The Grand Two Bit Ballroom

I dropped the invitation on the floor beside my chair. I had
examined it carefully every evening for nine days. It was getting dirty
from the floor and my fingers. Closing my eyes in the near dark, I
sucked intense cigar smoke, conjuring mental neon headlines flashing
'Small Town Boy Makes Good in Big City' in several colors. It was
trite, but I was easily amused in those days. Dad thought it was great.
He'd already told all the guys at work.

I practiced blowing smoke rings. I was getting good at it. I could blow
a ring within a ring. I was working on a three-ringer. That was my
goal.

"Hey, Dad," I called out through the smoke. "How many merit badges did
it take to get this far? I forget."

The third ring collapsed.

"Hey Dad," I continued. "Raise the flag and break out that Boy Scout
sash! The neighbors need reminding again."

I balanced the cigar on the ashtray and picked up the invitation. I had
to admit, it was impressive in its own way. It's not every day you get
invited to a Holiday Season Party held in the Grand Ballroom of the
Waldorf Astoria Hotel, New York City. I've always been a sucker for
embossed lettering. The invitation came from my employer. Christmas was
coming to the Big Apple. Redemption might well be just around the next
corner after all, or so it seemed.

I was alone in my smoky basement studio, surrounded by the trappings of
success. Look around and see for yourself: cheap half-stuffed armchair
with a yellow floral pattern, coth-covered; lamp on a pole with shelf;
ashtray, full; wastepaper basket, full; pullout bed-from-a-couch combo,
unmade; black-and-white television, last of its kind in 1973; 4 X 6
Danish wool rug in lava-lamp yellow swirl pattern, shedding hair daily;
one trembling dining area table, formica top, aluminium legs, four
chairs, all used as storage surfaces; big pile of papers and magazines
behind armchair containing diplomas, professional certifications, and
validations of all kinds, most framed; Swiss-style cheese slices and
assorted cold cuts in the fridge, accompanied by pickles, mayonnaise,
diet cola, mustard, onions, and partially consumed loaf of pre-sliced
black pumpernickel bread; and over there, hiding in the dark corner
behind the TV, the barely discernable silhouette of an intense
theoretical desire to get organized, sadly lacking in practical
motivation. It was not exactly Xanadu, but it was home.

A stray cat mewled loudly in the cold outside.

I was the cat inside.

At work the next day, they asked me, "Are you going to the party."
"Sure thing," I said. It was expected, more or less. Maybe I could find
a date, I thought. Date? This was a problem. Who? The only people I
knew were from work. They'd be there themselves, didn't need me to get
in. I didn't know anyone else. Well, there was still time, two more
weeks, plenty of time.

The Big Wednesday arrived. I had no date. I hadn't asked anyone. I
didn't know anyone. My helpful team leader noted that there was one
hour remaining. He said I could try asking someone on my way to the
Waldorf. He had a point. I gave it careful consideration. From our
client's office to the Waldorf was about three cross-town blocks, then
uptown another five blocks, walking of course. It was also quitting
time, so all of working Manhattan would be out and about. I could toss
a line into the stream and wait for nibbles, maybe reel one in. A free
party at the Waldorf that very night was good bait, and fresh! It could
work. It was the American Dream.

My team leader had been joking. He gave me a funny look. I grinned and
motioned "ah phooey" with my right arm. The moment passed. Joking or
not, it was a plan.

I left work a little before everyone else, claiming shopping needs.
They chuckled a hearty 'see you later," completely unconvinced about my
shopping. They'd had my number all along. I was not invisible, just
transparent.

I started out optimistic. There was still time, I thought, not much,
but maybe enough. It was a little adventure. I wore my best Brooks
Brothers suit, white 100\% pure Egyptian long-staple cotton shirt,
Trippler's fleur-de-lis 100\% silk tie, tan cashmere Aquascutum
overcoat, freshly polished cordovan shoes, 100\% cashmere scarf and
socks from the holey heirloom collection. I was loaded for bear.

It was unusually cold, and starting to snow heavily. The sidewalks were
crowded. I saw several attractive candidates along the way. They were
bundled in winter coats, staring straight ahead like dray horses,
trudging purposefully, thinking about getting out of the cold and
worrying that their shoes would be ruined by the snow. There was no way
to catch anyone's eye, not that I could figure. The adventure quickly
soured. I was depressed. I thought of going home, forgetting the whole
thing, but I kept walking. It was snowing hard by now. I gave up on
finding a date. My spirits rose. I hunkered down, hands in pockets,
game face forward. I arrived alone.

Inside was not so impressive. It looked threadbare. A sign showed me
the way. I milled along with the rest of them, checked my coat. The
girls from personnel were ticking off names. They branded my hand.
Validated, I strode purposefully towards the Grand Ballroom, sporting a
determined 'I've been here many times and will soon own this place'
look of hipper-than-thou chic. No one noticed. We were all transparent
that night.

