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inês

IN GOOD SPIRIT

“Bottoms up!”

Something about the toast was off. In fact, something about the whole Christmas party was off. Even though it was but a repetition of previous years, this party made her feel more estranged than usual. At that moment, it hit her that it was Christmas. Or rather, it was something-other-than Christmas that came to provide some content to what usually goes by as “Christmas spirit” and is supposed to be filling people everywhere.

Indeed, the toast had as little to do with baby Jesus, Santa Claus or Christmas altogether as did the company’s staff and their painfully evident attitude. They all pretended to enjoy mingling as if they would ever interrupt the competitive drive that boosted company productivity and set the tone at the office. The irony was that, though implicitly, everyone was aware of the simple switch in code: instead of using the language of project designs and management, women outdid each other with sleek & smart evening gowns; men kept the “important business conversations” away from the lady’s reach in enclosed cigar smoker circles; and “bottoms up” was Christmas party language for the boss’ speeches’ closing line “Let’s keep it up – over and above”. Even the discrete side comments and rolled eyes were the same. In fact, only light nuances distinguished this party from any other company party. The lounge music provided the smooth atmosphere one would expect at such Manhattan venues. The caviar, large assortment of spirits and trendy decoration were also setting the scene, along with designer’s couches and stools – but of course. The only detail that hinted at Christmas were bonsai trees spread throughout the tables displaying single color Christmas decorations. She floated stiffly through the room so as to blend in the crowd and be close enough to take a better look.

“Innovative, don’t you find? It’s the company’s philosophy for the new millennium. You know…Zen and all…”, so the boss explained to her by the tapas table. Actually, it struck her as odd, brushing on pretentious, and in denial of stepping over the fine line between new-age kitsch and mere weird kind of tacky. Surely no one understood what the bonsais were meant to stand for, but could find some meaning in the company logos hanging from their trees, however well disguised as Christmas decorations they could be. She could do nothing else but reply with smile no.33. A nod in approval looking straight into her eyes. As if choreographed, his smile introduced the toast and the rush of thoughts that kept her suspended for a second.

The first thought was a vivid memory of that very sleazy look. Just the day before he had assigned her to the dreaded secretary-like task: she was the one to bring the company’s kind season’s donations to a charity event. This meant she had to find some community center long lost in the middle of Brooklyn instead of taking part in the corporate executive meeting like her colleagues who had just been promoted. “Why, c’mon: you’ll enjoy receiving heartfelt ‘thank you’s from pitiful homeless and make your pretty self useful, for once. Besides, our dear secretary fell ill with the news of her divorce. Be a chap! Feel the Christmas spirit!” She wasn’t sure whether the comment threw her off because a successful businessman had addressed it to her, because of his overstressed British accent that always pushed the wrong button with Americans, or because of the insulting offer he made her in exchange for her promotion to top off the comment. She did her best not to lose her temper. She managed to ignore him but had been distraught ever since.

Yet, the toast allowed her to have some sense of closure and peace. Looking at Mr. Reyes brought her back to the previous night. Any of those homeless people could have been Mr. Reyes. Or rather, the other way around. Had he not been born to one of the richest families in the Dominican Republic, he surely would never have dreamt of a place called London School of Economics nor perceived the world in terms of Management (unless he was managing his inherited family business, of course). He would still think of the USA as “the land of opportunity” and, provided his ambition, he’d surely head for the Big Apple. And maybe he would even find himself at the very same company building he now owned. However, he’d be cleaning toilets and sweeping snow from the drive-ways right until the city began its daily hustling. He would not wear suits and renowned surnames, but old gloves and illegal papers.

There were people from the Dominican Republic at that community Christmas dinner. In fact, there were people from all over the world it seemed. Walking in with her flashy earrings and long jacket, she managed to make every single head turn toward her and thus had a rather clear grasp of the faces staring back at her. Instead of quickly and discretely dropping the company’s charity packages, as planned, she found herself accepting to join the party with a smile she had put on for protection of what could happen next. Along with the food, the gifts' exchange and the somewhat improvised performances of the community center's volunteers came the stories. Though she barely spoke and felt everything but comfortable, two or three people readily made room at the table amongst them and filled the monologue with the why and how people in that room came to be there that night. Suddenly, the obvious became visible: those people had names, love stories, dreams and disappointments, families scattered throughout the country and over the world. Though the community center welcomed the neighborhood’s homeless too, most of those people were immigrants lacking an ethnic association of some sort simply because they were not that many in that area to justify an organization that would arrange Christmas parties. Madina was a single mother who had grown stronger with the long trip from Cazaquistan and who loved beet soup. Amoor’s mother was an Armenian lady driven by romance. This, along with the need to escape the police, was perhaps what led her son to leave California where he felt at home as there are almost more Armenians living there than in Armenia itself. The Garcia young girls followed their parents who were on the right-wing regime’s black list and strongly disliked the word “spics” because people kept saying it in a nasty tone around them, even though they did not yet realize it was an insult. From single mothers to whole families people’s paths were astonishingly varied and all seemed hard to traverse. The distance between them, so great and yet so little, and was precisely what the local community center’s volunteers wanted to bridge. At the end of the day, they were all away from home for one reason or another and they could all gather around some same notion of Christmas spirit. Whatever it was in their minds, it was there.

Ironically, the first thought that had crossed her mind was not so different from the company’s buffet dinner she was having: it was off. More than taking place on the 23^rd of December, an understandably practical solution for the volunteers, the food was typically and culturally American, indeed - but for the wrong holiday. Apparently the center’s sponsor was a catering company with frozen leftovers from thanksgiving. By the end of the dinner she realized that it mattered that the food be warm and stomach filling. While turkey and pumpkin pie did not make her feel less out of place, it worked, at least, to make conversation with people she would never have crossed with otherwise.

She dwelled for a moment on the bitter-sweet thought of having exchanged recipes with a lady from one of the countries ending in “-istan”. It tasted like failure and privilege at once to have contributed with an utterly superficial presence to a feast that was decorated by an array of elements that did not seem to match, but went quite well together. The ubiquity and assortment of strange languages, skin colors, random presents, traditional songs, Christmas decorations and warm smiles actually made her, and the world she seemed to come from, feel rather pitiful.

The rush of thoughts halted at the usual question to which no one around her seemed to have an answer: what about Christmas spirit? Mr. Reyes had just been speaking about the company’s successful past year and promising entrance into the new millennium. He talked a lot about the spirited company’s “team”, even though he never met most of them. He carried on about the sweat and toil that made them one of the most well known companies in New York. It was after greeting people along the way with his social smile, that he approached her and the bonsais. Some followers gathered around to hear about the innovative Zen philosophy that inevitably followed. By the time he held his glass up she robotically reached for the spirits on the table. In the same way, following his overly formal “Bottoms up!”, before she gave it a second thought, it slipped: “Up yours!” He choked a little. People became suddenly silent. Luckily, a Christmas song came on.