panting and snarling and clawing at each other to gain their mistress’ favor.
I had a fourth grade teacher like that once, so I recognized the technique, pitting people against each other in competition for the favor of the authority figure. It’s ugly and cruel and makes other people do ugly and cruel things to gain that favor. Unlike fourth grade, I’ve learned my lesson and don’t buy into that game anymore. I lost some really good friends that year in school, and some of us never quite got over it.
Beverly proceeded through the main office staff, coming to the directors of the schools. I thought I would be first among them, since she was blatantly going from the lowliest to the loftiest, and I was amazed I hadn’t been addressed before now, since I realized I did not hold much of her regard. Again, the price of the gifts went up and the profuseness of her praise increased, as well, except for the co-directors from the school near my house. They seem to be particularly out of favor with her, the scapegoats, if you will. They are always the two singled out to be berated worse than anyone else, and tonight was no exception. Beverly served up her gifts with backhanded compliments, which the ladies took bravely while trying to hide their chagrin behind half-hearted smiles. She continued to the other directors, ending with Linda, her favorite and best-compensated, judging from the buzz at the tables when Linda opened her present.
Beverly started to go on with bestowing her gifts to her inner echelon when she stopped short. She must have counted the boxes and realized there was a smaller one that shouldn’t still be there. Her performance was flawed. She had forgotten someone, but whom?
I knew who, but I was not about to speak out, appearing more eager than I felt at finding out what was in my box. Besides, I still wasn’t sure I even had a box. I couldn’t be that presumptuous. However, since Beverly had just finished with Linda, Linda still had her attention, and to discretely help her boss out of the jam, she nodded almost imperceptibly toward me. Beverly followed her line of sight and landed on me with the full force of her glare, conveying with it the impression that it was somehow my fault that she’d forgotten me.
Beverly spewed and stammered for what was only a couple of seconds, I’m sure, but what felt like an eternity to me, an eternity in which I was begging the floor to open up and swallow me, after which a magic trance would come over the gathering causing everyone in the room to forget that I had ever been there or existed at all. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask. They often act as if I don’t exist anyway; why not now, for real? Alas, no such luck.
“And then there’s Annie! We couldn’t forget about Annie! What can we say about Annie?”
Oh, I don’t know. How about what an asset I’ve been in the short four months I’ve been with your school? How about all the many “hats” I’ve worn working for you (teacher, director, accountant, chef, chauffeur, tour guide, receptionist, janitor, public relations, writer, errand boy, office equipment repair person, door mat,…)? How about the excellent way I managed your school’s financial books during Marjorie’s absence? The seven different classes I teach for you in addition to my administrative duties? How quickly I’ve caught on? My versatility? My diligence?
“Well, she’s learning!”
…Really? I know you were rattled by your faux pas, but really? That’s the best you could come up with? You betcha I’m learning! I’m learning I’d better get out of this school as fast as I can possibly find another job.