boomerlaughs

For starters, I was a food broker at one point in my 20s and I did quite well.  I was tall, thin, considered to be very pretty, and single.  The single part always seemed to get me into a mess.  Heck, it was the late 70s and early 80s.  Being single got MOST of us into a mess.

The wives of the other Account Managers held me at arms length, which, as it turns out, was a wise decision.  But that’s another story for another time.  I seemed to always be suspect for “sleeping” my way to the top.  That suspicion was only half-way warranted.  I did my share of sleeping around (including with the bosses son-yes, another story) but I was pretty good at what I did and actually merited my career steps.

One day I was given a new account, a seafood distributor.  I made an appointment for a sample presentation, prepared my spiel, and went off to conquer!  I wore a lovely outfit suited to the occasion (at least in the 80s it was).  A black stitched-down pleated skirt, a red silk stock-tie blouse, a waist-length black and white glen-plaid bolero jacket, 2 long ropes of pearls, a long gold chain, black pantyhose, black mary jane heels, NO underwear.  This may seem superfluous, however, it DOES indeed relate to the story.

I arrived supremely confident and well prepared.  The receptionist took me into a break room that was next to the offices, there was where I would make my presentation.  The break room was like one-half of the office space.  A wall of window-top/solid bottom separated the two with a double swinging door in between.  The opposite wall was filled with the standard vending machines of the day and the rest of the room was all tables and chairs.

At the front of the break room was another set of heavy, heavy double swinging doors that led into the cold warehouse area of the building.  The doors had a large metal loop at the bottom that could be attached to a large spike permanently implanted into the concrete floor to keep them open when needed.  The spike looked like the working end of a crochet hook that was intended for Sasquatch.  Unfortunately, the door spike was nearly invisible as it was the same color as the concrete floor.  I did not notice it until much later.

There were a couple of guys in the break room at the far end.  They were, at the time, in their own little world drinking coffees and colas, munching a bagel, and had become one with whatever news paper or magazine was on the table.  When I entered the room I entered as some blithe spirit passing unnoticed behind them.  Not wishing to disturb, I went to the corner by the warehouse doors setting my sample case on the floor and brief case on the table.  With no knowledge of my impending doom I unloaded my paperwork onto the table in pristine order for the presentation of my wares.

It was then that the world of ‘Oh my GOD, I can NOT believe this is happening to me’ opened it’s doors wide with plenty of room for me to enter and take full advantage of all the horrors that are offered there.

I bent down from my knees in a lady-like manner to open my case.  In my descent the unnoticed floor spike hit me on the buhtox (Forest Gump style) poking a hole right through my pantyhose while simultaneously removing the skin from my tender hiney.  Obviously, this startled me and I tried to stand up again, but that was not to happen.  The crochet hook end of the spike was stuck in my pantyhose.  The ONLY fortunate thing was that my pleated skirt covered everything including the evil spike.

Time was too swiftly approaching for the swarm of employees to enter the break room for my presentation.  My brain a-whirl with ways out of this mess.  The guys at the table had not even looked my way.  I contemplated reaching up my skirt and pulling it free but the guys were sitting sideways to me and I feared they might see. I then tried to squirm around and wiggle attempting to free myself.  Balancing on my heels added to the difficulty of my situation.

One of the guys got up to get something from a vending machine confirming that I should not dare to reach up my skirt to disentangle myself.  I continued slight wiggles and turns while attempting to cover my actions by pulling things out of my sample case tottering all the while.  From my crouched position I could see through the glass that people in the office were starting to stand up and get into ‘pre-gathering’ formation to enter the meeting.  

I wiggled, I squirmed, I tottered, I leaned a little this way and a little that.  NO WAY was this sucker ever going to come loose.  You would have thought the sucker had been woven into my pantyhose! Break-room guy sat down again and shifted things around on his table and then it came to me.  If I just stood up REAL fast the evil little sucker would just rip back out the way it had so unceremoniously found its way in.  Employees were now approaching the door to enter the break room.  I felt panic, sweat, horror, confusion, and anger.  There were NO women in this entire establishment save the receptionist and SHE was not coming in the room!  DAMN!

