A week or so ago a coworker sent me an email:

To: Kilgore Trout; Blonde Married Woman; Cute Girl On Whom Kilgore Has Sustained a Desperate, Pathetic Crush For Nearly Two Years; IT Guy Who Cracks Jokes Constantly; Muscular IT Guy; Stoner IT Guy; Kilgore's Bitterly Divorced and Slightly Overweight Boozehound Female Boss; Moderately Cute 39-Year-Old Divorcee With No Children

From: Redheaded Married Woman

Re: Night Out

It's been a while since we all went out. Who wants to meet in LoDo on Saturday the 31st at about 7:00? We could start at Old Chicago and maybe go somewhere else later. Let me know if you can go.

Redhead was right -- it had been a while since we had all gone out, because I had never been invited before. Actually, that's not true. Last spring, Blondie invited me to celebrate her birthday with a group of coworkers at a bar in downtown Denver. I called my friend G-Dog to request backup.

G-Dog thought the invitation smacked of ulterior motives. "Do you think this is a set-up?" he asked. "Is there someone that Blondie wants you to meet?"

"Maybe," I said. "I think she might want me to talk to Cute Girl."

"So... why do you need me along?"

"Because I suffer from crushing social anxiety and a conspicious lack of confidence, and I'm afraid that if I go alone I won't be able to think of anything to say and I'll end up just standing on the periphery of the group sipping at a microbrew and trying to conjure an excuse to leave, and I've helped you move three times in the last two years, you motherfucker, so if you're any kind of friend you'll help me out here," I said. (I didn't really say any of those things, of course. You kind of had to read between the lines.)

G-Dog agreed to come. When we arrived at the bar, Blondie rushed up immediately. "Kilgore!" she shouted, her face flushed with alcohol, "You're here!"

"I'm here," I agreed. G-Dog wandered off to obtain beers.

"Kilgore," she said, her face screwed up in drunken concentration, "how old are you?"

"I'm twenty-nine."

"Twenty-nine!" Blondie she yelled. "You don't look twenty-nine. Hey, Cute Girl! Come here for a minute."

Cute Girl did as she was told. Immediately my pulse accelerated, my mouth went dry, and my hands started to shake. I took a beer from G-Dog, who left to join a game of pool. The conversation that followed was nasty, brutish, and short. Well, no. It was actually pleasant small talk regarding my actual age versus my perceived age, exchanged between three people at varying levels of intoxication. The conversation ended abruptly -- I excused myself to hang with G-Dog, on whom I do not have a crush. I spent the rest of the evening standing with G-Dog on the periphery of the group, sipping at microbrews until I conjured an excuse to leave.

I had failed. Nobody invited me to any more after-work parties, although of course I knew they were happening -- whispered plans float easily over cubicle walls.

Are you coming out tonight? Good! We'll see you at the Wynkoop at six.

Joker got so drunk last time we went out... I don't know if his wife will let him go tomorrow night.

Two weeks ago, Blondie stopped into my cubicle and glanced around. "What are you doing Friday night?" she whispered.

"Uh, nothing."

"Some of us are going drinking after work at the Suites," she said. "Do you want to come?"

I wanted to come. This was a fairly open gathering -- only the office pariahs had been excluded -- so quite a few people showed up. I sat with Blondie on my left and Muscles on my right, and I drank glasses of Fat Tire and cracked jokes and talked with Cute Girl a little. When I left I felt I had acquitted myself well.

Tonight's gathering is not fairly open. The social elite of my company have invited me to join their reigning clique. They've given me that big promotion. They've called me up from the minors to The Show.

Right now you are rolling your eyes in disgust. "You make me sick, Kilgore," you are saying. "What is this, John Adams Middle School in Mason City, Iowa? You sound like a nerdy sixth grader bursting into tears of joy because some popular kids asked him to eat lunch at their table. Next you'll be blogging about how you spent $200 on Nike sneakers because Joker and Muscles were wearing them. Aren't you a little too old and a little too wise to worry so much about popularity and social strata and clique membership?"

Yes.

+posted by Lawrence @ 1/31/2004 06:44:00 PM