Party time at the office

One affliction affecting social life in the modern office is the too-awkward, too-frequent staging of celebrations for the slightest of reasons. Whether it’s a birthday, a holiday, a farewell or even a death in the family, the employees at my company are like many others who feel compelled to commemorate these occasions with a gathering that includes food, a greeting card and standing around while shifting our weight from one foot to the other.

The latest of these events at my office was just yesterday when we lost a ten-year veteran who found a better job – that is, one that wasn’t in imminent danger of disappearing – working for a local museum. (You know you’re in trouble when your staff is being raided by the not-for-profit sector). Richard is a great guy, intelligent and well-liked by everyone he’s come into contact with. So naturally, we had to embarrass him in a public spectacle before he left.

The date for the party was set about a week before his departure by the luckless individual who is responsible for pulling these things together. She went around the office assigning everyone a food category that they were to bring for the luncheon – soft drinks, veggies, desserts, chips, all the major building blocks of the food pyramid. I was told “you’re bagels”. I bought a dozen the night before, not realizing until the morning of the event that this was assumed to include something to put on the bagels. Fortunately my wife saves condiment packs from fast-food purchases, so I was able to grab a handful of jellies and butters and, in my haste, some ketchup and vinegar.

On the morning of the event, we hurriedly signed a farewell card featuring a cartoon dog with a hang-dog look on its face. I think it’s the same dog I saw on a birthday card we circulated a few months back, and may even have been featured on the last sympathy card we gave out. Anyway, we all made our best shot at a meaningful message for Richard to remember us by – “good luck” and “we’ll miss you” were common themes – and passed the card onto whomever we could find who hadn’t signed yet. Although you want to have time to put some thought into your final goodbye, you have to balance that against the concern that the later you wait, the harder it is to find someone else to unload the card on.

Later in the morning we’re told to start gathering our foodstuffs and assemble them onto the party table, a low-slung counter normally used for sorting paperwork but now covered with a festive blue tarp. A manager called out across the office to summon the celebrants from their crosswords and cross-stitch. “Come eat, everybody”. It was only when we noticed Richard standing nervously next to the deviled eggs that we realized party time had arrived.

First, we took a moment to acknowledge Richard’s work. “You came to us over ten years ago,” said the ranking manager haltingly, searching for just the right tone. “And now we’re here to wish you well in your new job.” Brief and to the point, I thought, and very considerate of how hungry everyone was. And much better than the speech he gave six months ago to the bipolar retiree who’d had a reputation as a royal complainer: “You spoke your mind when you thought we were wrong, and we all appreciated it a lot.” Actually, we hated her, but that’s not something you can say at a retirement party.

Richard was handed his card, which he dutifully pretended to read, then was expected to make a brief speech. He graciously thanked everyone for their effort, said he’d definitely be coming back to visit (they never do), and urged the lurking hoard to dig in. We ate and ate till we were groggy, then spent the next four hours moaning about how Mexicans have the right idea with that afternoon siesta thing.

In addition to the send-off celebrations, we also used to have birthday parties. At first these were done on an individual basis on the day of the actual birthday, then later became group events at the end of the month, then seemed to happen only about every three months or so. (Only at a financial services firm might the staff wish someone a “Happy Birth Quarter”). At these events, we’d gather around a generic sheet cake, sing a dirge-like rendition of the birthday song – my favorite part was always the point at which we’d try to cram everyone’s name into the “happy birthday dear MichaelJenniferSamLindaAllenBertrand” part – then make one of the female celebrants slice up the cake up. Inevitably there’d be a joke about someone celebrating their 29th birthday for the 13th time, and of course the dog card.

Major holidays such as Christmas and Thanksgiving are noted with the usual pot-luck response and a nod to the South’s lack of religious pluralism. The food is basically the same, with ham or turkey maybe replacing the Doritos. Someone will inevitably feel the need to inject a prayer thanking Jesus Lord for the bounty of His overcooked green-bean-and-mushroom casseroles. I don’t have any great moral objection to this kind of religious display in a supposedly secular work place; it just always makes me think of ‘60s TV actor Jack Lord, and I inwardly start humming the theme to “Hawaii Five-O”.

Finally I have to mention the peculiar social customs we observe when someone faces a major medical crisis or has a death in the family. The medical issues are often feted just like the birthdays and holidays, except without the “happy surgery” cards. The last one we did was an especially awkward affair for a very nice coworker who was going in for a mastectomy. The same Friday was also the last day for another woman who was having rotator-cuff surgery, a doubtlessly difficult procedure but hardly in the same league with breast cancer. Someone felt the need to call for a group photo – like the whole mortality question wasn’t palpable enough already – and the shoulder lady tearfully declined to be in the picture with the breast lady, not wanting to butt in on her moment in the spotlight. Everybody felt very guilty and tried to pull together a separate quickie celebration at the last minute, but it was all too transparent that we regarded a metastasized malignancy as somehow more noteworthy than being unable to lift your arm higher than this.

Even worse than this fiasco is the morbid practice we have when there’s actually a death involved. About a year ago, we endured twin tragedies in which one staffer was killed in a car accident and another lost her husband just a few days later. Anyone with half an ounce of humanity (even me) felt the need to do something at a time like this to show our concern, but our choice bordered on the bizarre: we took up a collection of money and offered the bereaved individuals a wad of bills. Because nothing says how our prayers are with you in your time of loss like a cash prize of $285.

I guess you could say that we don’t stand on ceremony in our well-intentioned attempts to recognize life’s milestones. Instead, we kind of sneak up and rub against it inappropriately.