A week before Christmas, I ducked into the fifth floor men's room. It served as temporary reprieve. The first among twenty or thirty things I could invent to occupy myself while avoiding the remainder of the company Holiday party two floors below. One other occupant was in the room. He barely registered on my eggnog-addled brain. Most years I managed to escape the compulsory merrymaking by being unavoidably detained somewhere else on company business. This year I was unavoidably detained in Los Angeles.
Jerking my necktie loose, I stepped up to the urinal, yanked my dick out and let nature, which I'd been holding in for the last hour, loose. As relief flowed, I slid the ultimate in bad taste off my neck and shoved it in one pocket. This morning my boss had passed out Christmas themed ties. Then he told us to wear them for the next week for company morale. Oh joy. Mine was gold and covered in deranged reindeer drinking martinis. I'd have thrown it in the john and pissed on the damn thing if I didn't have to wear it again. December 26, the corporate neck rope was headed for the incinerator.
I just don't like Christmas much. No, correction, I like Christmas, but I don't like the pressure of having to be happy and part of the crowd. Work, family, both of them got on my nerves this time of year. Leave me alone, give me an imported beer, a turkey sandwich and re-runs of
It's a Wonderful Life
and I'm good.
Music thumped through the floor. I hadn't even been to the party an hour yet and my head ached. Too many long nights riding a desk. Too many step off the plane, have a meeting, get back on trips lately. None of it geared to make the forced frivolity of an event with my co-irkers overly pleasant. Especially when I spent way, way too much time with these people anyway. I sighed and tucked myself away. That was two minutes. Maybe I could stretch washing my hands into an hour or so.
Splashing water on my face, avoiding the inevitable, I looked over my silent companion. He was slumped in the corner. Perched against the sink counter running along one wall, it didn't seem to register to him that he was in the can. Legs crossed, bent over the laminate surface, he concentrated on drawing in a spiral-bound notepad. I'd guess he was in early twenties, maybe eighteen or nineteen, although I find it harder and harder to judge the older I get. Black BDU's, black T-shirt, both tight enough to show off that he worked out. Not a lot, but guys his age don't need much to keep them in shape.
"Not the most comfortable place for drawing." I commented.
He shot me a dirty look and kept doodling. His eyes were a rich hazel and brooded under a set of thick black brows. Some other color than the Kool-Ade red and green which streaked his blonde hair would have suited his face better. Still, the whole package wasn't bad looking.
Delaying my inevitable return to purgatory, I tried again. "You know there are some vacant offices around here that would be much more comfortable for doing that."
That met with a little more success. He sighed and dropped his pencil onto the pad. "Yeah but then my mom could find me and drag me downstairs." He was still talking into his work, not looking at me. Wasn't big on eye contact. "She won't come in here."
"Aha." The wad of paper towels I used to dry my hands sailed across the room. Five points, I'd hit the trash. "So, your mom works here?"
"Yeah."
"Honestly, dressed like that I didn't think you were one of the interns." Again those hazel eyes slid up, accusing me of being old and stupid because I was old. I didn't feel as ancient as his glower accused me of being. At thirty I mentally felt like I was twenty -- ish. I was still in good shape, pretty up on culture and trends and I liked to party as much as the next guy. Okay, so I couldn't do the up all night and go to class the next day routine any more, but the paycheck grind will do that to you. "Well that makes two of us using the bathroom as a hiding place." Shaking my head, I cocked my hip on the counter and crossed my arms over my chest. My brown haired, brown eyed reflection mimicked me. "The last thing I want is to be down there surrounded by a bunch of half sloshed suckups."
He snorted. "No shit." Then he seemed as though he wanted to say something but was too embarrassed. He must've been really embarrassed if it showed through that hard fought ennui.
"What?"
"What do you mean what?"
"You were going to say something."
"No, I mean, you probably think I'm some kind of real dork getting hauled to the office Holiday party by my mom." Maybe I did think that, but I wasn't about to say it. Jesus Christ, we were both hiding like kids in the men's restroom. I didn't have a whole lot of room for flinging accusations. "I mean, I'm twenty and I could be busting out on free booze at least, 'cause no-one's checking ID's." He shrugged. "We have a midnight flight. Mom didn't want to miss the Secret-Santa exchange, so we're leaving from here. I just didn't want to have to tag around after her. Not like I could get bombed with her around anyway."
"That sucks," I snorted, "at least I know most of the idiots downstairs and my mom's not around to comment on my drinking habits. Booze is the only thing that makes these shindigs tolerable."
"No shit." This time his eyes lit up and he smiled. "And I'm not the only loser, 'cause you're in here with me."
