Page 9 of To Feel Like This Again
Nicholas
I turn into the Polo Club for the luncheon, the vehicle crawling up the steep narrow driveway uniformly lined with palm trees that provide shade intermittently. The sun rays escaping at points to provide light. Adding to the tranquillity, you can hear the birds chirping or whatever therassclaatbirds do when making that peaceful sound.
The valet is on a video call, stretched out on a wooden bench, looking like he’s trying to get laid. He shows no interest in parking my discoloured, eight-year-old Honda Civic, with its front-end damage. Smart move to turn down parking an older, affordable car in favour of getting some front. My disclaimer, of course, is that she’s cute. Although, on second thought, I’m likely to tip him better than the bean counters I work with. But do your thing,Bredda.
By now, I’m sure you’ve figured out the translation for Bredda… is Bro.
Getting out of the car I make my way to the entrance, all spruced up with State Foods banners. Are you frigging serious? They bring out feather banners for an internal event? Once again, the marketing nincompoops had to outdo themselves.
Hold on a second, it gets even better. On entering, I walk over to the prettiest of the four hostesses working theregistration table. “Good afternoon,” I say and hand her my invite. No brainer, really. Like an Interactive Voice Response when you call a bank, she responds, “Good afternoon, Sir. Welcome to the 2024 kick-off luncheon for Managers at State Foods Jamaica, where we offer the best products…”
With the most pleasant smile I can dredge up I interrupt her, telling her “Thanks,” before she can finish her well-rehearsed script. I’m pretty sure I come across as fake.
In response, she gives me her very own well-rehearsed smile while handing me a blank name tag for me to write my name and pin to my chest (so my colleagues, who I see every day, can know what to call me. It’s genius when you really think about it).
“What is your name?”
“Nicholas Thomas. Do you need to see my ID?”
“No, that’s not necessary,” she replies, handing me a gift bag bearing my name. Just like cashiers at stores who never ask for your ID when swiping your credit card. I should have told her my name was Andre Grant, so that he can throw a fit when he arrives and finds his gift bag missing. Andre is the CEO, in case you forgot, which is fine… because he is a bigwaste man.
I open the gift bag and to my surprise it has several State Foods-branded promotional items. But at least I get a water bottle with my name engraved on it. Just last week, I went to the park and after I finished my 5km run in less than twenty-one minutes, I found someone’s grandma drinking from my bottle. Next time she won’t mess with my bottle, now that my name’s on it… because I’m the only Nicholas in town. For the record, in case you’re wondering if I wrote my name on the tag — I most certainly did not.
Stepping away from the registration table to finish sifting through the bag, I fish out the extra-fine-point pen (the only item of value to me), clip it on the pocket of my jeans, tossthe bag on the nearest bistro table and walk off. Yup, you’re following the story — Granny won’t be drinking from any Nicholas-branded bottle.
Making my way towards the main area, I casually greet my colleagues within striking distance. Strong formal handshake with Jason Henry, Head of Supply Chain, because he is uptight. “How are you doing?” I assume he replied with an “I’m good” or some variation of that because I walk off before I hear his response.Waste man dat.
Fist bump Jeffrey Singh, Head of IT, and one of the coolest colleagues. Such a pity he has a gambling problem, and a smoking problem, and an alcohol problem. “The Lakers fucked up again bro,” he says, shaking his head. “Yes, it’s going to be tough for anyone to beat the Bucks.” I instantly wonder if I should have said Milwaukee, instead of Bucks… seeing that I’m sure he lost a lot of bucks last night with that hefty bet he placed on the Lakers to win the game. We chat about the NBA for a few minutes and then I go off to say hello to Alicia Walker, the head of HR and my mother’s college friend. It goes without saying that she looks out for me in my career. Alicia is in the middle of a conversation with her deputy, Stephanie, when I approach them.
“Hey, ladies.”
“Hey, Nick,” they respond in unison.
I give Alicia a warm hug. And then intentionally try to give Stephanie a good old church hug, but she made it a very warm one. Or maybe I am overthinking it because she recently went through a messy breakup where it’s rumoured her ex-boyfriend cheated on her with a stripper.Go figure.
While I’m wondering if her ex really cheated on her with a stripper, Alicia halts my thoughts, “I ran into your Auntie Sue at the supermarket.”
“Yea… I’m sure her trolley was filled with the most expensive bottles of wine.”
Alicia laughs, making her best attempt at what I think is a French accent, “Yes, of course, daahling… and Remy Martin for the husband.” Terrible impersonation, but funny, nonetheless. Sue married an asshole who happen to own one of the largest pharmacy chains on the island.
As always, Alicia and I chitchat about my mother’s gossip-worthy classmates, while Stephanie fuels our conversation with laughter. Needless to say, the gossip involves who had slept with whom… I hope it never touched a nerve for Stephanie.
Admittingly, I love thefuckeryand really want to share that another of my mother’s classmates had slept with her best friend’s husband some thirty years ago… confirmed by a recent DNA test. But I excuse myself to get something to drink… because I have an agenda.
Hold on, before I go though, is it weird that I’d fuck Alicia? I’ve wanted to for as long as I can remember but she’s off limits because I work with her. She also feels the same way. We met for drinks last year “to catch up” even though I see her most days at work and after her third martini, she began caressing my hand, saying, “If only you weren’t Kelly’s son”.
I cruise over to the bar and order “a quarter cup of water with a lime”. The waitress raises her eyebrow, and repeats, “a quarter cup of water with a lime” to ensure she got the bizarre request correctly.
“Yea, you heard right.”
I can only have a small amount of water — no alcohol yet — for a simple reason. I had gone to the gym in the morning and killed it. Running 5km on the treadmill in less than twenty minutes, lowering my PB to impress the cute chick on the machine beside me in the green sports bra. Maxing out on the bench press exercise, without the help of a spotter, as said cute chick deliberately walked by in her matching green tights. Curling two dumbbells indefinitely until I just couldn’tgo anymore, dropping the dumbbells on the foam tile, then dropping on the foam tile myself, lying flat on my back. Only to look up to see the chick in green walk right past me.
Just to give you an idea of how hard I went. And to truly show the benefits of the killer workout, I skipped breakfast. The end result was that I was optimally ripped in my slim-fitted, short sleeve, navy blue shirt. My biceps made the sleeves feel like spandex on my skin and my chest was on the verge of detaching the two top buttons.
I’m not going to lie; I am so fucking hungry… I can eat a horse. Then again, I take that back. That’s a weird thing to joke about since on the western side of the club, the hoity-toity ladies are gearing up for a game of polo.
I take a sip of my water and notice Melissa Campbell on the other side of the bar doomscrolling on Instagram. We make eye contact and so I go over to her, “Hi Mel, have you tried any of the fancy food yet?” She is the chick who slid into my DM... and I still haven’t responded. To be honest, she’s a very attractive lady in her late thirties but she’s off limit.
