magicbeans. nothing if not awkward.

Remember I met a girl named Ellen at the last official work party? Keep that in mind.

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Beatrice called me this morning and asked if I could come in to work on some Bank of America stuff. I got to the office and noticed that things were a little different, something was not quite right. There were funky chairs in our lobby. Only half the office seemed to be there. The freelance half. 'That's right,' it occurred to me, 'Wold Day.' A company-wide, worldwide, day of workshops and speeches and video conference calls and themed t-shirts (I'm a little upset that I didn't get a t-shirt) and parties. 'Ah yes, the party.'

But first: It turns out that Chris.W has been specifically requesting that I come in to work on his Bank of America projects. Which makes sense. I've been working on them all along, and the middle of this week, when Chris.S had to step in, he wasn't invested in the project, wasn't up to speed, and it would have been easier all around if I had been called in. Plus, Chris.W and I seem to work well together. So this could be a good in.

Then: Over the course of the afternoon the catering people began setting things up in our office. Our little corner of the 'basement' was the official site for the party part of the World Day festivities in New York. Food (little of it vegan), drinks (free), music, and mingling. Not surprisingly there was a lot of work talk, but once you get a few drinks into anyone they tend to loose a little of the corporate edge.

Or, in my case, with five martinis in me, I'm not quite as shy as I am most of the time. To clarify, that's two Mortinis (one of the evening's special drinks, citrus vodka, lemonade, triple sec, and champagne), a dirty vodka martini, a dirty gin martini, and another vodka 'martini' (chilled vodka in a martini glass, everything else having been used up by this point). And when I say 'not quite' as shy, I mean that literally, I was still shy.

But, as things were winding down I found myself outside, with a group made up primarily of girls from the Jack Morton side, chain smoking, and waiting to see what was happening next.

People split off in a few directions. I found myself headed east on 36th, with Ellen (I told you to keep her in mind) and her friend Max. To a bar called Under the Volcano. Literary, although none of us had read the book.

Two more martinis. This whole period of the night is a little fuzzy. We talked world traveling, economics, feminism. At some point Max's boyfriend (?) showed up. We all went outside for a smoke, and it made me feel incredibly sick. The same thing happened to me outside of Global 33 after De La Guarda. Back inside the waitress asked me if I wanted another drink. I waved her off, 'I'm done.'

'A glass of ice water?'

'Yes, please.' Halfway through the second glass of water I stood up, smiled, walked to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. Not gut wrenching, alcohol-poisoned, everything I'd had to eat or drink all day throwing up. But maybe the last martini's worth. And as much as I hate throwing up, I did feel better afterward.

Outside again, max and his boyfriend are getting into a cab. I look up and notice that we are directly across the street from the Gingerman New York. 'I used to drink at the Gingerman in Austin all the time,' I'm telling Ellen. We cross the street but don't go in. I'm not entirely sure why.

They have a bench outside and we sit down. A group of college-aged kids come out from somewhere. Maybe the Gingerman, maybe another bar. Four boys and two girls. Just prior to this a limo has pulled up and the driver is arguing with the driver of a town car parked on the street. 'You cost me my fare,' that sort of thing. The boys want to get into the limo. The girls look uncomfortable with this, make a move towards a cab.

'Run girls, run,' Ellen says, to me, I don't think anyone else on the street hears her. Eventually, after much back and forth, the girls do get into the cab. The boys still get in the limo.

The driver of the town car had gotten out at some point during all this, and was now coming towards us. 'Do you need a ride?'

'No thanks,' Ellen tells him. 'We live just over there.' She gestures down the street.

'Together?'

'Yes.'

'That's nice.' He looks at our hands. 'I see he's got a ring,' he doesn't notice the fact that it's on my middle finger and not my ring finger, 'but you're not wearing one.'

'I told him that I didn't need a ring right now. We don't have a lot of money, and the apartment really meant more. He argued, but..' Ellen went on. The man wandered away, figuring we weren't a fare. Ellen continued to go on. The story of our wedding, our honeymoon, our apartment in midtown and adoption of a Chinese baby. Eventually we went inside for a drink.

Hoegaarden, my Gingerman standby. The New York bar doesn't quite have the same feeling that the Austin one does, although it's likely a lack of memories more than anything else. Ellen had a glass of red wine, not an option in Austin. She talked about how the last four people she's dated were 25, and that's just too young. (She's 34.) I talked about how I get messages from 18 year olds on dating sites. About how the only two times I've strayed out of my 'five years in either direction' rule of thumb (both younger), things went kind of badly.

After one round we find ourselves back on the street. Talking about cabs. Standing dangerously close together. Eventually, 'Do you want to just go back inside and have another drink?'

'I'm up for that.'

She concocted a scheme for distracting the bartenders and stealing the 'Guinness a Day' poster hanging over the bar. 'You can pretend you're having a seizure,' she said.

'As much as I'd like to impress you right now, I don't think I could do it. And besides, that poster is as big as you are.'

'It's not about impressing me. I just want the poster.' This is all of course at least somewhat still tongue in cheek.

Another round down and we're back out the door, hailing a cab. 'I'm afraid that I'm going to fall asleep on the way home,' she tells me.

'Does that mean you want company?'

'You can come along. Instead of going all the way back to Brooklyn.' But, 'You can sleep on my couch.'

Hell's Kitchen. Flights and flights of stairs. She offers me something to drink. 'Just tap water is fine.' She puts sheets on the fold-out couch. She pulls out an individually packaged, pre-toothpasted toothbrush, they had gotten a bunch for a friend's bachelorette (?) party, and she still has dozens. They come in handy sometimes.

And lying in beds on opposite sides of a bookshelf, 'Are you comfortable?'

'Relatively,' I said, in characteristically ambiguous fashion. We talked for a while.

'Still only "relatively" comfortable?' (As a side note, I'm not sure if relatively is actually the word I used.) 'As comfortable as a bed with a metal bar down the middle can be?'

'Pretty much.'

'You can come and sleep on the other side of my mattress that slopes into the middle.' And not even thinking twice about it, I did. We talked a while longer, and then mid-sentence she was asleep.