They'd set up long tables end to end in the form of an "X" in the
middle of the Grand Ballroom, a huge ice sculpture slowly melting at
the intersection. The tables groaned under the weight of food. And a
magnificent selection and presentation it was, especially the jumbo
shrimp. How I loved the jumbo shrimp! Dig in! The Good Life at
last!

It was crowded. Very crowded. Three Thousand of My Closest Friends, I
later called it. I hardly knew anyone. Open bars lined the periphery,
offering free drinks. I almost never drank the hard stuff, barely knew
the names of any mixed drinks. I came from a beer neighborhood. I'd
learned enough thus far to know that beer was peasant food in the Big
City, not a proper libation for an up-and-comer like me. I ordered
Whiskey Sour, barely knowing what it was. It was sour. That much was
for sure. I couldn't taste much whiskey, but it was there. That was
also for sure.

I stationed myself close to the shrimp. I talked with a few co-workers.
One noted my lack of a date with amused sarcasm. I countered with
prophetic irony. We were a clever lot in those days. I turned my back
and reached for more shrimp. I washed down the shrimp with some turkey
and tepid Whiskey Sour. I plunged my free hand into the peanuts and
cashews, especially the cashews. They were expensive. I refreshed my
Whiskey Sour, talked some more, returned to the shrimp, back to the
bar, refreshed my Whiskey Sour. Repeat that sentence a few times. Feel
the cadence.

The ice sculpture acted as a water clock, dripping away the evening,
diluted ambitions and all. It was only 9 PM, but the party was breaking
up. Everyone had work in the morning, me too. I had to be at a bank
vault in lower Manhattan at 7.30 AM. No problem! My vision was blurred
from the heat and noise, but I felt great. Top of the World, Ma!

Bob had a car. "Can you get home OK?" he asked. "Sure," I said. "I'm
only going to Brooklyn Heights. I'll be fine." I didn't understand his
concern. "Let me give you a ride part of the way. Come with us," he
urged.

So I went with them, slogging in the slushy snow to the parking garage.
We got in the car. It had been snowing heavily for hours by then,
accumulating to several inches. That was a lot of snow for Manhattan.
The driving was touch and go. I regretted accepting the ride. It was
useless. They dropped me somewhere on the way to the Holland Tunnel. I
waved goodbye, relieved to be on my own again.

I caught the West Side train to Brooklyn and sat down, staring across
the car. There weren't many passengers. I rested my eyes. The train
jolted me out of repose at each stop. I casually noted the name of the
stations as they passed by. An uncomfortable pattern slowly emerged. I
was going the wrong way. This was not good. A sinking feeling dragged
me down. I felt panicky, tingling.

I held together. The train stopped. I shot out the door, skipping to a
stop directly in front of a sign. I put on my reading glasses, stood
six inches away, squinted and focused carefully. It said "72nd Street"
in lettering eight inches high. Close call, I thought, still shaking.
The next stop was Harlem.

Maybe I drank too much, I thought, sweating.

I forced my mind awake and my eyes wide open. It was an effort, but I
was game. I caught the train going downtown toward Brooklyn. I had to
pay the fare again, 35 cents in those days, another typical New York
scam. No sitting this time, I thought. Standing, I stared intently at
each new station name, squinting with vigor. Verify direction; that was
my plan. Stop, squint, check map, verify, squint, hop on left foot,
stop, squint, check map, keep eyes on the prize.

It worked. I made it home.

That could've been bad news, I thought, vowing to be more careful in
the future. I got undressed and set the alarm. It was still only
10.30PM. 'Next year will be even better,' I vowed. I went to sleep,
gently buzzing.

I came to a few hours later. I was sick. I raced to the toilet. It was
a formidable display. Shrimp fragments sprayed all over the place, as
if I'd tripped over an anti-personnel land mine. My head hurt,
pounding. I felt dizzy, poisoned. My whole system frizzled in a short
circuit whiplash. I felt chilled to the bone, flu-like. I couldn't
sleep. The clock radio marched relentlessly towards morning. I fell
asleep.

The alarm detonated with an obnoxious brwaaangk brwaaangk brwaaangk. I
wanted to run to the radio and shut it off, but I could barely move. I
was so dizzy, I was afraid to sit upright, much less stand or walk. I
had to do something or that noise would kill me. Gently, ever so
gently, I hoisted myself upright and padded to the radio, slapping the
plunger down with my right hand.

Silence. And terror. How could I go to work feeling like this? I could
barely move. I had no choice. I had to go. There was no way to get a
substitute or cancel. I was stuck. I stripped and padded to the
bathroom, leaning against the furniture, the wall, whatever was close
and sturdy. What a mess! No time now to clean, I thought. I turned on
the water, waited for it to heat, gently climbed into the tub, pulling
the shower curtain closed.

It hurt. The nice hot water shot down on my head and it hurt. I was
shaking, afraid of falling. I washed, rinsed, turned off the water, and
gingerly stepped out. I looked in the mirror. I was not a pretty sight.
I combed my hair. I shaved, brushed my teeth, and gagged. I was still
shaking, dizzy. I wondered how long it would take for the poison to
leave my system. I couldn't eat anything. I gagged down a handful of
aspirin and orange juice and dressed. I left the apartment, wondering
how I would ever get through the morning.

