Party Cat

Chris Miller

March 2006

My apologies if I sound a tad bitter. If I attended the party, I knew full well that every man and woman in the room would repulse me, and every conversation would weary me. No wonder the suicide rate was highest at this time of year.

Last year, we ate hors d'oeuvres, antipasto and canapé. We drank mulled wine. Women laughed about anything. Meanwhile, I readily adhered to the "eat as much as you can philosophy" of gluttony and obesity. My boss gave me a dirty look when I pulled a prank involving celery sticks. Later, when it came time to exchange gifts, my boss asked that the Boney M music be turned off. I received a box of golf balls, despite the fact I never played golf. And we all got drunk together.

"Don’t get me wrong, I like getting drunk," I told Abby. "But I could do that at home just as easily, thank you very much, without all that aimless twaddle."

"Yeah, you’ve always enjoyed drinking alone," she said.

Damn right, I did. The whole concept of getting drunk at a Christmas party with others, particularly the dimwits I worked with all year ‘round, was sickening because instead of drowning my own sorrows, I was forced to listen to theirs, too. When drinking with others, all problems were compounded.

Things turned worse at last year’s party once the alcohol kicked in. My boss’s wife, a moderately large woman with droopy breasts, danced topless on the tabletop. Not a pretty sight. Then she upchucked eggnog all over the carpet. Hotel security came and warned us about the noise level. Alas, my Nightmare Before Christmas.

Honestly, I didn’t want to go through all that again. I’d rather stay at home and watch "Miracle on 34th Street." Or, better yet, diddle with myself.

"Hell, I don’t want to go to that party," I said.

"You’re quite fortunate," said Abby. "I’d be most pleased to go. I’d love to sing Jingle Bells with those folks."

"The meal will be good, if that’s any consolation," I said. "The boss is ordering steak and lobster for everybody."

"You shouldn’t complain then," said Abby, in disgust. She loved seafood, lobster in particular. "All I ever eat around here is Whiskas. Sometimes I feast on crumbs off the carpet."

Was man really born to endure office politics, Christmas shopping, female chitchat, company parties, and then die? Sometimes I’d like to show my co-workers a glimpse of what made me hate their ways, what made me wish I didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn and greet them each morning. Let them know that at times I had truly been affected by dark and hideous things, at times couldn’t summon a smile so quickly, at times wanted nothing more than to quit my job and curl up in a corner someplace and die. They would find me there, bury me, and hire somebody else to sit at my desk in the tiny cubicle. Maybe then, at last, I could get some relief about always being out of step with the majority, always the non-conformist.

While laughing, I suggested, "So how about it, Abby? Do you want to take my place at the party?"

Her bewhiskered face brightened for a moment, but then turned a tad dispirited as she replied, "We look too different, otherwise I’d gladly go."

"Look, the banquet room is dimly lit so it’s not too easy to see in there," I said, "and especially if you’re dressed up in nice clothes, no one will ever notice. Plus, most of my co-workers are drunks. A firm handshake and a well-timed laugh, you’ll fool everybody."

Giving some thought to the situation, finally Abby answered, "All right, I’ll do it. I love a good party!"

The following evening Abby got dressed up in a white button-up shirt, power tie, dark blazer, dark pants. She borrowed my shiny black shoes, looking every bit the classy cat ready for a night out on the town. Given that she had four legs instead of two we had to make a few alterations on the pants, but nothing excessive.

I reminded Abby to introduce herself as me. Night had come, and I bade her farewell as she headed out to the hotel across town where the party was held.

Tired out by the preparations, I took out a book, and rested on my bed reading. I read a few pages, and drifted off to sleep. It’s a Wonderful Life.

I woke some time later, unsure what time it was. All I knew was that Abby had not yet returned from the Christmas party. I called out to her, but no answer. I checked the clock. It was after midnight. I hoped everything was going OK. Next, feeling hungry, I went out into the backyard. A warm night, a snowman melted there, and I took a whiz across his belly.

Minutes later, I heard Abby pull up in my car, and I was eager to ask her about the party, and learn whether her deception won them over.

I went outside in the cold to greet her. "So, how was it? Have a good time?"

"Got a little drunk. Probably shouldn’t have drove home," she said, with a sort of fatuous smile, typical of drunks. She loosened her tie that was coated with hair.

"Don’t sweat it," I said. "A drunken night behind the wheel has always been an integral part of the holiday tradition. Just because you wish good will towards men doesn’t mean you can’t play Russian roulette with their lives on the road home."

"By the way, don’t be surprised if you get a raise," said Abby.

I imagined my sophisticated feline putting in a good word for me with the boss while sidling up against his leg. I imagined her rubbing elbows with the guys, getting all flirty, dancing up a storm, and telling in-jokes.

It was one thing to know that my cat was au courant in current events, science and philosophy, that she could beat me in chess in under 20 moves. It was quite another to know that she fit in with my co-workers better than I did. Somehow, I felt inferior.

"Having a snack, then going to bed. Good night," I said, swallowing down the last yummy morsel of a field mouse, its grubby gray/brown tail sliding down my throat like a strand of sticky spaghetti.

Chris Miller lives and works as a community newspaper editor in Cold Lake, Alberta. He enjoys drinking beer and playing chess, often at the same time. He's published short fiction with Megaera, Thieves Jargon, Zygote in my Coffee, Cautionary Tale, Verb Sap and various other online literary magazines.

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