The Tale of Five Beers

I went to my company�s Christmas party last Friday despite my general aversion to anything social involving actuaries. It was held in this space fixed up with fake heating ducts and immaculately clean and exposed pipes so it looked like a converted warehouse, even though it obviously wasn�t. Charming. It was by the South Street Seaport in Manhattan, with a full view of the water and pier 17, and it was generally very lovely, but very contrived and �New York�.

My friend Slick drove us to Hoboken and we took the ferry over to the island. We got there awhile before everyone else from the office showed up, so we stopped in a bar for a beer, and we started talking about, and making fun of, everyone from the office. Oh come on, it�s 200 mathematicians we�re talking about here. It�s not that we�re mean people, but there�s so much material, it�s irresistible.

We went to the party and immediately headed to the open bar. Beer number two found me in a new group of people from work, still making fun of co-workers, but this time pointing and laughing at them as they walked in the door. It was suggested that, since our DJ was terrible, we should just walk out to the streets of Manhattan and let me entertain the group with witty and cruel comments about each person that walked by. It�s really not so bad, considering that for every comment about someone else, I state two embarrassing and gross insights about myself. I�m not perfect, but I make sure to point out that you aren�t either.

Beer number three found me almost in tears, pressed up against the windows overlooking the balcony as I watched all the smokers lighting up and inhaling deeply on their Camels and Marlboros. It took three drunken friends holding me back from going out there and indulging in my favorite pastime.

We sat down at our table with beer number four and were served the most god-awful, she-she, New York, quote-unquote gourmet, food any of us had ever seen. I�m sure some would love it, probably the company�s employees who work in Manhattan and are used to a more diverse palate, but us New Jersey kids immediately turned up our noses and wished for a simple cheeseburger from a roadside diner. Slick, who in two years of eating lunch together has only been willing to eat from a menu of three things in this world, looked down at his appetizer and said, �I feel like I�m on one of those fancy cooking shows.� The appetizer was an oversized white plate, with a fist-sized rosebud in the center made of bread covered in horseradish with a dollop of fish eggs, wrapped in a delicate pink leaf of raw salmon. I took one look at it and exclaimed to my fellow eaters, �I feel like I�m on FearFactor � if I eat this do I win something?� Much applause from the NJ crowd of 25 year olds.

As I finished beer number five, I witnessed as dinner was concluded and the room of white, geeky actuaries erupted into poorly coordinated song and dance against the backdrop of exposed plastic wiring and Staten Island in the distance. I leaned against and wall and just stared in awe. Slick tugged on my sleeve and proclaimed that we were leaving early, as agreed upon previously, and we left the party and walked back to the pier to catch the ferry back home. The 13 degree chill in the air undid most of the damage from the five beers as we sat and talked under the big green sign reading �Hoboken Ferry�. After 7 Long Island ferries and 45 minutes, Slick bravely walked inside the ferry terminal and asked where in the hell our ferry was to Hoboken. �Are you waiting by the big green Hoboken Ferry sign? The Hoboken Ferry doesn�t come there, you have to go to pier 13.�

Ahh, New York. Only after five beers do I find you even remotely charming.