Don’t talk to me. Have you seen my sandwich?

This past weekend we had a huge fundraiser for work. We raised over a million dollars and it’s important, because a small small part of that is my salary.

It was all hands on deck. A month ago, the woman managing the event called me into her office. She tells me,

“I originally put you on registration, but then it was suggested that you might be better as a cocktail host. It would be your job to walk around with a drink in your hand and talk to people. What do you think?”

Walk around with a drink talking to people? I’ve been practicing for this my whole life.

I double up on the practicing. One can’t be too prepared.

The night of the event the hall for cocktails fills up. I mingle. I approach couples, groups of people, people by themselves. ANYONE. Like it’s my job.

I walk up to one woman and introduce myself with the smile that has been serving me well for awhile now. She stares at me. She asks,

“What’s your job?”

“My job is-“

“-I mean what’s your job tonight?”

“To socialize with people.”

“Then you’re doing a good job, but you don’t need to talk to me.”

Everyone leaves the hall and heads downstairs for the $500 a plate dinner. We were told ahead of time that there will not be enough seats for staff for dinner and the staff who do get to have dinner will be chosen based on seniority. So I knew I’d be out of luck.

Before I left, Captain was sweet enough to make me a turkey sandwich with extra mayo. I put my sandwich in a Ziploc baggy, put my Ziploc-baggy sandwich in my purse and deposit the whole thing at the coat check. After cocktails I return for my sandwich. Ziploc-baggy sandwich in hand, I slip in the back of the event, wave my sandwich and ask my supervisor,

“Where can I eat this?”

“We’re going to have seats for everyone, I’m seating you now.”

I look at the sandwich. Should I take it back to the coat check? I might miss out on getting seated for dinner. I hover near the exit, sandwich by my side. There’s a seat for me. I’m directed to a table. I hide the sandwich in the folds of my dress. The men stand when I arrive and wait until I’m seated to sit. That’s never happened to me before. I make a split second decision. The sandwich was great, but 8 hours of unrefrigeration later, who knows. I kick it under the table.

Captain arrives at 9pm for the after party. I recount the sandwich debacle. He tells me,

“I would’ve eaten it.”

“I can go get it! I’m sure it’s still under the table.”

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