Chapter Twenty Two
Walking into the building, Mike again elected to take the stairs as the lobby stood packed with employees waiting the appropriate elevator. A few minutes later, with sweat running down the small of his back, he stepped from the stairway onto the sixth floor where his first shock of the day awaited.
Directly in front of Mike, and bent over with one leg resting on a chair in a scene reminiscent of a dog pissing, was Cuddy. Cuddy’s suit trousers were ripped through the crotch and what probably started life as a pair of giant tighty-whities, now gray and stained like a cheap hotel bed sheet, adorned Cuddy’s huge rear end. Behind him, and between his legs, squatted Wilma. She wore a mask of horror on her face and held a stapler in her hand.
As Mike tried to sneak by, thinking no explanation necessary as both were consenting adults, Cuddy caught sight of him. Unprompted, Cuddy explained that when he bent down to tie his shoe in the parking lot he ripped his pants inside seam up and around the horn and clear down to the other knee. Wilma was now repairing the tear with a stapler.
Mike nodded curtly, appreciative at the information, and walked away slowly.
Cuddy wasn’t done his explanation, “It’s all this muscle I’m packing on.” Then, to try and make light of the situation, he made a loud ask of Wilma, “Express them glands while you’re back there sister, and ease the pressure a bit.” Wilma stifled a cry and turned her head far to the right to avoid looking at what she was stapling.
Walking into his office to the fading guffaws of Cuddy, Mike found a red and gold foil envelope on his desk. His second shock of the day, and it wasn’t even lunch. Mike looked in surprise at the envelope and contemplated the unfathomable, “No way! Doug is going to have a second holiday party!” Mike tore open the envelope and confirmed his guess. At six in the evening, on Friday, December 22, 2006, all employees were expected at Doug’s home for G.O.D.’s Second Annual Holiday Party. Mike wasn’t certain which was the bigger surprise; seeing Cuddy’s rear end through his threadbare underwear; or, Doug holding another holiday party after what happened a year ago.
Last year’s holiday party started on a high note, but broke bad in the middle of Doug’s morale speech. Running late from a basketball game at the Robert Taylor Homes, whose tough urban youth played year round on outdoor courts without nets on the baskets, Doug plagiarized the lion’s share of his address from the famous Vince Lombardi speech, What it Takes to be Number One. He found the speech on the back of a box of cereal. In fact, the only change Doug made was to replace the words, football team, with the word, pharmacy.
Cereal box in hand, and mid-way through the party, Doug stood to address the employees. To gather all about, he chinked his cocktail with a spoon. Aspen stood at his side, smiling vacantly and staring unfocused into the distance. Her preferred cocktail, The Wife #4, comprised of equal parts vodka and valium, was kicking in. She liked that the synergistic depressants helped her ignore the fundamental disconnect in her marriage; she thought Doug would warm to the idea of a fourth wife; and, he thought she’d get less crazy.
Queued for the obligatory pep talk, Doug’s employees formed a wide semi-circle and gave him a forum from which he could address the group. Doug began, “Thank you for joining me in celebrating G.O.D.’s tremendous future. We’ve done well, but you have more work to get the stock price where I need it.” At his mention of the stock, many of the staff elbowed one another and snickered. They were well aware of Doug’s troubles with the IRS, and his plan to jump ship the minute the stock price was high enough. Doug then began to recite Lombardi’s speech. As he read, he struggled to concentrate and misspoke several times. His attention was drawn to the actions at the back of the room.
Doug was distracted and concerned with the group of teens and pre-teens that stood at the opposite end of the room, in the middle of which was the nefarious Romulus. He’d heard of Mary’s child’s impulse control disorder, but had never witnessed it firsthand. Doug hated all children, and instinctively knew he hated none more than Mary’s untamed spawn. The children who had clustered about Romulus were engrossed in a fevered and intense discussion; their hushed voices were urgent but inaudible. As the group of children nodded in unison, a wayward and rough looking boy handed Romulus a five dollar bill. He and Romulus shook hands. The others in the group nodded in approval, and several patted Romulus on the back as they wished him luck. Clearly, something bad was about to go down.
