Our
morning meeting takes place in the reception area because all the
conference rooms are booked. There’s a couch, a big ottoman, two tables,
some chairs. People walk through the middle, heading in or out the door
or along the hallway from one side of the office to the other. Some
hurry their pace a little, as though crossing the sight of a tourist’s
camera. Some give a little smile that says: There you are in your meeting, and here I am walking through it.
This
morning most of the seats were taken. I sat at the high table by the
wall, in the corner behind the electric Menorah. I beheld the four fake,
flickering flames as account executives discussed this and that. I
studied the bearings of the people who walked through. Their various
gaits. The meeting broke up and I knocked out the plug while stepping
off the stool. The Menorah went dark. I furtively restored it and looked
around. No one seemed to notice.
In the men’s room, someone in a stall was engaged in a conference call on speakerphone.
In
the middle of the afternoon a colleague suggested we go to the
Christmas event that was taking place in the lobby downstairs. The Nutcracker
emanated from some unseen string trio and mingled with the din of the
assembly. White-clothed tables, festooned with tinsel, ringed the famous
globe and lined the marble walls. They bore trays of gingerbread
cookies, cake lollipops with red and green frosting, urns of cider and
hot chocolate, pitchers of eggnog. A black-clad attendant stood at each,
offering to shake nutmeg, to apply aerated cream, to spoon
mini-marshmallows with a little plastic spoon. Their faces strained with
the discomfort of doing for people what they should do for themselves.