by Tracy Roe
With apologies to Dorothy Parker.
“Oh, of course, I’d love it if you joined me!”
I don’t want him to join me. I don’t want anyone to join me, but if I had to choose someone in this crowded ballroom to join me, this guy would not be high on the list. Or low on the list. He would be nowhere on the list.
And why am I being forced to make a list? This is what happens when you go to the office Christmas party—it’s just like work but with alcohol. Actually, for Barry in HR—“Hi, Barry!”—it’s exactly like work. Poor guy. I hope he’s getting some help with that.
Yes, please do tell me all about yourself, person-I-don’t-know-from-a-hole-in-the-wall. Ah, his name is Lance—of course it is—and Lance works in Legal. Lance is a lawyer, is what Lance is trying to say. Or, no, it’s what he’s actually saying. Not one for subtlety is our Lance! Do I have to give him my name? “Terry!” It’s not really Terry, but it’s close enough that if anyone says anything, I can say he heard me wrong. And why do I even have to come up with cover stories? Here I was, sitting quietly, minding my own business, wondering whether it’d be easier to kill my idiot ex-boyfriend or myself, and Lance swans over and he’s all, Ohh, can I sit here? No, I should have said. No, over my dead body will you sit down at this table. All right, that’s a little extreme. Maybe: Oh, sure, sit down, my COVID symptoms are almost completely gone! COVID. Millions of people died, and that was horrible, don’t get me wrong, but during the pandemic, a person could sit unmolested at a table in a ballroom at the office Christmas party. Actually, said office Christmas party would never have happened! Good times …
And Lance is still talking. Wow. Must be nice to believe your life is so fascinating that some poor young woman sitting quietly at a table in a ballroom and planning her own (or her ex-boyfriend’s, depending) demise wants to hear all about it.
“Yes, I see, they have a karaoke machine! So fun!” No. No. Please God, no. “‘If Ever I Would Leave You’ is beautiful. Oh, no, I’m not a singer, but I’d love to hear you sing.”
Absolutely I would love that. Well, maybe not love. More like, if the options were, say, being stung to death by a swarm of angry wasps or listening to you mangle Lerner and Loewe, I would definitely … not automatically pick the wasps.
Oh. Oh my God. I should have picked the wasps. All right, buddy, that’s it. Do whatever you want to me, but when you start eviscerating show tunes, I have got to put my tiny little size-five foot down!
And now everyone is listening to him. He must be so embarrassed. He’s really brave, actually, when you think about it. He has to know how god-awful his voice is, and yet he’s just putting himself out there, giving it his all! I could maybe love a man like this. We’d have beautiful, non-singing children. We’d be, like, the opposite of the von Trapp family. Poor man—listen to him. Well, not everyone is musically gifted.
“Oh, did you really? Well, I’m sure you would have gotten into Juilliard if you’d applied.”
Oh my Lord, you’re an idiot. I hate you. I’m divorcing you and taking the children in their cute little sailor suits right over the Alps, and you can stay here with the Nazis.
“No, you really don’t have to sing another one for me, I’m overwhelmed already! Or … sure, ‘Dance Ten, Looks Three’ from Chorus Line. That one was practically written for you!”
I could have said no, I suppose. I could have said, Please, Lance, for the love of God and in the name of all that is holy, please, please, please do not you-should-pardon-the-expression “sing” one more note. But then I might have had to talk to him instead. So, yeah. Have at it, darling Lance! Butcher some Sondheim, why don’t you.
Maybe I can slip out while he’s singing about his tits and his ass and so forth? It’s freezing out there. A person could die of hypothermia pretty fast. A person like me. Or like my ex-boyfriend, say. And it was so warm yesterday. Warm yesterday, freezing today, and it’ll be warm again tomorrow. Climate change, amirite? Someone has to fix that.
I don’t remember this song being so long in the actual show. Is he adding new verses? But—look at that! People are leaving, the waitstaff is cleaning up, and some angel from heaven has unplugged the karaoke machine. Thank You, God—I realize now that I don’t want to kill my idiot ex-boyfriend or myself. I just want to go home, get in my warm bed with my warm cat, and try to forget the carnage inflicted on the Great White Way tonight.
“Well, looks like everyone’s going home, so—really? The manager said you could use the karaoke machine for another half hour if you slipped him fifty bucks? And you did? That is so fabulous!” Fabulous, unethical; potato, potahto. “Oh, sure. Whatever you want. Yes—‘The Impossible Dream.’ Perfect.”
Bio:
Tracy Roe planned to be an actress, but that didn’t work out, so when she graduated from college, she became a copyeditor, which was lovely, but she decided she needed a challenge, so she went to medical school, and now she’s a physician who also edits.