Doug read faster. His sentences strung into an unintelligible blur as he hurried to finish, and hoped to avert whatever disaster lay ahead. On the last paragraph, and almost done his speech, Doug glanced up and realized he wouldn’t finish in time.
Romulus cracked his knuckles and stepped from the group of children. He walked behind the couch at the other end of the room, dropped his pants, and defecated effortlessly. The entire scene took less than fifteen seconds.
Doug began to fumble his words, unable to concentrate given the desecration he had just witnessed.
Aspen pointed dumbfounded at the scene, her mouth agape. “Dith he juth shpth bhampp bith couth?” she slurred.
“If you’re asking, ‘Did that barn animal just shit behind the couch,’ then yes, he just shat behind our couch.” Doug’s voice rose as the injustice began to register. “He shat on our priceless oriental rugs to be more precise!”
“Heeth an artith. A brilliant artith. Thaths modern art.” Before Aspen could clap and give this brilliant modern artist his due accolades, the room started to spin and she grabbed hold of Doug’s elbow to keep from crashing to the ground.
Out from behind the couch walked Mary’s feral six year-old with his pants around his ankles. In his right hand he carried a wad of napkins. Oblivious, or unconcerned, Romulus moved through the crowd and scanned the wall of people for his mother. Nonplussed at not seeing his mother he walked up to Doug, turned around, and bent over. He held his hand with the napkins behind him, looked at Doug between his legs, and loudly demanded, “Wipe me, bitch!”
From the audience, an audible gasp was soon followed by uncontrolled laugher. The laughter grew as Romulus began to back up and aim for Doug’s knee. Doug shrieked hysterically for someone, anyone, to give this barn animal to his mother.
Unfortunately, Mary wasn’t at the party. In an effort to create the illusion of attending a party at which she was certain her fugly staff would be present, and she saw no upside, she had dropped her son off and then gone on to meet her girlfriends for margaritas. Mary was pretty liquored up when she finally elected to answer her phone and told Doug’s housekeeper to call her husband and he’d come get the little rascal. Laughing at the events described to her over the phone, Mary ended the call, “Isn’t he just a precious angel sent from heaven?”
The images nearly all in attendance remember from the first holiday party were the feral child bending over in front of Doug, and his ass finally being wiped in the middle of the front yard by Mary’s milquetoast husband. As his father wiped his behind, Romulus bowed deep, like a maestro to his audience. The children clapped raucously. Many cried out, “Bravo.” Several of the girls in the group threw roses, whose thorns had been stripped from their stems. The flowers were stolen from the vases that decorated the party. Romulus, very pleased with himself, held up his five dollars for all to see.
Doug hated the holiday party, and especially hated people walking around his house touching his stuff and dirtying the place. This hatred of personal space violation extended to his office and his private elevator. The consultants argued vehemently for Doug to hold another party in a goodwill effort to squeak a little more performance out of the company, and, pray God, get the options back in the money. As unpleasant as having employees in his residence was, the thought of cashing out was too enticing to say no. So, with a large thumb worn spreadsheet in front of him, showing the after tax payout for various stock prices, Doug reluctantly agreed to a second holiday party.
After last year’s disaster, Doug mandated he wouldn’t attend. “No Goddamn way I’m taking part in the party. Children trying to wipe their ass on my custom made Italian suit. Screw that.” The consultants agreed that might be more than any CEO could brave, and offered to function as greeters and create the illusion that Doug was hosting the party. Compromise reached, Doug would be in the theater room on the third floor in his silk pajamas with his basketball friends while the party took place below. He was also clear that if the options weren’t in the money by year’s end the consulting gig was up, and he’d find someone else to surreptitiously run the company. And more importantly, he’d have no mercy to anyone who soiled his beloved Persian carpets.