I arrived at the bank on time, somewhere in the Wall Street area. It
was 7.30 AM. I signed in with the security desk. They called the vault
area. Someone came up and led me down to the vault. I was barely able
to stand up. I felt like fainting.

I followed the man down two flights of stairs to the basement. It was
dusty. The air smelled of metal. I could feel the tiny metal particles
entering my lungs, scratching my eyes, pricking my skin through my
clothes. The air was stale. It was overly warm. I heard a motor start.
It was the ambience rumble of an ancient ventilation system.

"Ah, good, someone turned on the vent motor. The air gets pretty bad in
here overnight. The money doesn't mind, but it's hell for us sometimes.
Just be thankful you don't have to open this place up every morning. It
almost knocks you out down here when you have to open up. I should look
for a new job," he rambled.

You and me both, I thought.

I made it down the stairs without falling, quite an achievement.
Success depended upon being able to hold onto the railing and lean
against the wall. It slowed me down, but I at least I didn't
fall.

"OK, here we are," he said.

I spied a chair on rollers, sitting empty alongside a desk. I strode to
the chair and sat down like a miner staking a claim. It was not a
graceful manoeuvre, but it worked. I looked around the room, still
wearing my unbuttoned overcoat and scarf. It was a glorified corridor,
used as a work area and administrative space. There were several
doorways leading to other rooms. These were the vault areas. I could
see into one such room. Banks of large safe deposit boxes lined the
walls and formed a block of boxes in the middle of the room. No space
wasted in this place, I thought.

There were four other people. There was a bank auditor, the vault
supervisor, and two burly guys who'd been hired for the day by the
bank. I was the outside auditor. They gave me funny looks. My face was
flushed. I still had not taken off my overcoat and scarf. Someone asked
if I wanted coffee or tea. I asked for tea, no sugar. I rose gently
from the chair, still on the verge of fainting, and gingerly removed my
overcoat. I was afraid to walk the few steps to the coat rack, so I
laid my coat down on the desk, just as the tea arrived. The tea guy
took my coat and hung it up for me. I thanked him and sat down. I kept
the scarf wrapped around my neck, still shivering despite the heat. I
could not imagine getting through the next 15 minutes, much less the
rest of the day.

My job was to observe the counting of money, silver coins to be
specific.

In those days people invested in silver coins. The coins were packaged
in sealed canvas bags and stored in bank vaults. That day we had to
open, count, repackage, account for, and stow away some 150 bags of
dimes and quarters, each containing either 5000 or 10,000 coins, as I
recall. It was a semi-automated process, involving motorized
coin-counting machines. These machines were similar to a potter's
wheel. The idea was to pour the money onto the spinning plate, forcing
the coins to a barrier along the outer edge of the plate where they
spit one by one out a narrow escape slot, tripping a counter and
falling into a waiting bag.

It was deafening. It sounded like a machine gun firing at close range.
There were three of these machines, at least two firing at all times.
The only relief came when it was time to change bags.

I thought I would die. I was afraid to leave the safety of my chair for
fear of passing out. I spent the first three hours in that chair,
rolling along the floor from one machine to the next with my clipboard,
ticking off the bags, making sure each one was sealed, labelled, noted,
stacked and stored. I made mistakes. Some bags had to be recounted. I
was not popular, scooting along the concrete in my chair with wheels.
There was no sympathy for the handicapped that day.

After a couple of hours I started to feel better. I ventured to stand
up from time to time, get my own tea, and smile. It was all an effort.
I persevered. The end was in sight. The two burly guys were sweating
like pigs. They looked at me with disgust, standing there in my suit
and tie. I'd stopped sweating by then. I looked at them with fear. I
realized we were doing the same job, just from different angles. They'd
known it all along.

After five hours of this, "we" finished. I tried to buoy my spirits
with words like "we." This suggested that I was doing something useful,
just like them. The company thought I was. They sent me there. No one
complained. I got paid. Still, I felt useless. Using words like "we"
helped, but not much.

I called the office. They told me to go home. There was no more work
for me that day. They told me to report to the "unassigned room" on the
next day, Friday, and wait for my next assignment. This was welcome
news. It lifted my spirits even further. Feigning jocularity, I bid a
hearty farewell to my temporary comrades in the bunker and walked up
the stairs without fainting.

It was a wonderful day, one of those crisp early-winter New York days
when Christmas is still coming and life has promise. I had the
afternoon free. There was also a good chance that on Friday I would be
sent home after two hours. People rarely got assigned to anything on a
Friday. Then I would have the whole weekend to myself. I strode
confidently to the subway, the future gently unfolding before me.

I won't tell Dad about today, at least not just yet, I thought. But
he'll enjoy hearing about last night at the Waldorf. I must be more
careful, though. Those shrimp were a killer.

I got home and passed out.

Justyn Thyme 2002