In one quick and desperate move I stood up.  AHHHHHHHHHH, I was loose.  However, the doorstop from hell had also ripped a gigantic hole in my pantyhose.  It couldn’t just leave a little tiny space.  NO!  It HAD the audacity to leave a hole large enough for BOTH of the cheeks of my bum to hang out and feel a foreboding breeze! You could have flown a 747 through it!

No time.  The guys were entering the room.  I quickly placed samples on the table.  I think I smiled at the men, I’m not sure.  Nothing was in my consciousness except the fact that every time I made a move BOTH sides of the tear tore a little more inching forward and forward toward my tummy.  I pressed my hand against the torn part as if it were just like putting my hand on my hip, casually, but with a red face I am sure. 

In dread fear that at some moment during my presentation my pantyhose would drop in a humiliating puddle down around my ankles I pressed on.  I made my presentation, feeling more tearing with each breath and movement.  Finished, I walked out holding my brief and sample case tight to my body lest there be any unwarranted movement from my pantyhose.  I have NO idea what I said.  I don’t recall any conversation or questions that passed between the employees and me.  I don’t even remember if I gave them samples to try.  I only know that I needed to get out of there.

Getting into my car I realized that my pantyhose were being held on by an inch of fabric just below my navel.  They had torn THAT much.  I pulled out and found a secluded spot to pull over, stop my engine and breath.  I quickly pulled off my hose, threw them into my car trash bag and drove off in search of a market to purchase a new pair.

Now one would think that this should be the end of the humiliation, but NO, not for me.  Further trials awaited me back at my office.

I waltzed into my office building relieved to have the incident behind me (no pun intended) when the president of the company called me to his office.  No casual meeting, no quick chat, but closed door.  In this company a closed door meeting in the president’s office did not bode well.  I didn’t know what this was to be about, but I sure as heck was nervous.

He began by asking how my presentation went.  I said flippantly, “so, so”.  I am certain my face was beet red, dripping with sweat as my mind rudely pulled up a complete video of the days events.

THEN this towering behemoth of a man who held my future asked the unthinkable.  “Are you on drugs?”  And that was it.  The sentence hung in the air like a dirigible.  He went totally silent, glaring at me.  With the laser beam of his eyes I understood how prisoners in a Nazi concentration camp felt when interrogated.  Although I wasn’t going to be killed with the wrong answer, my brain secretly wondered.  I didn’t want to find out.

I looked at him with the astonishment I felt throughout my body.  “WHAT?” I said, all offended and taken aback.  Where did THIS question come from, I wondered.  Not at all what I had expected, not that I actually had any idea what to expect.

He explained to me that whatever I had said or done at the recently daunting presentation had caused the owner of the company to call him and state that he thought I might be on drugs.  He further explained to me that the owner had complained to him that my presentation was so dis-jointed and unintelligible that he had no idea what I was really presenting.  Not to mention the fact that my physical behavior was, to say the least, odd.

I sat there in the chair, frozen, dreadful .  I felt I had no choice (if I were ever to work in this industry without suspicion of drug use) but to tell him all.  And I did.  Every second of fear and humiliation was laid out before him in detail.

To my shock he broke out in hysterical laughter.  THAT, in itself, was an amazing thing.  The president of the company was nothing if not anal, dignified, and a decorous poker face when it came to emotion.  I had NEVER seen him laugh.  Rarely had I seen him even grin.

When the moment moved to a calmer state he said that he would have to share this “little tidbit” (little, INDEED!) with the owner of the account so as to save the face of the company I worked for. I politely asked if I could be removed from the account.  He agreed.

I never saw any of those guys again, for which I am eternally grateful.  However, about a month later, one of my colleagues sidled up to me in the hall while I was on my way to a presentation and whispered, “Don’t get your pantyhose in bind”.  Need I say more?

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