Beat You to the Punch
At our work party, pockets of people spread about our either-floor, corporate-endorsed cubicle wonderland. The air was filled with awkward laughter, a fruity drink smell that promised a week's worth of calories, silences that were awkwardly long, and the death throws of what remained of my social life.
My mind kept shuffling between 9-5 drudgery and an inability to unwind. After hours was a time dedicated to not talking about work, but an office party fifteen feet away from our cubicles created a bit of a gray area. I swear if one more person asks me about the Swanson Report, I'm stepping out the window and taking the hellevator down to the sidewalk.
I unbuttoned the top button of my Polo as I neared the refreshments. A large bowl of red sugar and who knew what else awaited me, all for the sake of choking down a bit of anxiety long enough to replace it with an unending cycle of unquenchable thirst. A server stood behind the table with her hands clasped behind her. Her name tag said 'Edda,' but she looked like she might have just wrapped up filming for a Mrs. Doubtfire sequel.
"Hey, Edda," I said. "Could you tell me what's in this? I have a peanut allergy."
"Oh, don't worry yourself, love. No penis was used."
"I'm sorry, did up just say—"
Edda proffered a cup with a big smile. "It's mainly fruit, but I added the punch myself." She winked.
We stared at one another for what seemed like enough time for my hair to gray and fall out. I downed the drink in one go. Then, my eyes bulged. I coughed, my throat on fire, my eyes beginning to water. Rum. Supposedly, there was fruit in there somewhere.
Bob, my boss, was patting me on the back as I cried before my gawking audience.
"You alright, Ron?" Bob asked.
"Peachy," I rasped.
"Glad to hear it! After all, we can't have you keeling over until you're done with the Swanson Report."
I nodded along, choking down the inferno in my throat while watching as Edda oriented on the window.
She swung it open like a door. "That's my cue!" she said. Then, she made to leave.
I gasped, and she was gone. It happened so fast that I didn't even have time to move.
Bob teetered alongside me while staring at the windows. "What? What is it?"
I simply pointed, too mute and dumbfounded to repeat what Edda had just done.
"Afraid I beat you to the punch?" someone said alongside me—Edda.
I did a double take. "You! But you just..."
"Wow," Bob said from my opposite. He was looking at his drink glass. "We could run our generators on this stuff. Who's catering this?"
"Edda Dickson," said Edda.
Bob continued looking around as if awaiting an answer. Apparently, acknowledging the help was beneath him.
"Edda Dickson," I repeated.
Bob's eyes widened as the room guffawed. "Ron, that's wildly inappropriate."
"Edda Dickson."
"I heard you the first time, and I'm not your son. Maybe you should head on home. I can't fire you until you're done with the Swanson Report."
I looked to Edda for backup, but she was nowhere to be seen. Did i just get kicked out of our office party? It seems like that should merit a plaque of some kind. I grabbed some punch for the road, then made my way to the elevator under the scrutiny of appraising peers and hushed snickers.
Ding!
The elevator opened, and I boarded—a red haired guy in a green suit staring back at me with a cheesy grin. I immediately crowded the opposite corner and sipped my fruit scented rum.
"Going down?" He asked.
"Yeah, thanks." As the doors closed, I noticed a pile of something in the opposite corner. It looked like a maid costume. "Edda?"
The guy oriented on me. "No, it's me! Fred!"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Fred! You know? From way back in the day?"
I shook my head and peered at my drink. Just what the hell's this stuff? Either I'm tripping balls or... Please, God, let me be tripping balls.
Fred threw a punch combo into my shoulder. "Yeah! Look at us! We're getting the band back together. This is going to be so much fun! Just wait until you see what I've got planned for us next."
"Uh, say what now?"
Writing prompt: You stopped talking to your imaginary friend a long time ago, way back when you were a kid. They just crashed your work party.
