Please tell me you don’t work in a morgue

This is what happens to you when you drink boxed wine!

I will never forget the first time I met Cynthia. It was at the annual dinner dance held by the company I worked for. It was a way for those who owned the business to say that they did something nice at least once a year for the employees, while the employees on the other hand felt it was the only night of the year, where they could get plastered, eat too much, puke their guts up on the marble floors of a high class restaurant where the function was held, and never lose their job. Every other night of the year they had to behave themselves.

The night I met Cynthia was when she obviously had too much to drink as she was desperately trying to prop up the bar, but her elbow kept slipping off the bar, spilling the drink she was holding. It looked as if she was an old hand at that because there was one bar tender whose sole job it was to keep filling her glass every time she spilt it down the front of her cocktail dress. And it was a beautiful short black dress with inlaid gold thread all over it. Even though the front was covered with read wine, rum and coke and whatever else dripping onto her really expense high heels, she kept smiling.

“That’s Cynthia,” my friend John said as he stood a good distance away from her just in case the next time her elbow slipped and the contents of her glass flew across the room landing on someone and not just her dress. And judging by the owner of the business, Mr Ridgeway, he had been in direct line of fire.

“Yes, I know that,” I replied to John who had his white handkerchief ready just in case he had to protect himself from a red splash of something. “She works in accounts payable, doesn’t she?” I asked not taking my eyes off her.

“No, that’s a different Cynthia. That Cynthia,” and he turned briefly pointing at an elderly lady who was sedately sitting alone at a large table. “That’s the accounts payable Cynthia. This Cynthia, is actually the owner’s daughter.”

“What?!” I said loudly enough for some of the others to hear me over the loud noises produced by an out of tune band, the constant conservation and the bar lady’s hiccups. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious man. That’s Mr Ridgeway’s daughter.”

“Why doesn’t he take her out of here?”

John smiled. “This is your first dinner dance, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I’ve only been with the company a couple of months.”

“Well, let me tell you….” and just at that moment a splash of red something came flying in our direction and John, who had far more experience than me in these matters, ducked allowing the stream to sail way over his head while I wasn’t quite so lucky. Some of it on its way across the room smacked me in the face.

“Cabernet!” was all I could manage to utter adding, “and not a good vintage. Probably boxed wine!”

“Well,” John continued wiping my face with his handkerchief, “it could’ve been your tuxedo. To continue, Mr Ridgeway brings her here every year hoping that some guy who’s too sloshed to know what time of day it is, proposes to her and they get married and then at the next dinner dance she would be his responsibility.”

“I guess that hasn’t happened yet?”

John who was facing her and I who had turned my back to her shook his head, and then his eyebrows shot up. “What’s the matter, do I have more in coming?” I asked panicking.

“No, worse than that. She’s actually walking towards us.”

“Will she make it?” I asked.

“We shall see,” he replied.

And low and behold, as I turned around to see what I was in for next, Cynthia had made it over to us and wrapped one of her arms, and yes you guessed it the one with the drink in it, around my shoulders. Have you ever had the feeling of red liquid running down your shirt on its way into your pants. If you haven’t, I suggest you don’t try. It’s not pretty.

“Oops!” she replied giggling, “bad shot, eh?”

“It depends where you were aiming,” I replied.

“I have no idea,” she slurred. “The state I’m in…” and she stopped to hiccup, “the very fact I made it over to you means there’s something about you that attracted me.”

I panicked and John excused himself. That left me with a very drunk but wealthy woman with red wine trickling down my chin, down my shirt and then into my pants forming a puddle you know where, and no one to turn to. it was just at that moment I suddenly realised we were the centre of attention. There was silence in the room. You could hear a pin drop. The out of tune band stopped playing and even Cynthia from accounts payable stood up to get a better look.

“Hi,” continued Cynthia stopping for a second to hiccup again. And then she continued. I could barely make out what she said though I believe she said something like, “I don’t work in accounts payable,” but I won’t swear to it.

“Hi,” I replied, “I’m David.”

“David,” she repeated taking a sip out of her empty glass and then looking around for the wine boy, but he had taken that opportunity to vanish. She looked at me and I panicked; she was going to ask me to get her more wine. What was I to do? Mr Ridgeway was looking at directly at me. This was some sort of test and I knew I was going to fail. ‘Help me,’ I mouthed to my friend John who was now standing next to the Cynthia from accounts payable, but he just smiled and shook his head.

‘You’re on your own,’ he mouthed and I swore to myself I was going to get him one day. “What are you drinking Cynthia?”

“I’ve no idea, but it was good.”

“Ok,” I answered, “you just stay here. Hold on to the back of this chair and I will be back with another drink.”

“Please tell me you don’t work in a morgue,” she said and those words made me freeze. The room was still silent; you could hear a pin drop.

“Well,” I said to her halfway to the bar, “considering your father owns a funeral parlour and I work for him, I have to say no. No, I don’t work in a mortuary, I work in the front office.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she shouted to the consternation everyone, “daddy, I’ve found the man of my dreams,” and suddenly I took the wine which was being offered to me and drunk it one shot. Oh boy it was disgusting.