The Low Blood Sugar Hero

The bank’s annual New Year’s Eve party was held at their local Double Tree hotel and convention center. Martin parked across the street He got out and considered his surroundings, the dark glade of evergreens near the parking lot, the twinkling lights in the smaller trees lining the walk to the convention center’s entrance.

Although he parked in the center of his space, designated by markings painted on the blacktop, the car on his right was parked a bit too close. Sophie always insisted on Martin folding in the side view mirrors whenever he parked. Reluctantly, he paced around the small car and flipped the mirrors inward. It was her car, after all.

Sophie wasn’t interested in going this year because she couldn’t enjoy having a few drinks during her pregnancy. Martin had tried to convince her that having a couple of glasses of Champagne wouldn’t be harmful, but she wasn’t going to hear of it. All of the books and magazines she’d read warned her against alcohol and she was going to stand firm.

Martin, alone in the freezing winter wind, wondered if he would attend the party at all. In the past, they had gone primarily because Sophie wanted to go to a big party. She felt she was missing out on a great deal of socializing by working from home.

Martin was never too keen on spending his free time with people he saw practically every day and even less keen on what his coworkers believed to be a good party. It was always too loud and seemed to cater to the young urban crowd who were rapidly absorbing banking positions at every echelon.

Each year, he had sat at the table where the old timers gathered and listened to them comment on this one or that one’s skimpy dress or who groped who on the dance floor. It was either that or a bunch of nostalgic ramblings about the so called good old days.

Without Sophie’s company, it could very well be intolerable. She had always found a way to make the situation funny and would whisper her own observations about his co-workers. Fueled by his quips and qualms about the bank throughout the year, she could be quite humorously sarcastic. The recollection made the possibility of enjoying himself alone, even bleaker.

Another thought made him consider getting back in the car to go home. The holiday bash was always an all you could eat event. Martin wasn’t certain he wanted to expose himself to that situation. There would be slabs of lasagna heated by blue Sterno flames, trays and trays of fried chicken, rice and beans, even his beloved, unholy pork.

He stood and stared at the entrance for almost ten more minutes before being able to act. A sudden realization made going in alone a lot less dire than he’d initially feared.

Martin stepped swiftly across the street and down the tree lined path to the entrance. Without Sophie, he would have no reason to stay after eating a few healthy servings of pork and sampling the lasagna.

He went in and took off his coat, bypassed the coat check, and shook hands with the higher-ups. After being satisfied that he’d made enough of an appearance to be remembered as present, Martin decided to eat.

On the line for the buffet, he was largely disappointed. It seemed all of the lanky young Hispanic tellers had eaten all the pork. The foil tray only contained a few crisp strands and crumbs swimming in a pool of brown grease. Martin ate a little of the remains, choosing the pork over breaded deep fried shrimp then soothed himself with a few plates of chocolate cake and big cups of beer.

It was after nine. He had promised to be home with Sophie for midnight, but had a buzz on and was starting to feel good. Some of the younger tellers had brought along a flashy neon green plastic stick and started playing Limbo. Martin had been pretty good at Limbo in college and decided to show the youngsters a thing or two. Surprised to be having fun, he started to regret not compelling Sophie to join him.

The Salsa music and Limbo seemed so natural together. He was fine on his first two passes and basked in the applause and the vicarious victory hoots from the old timers’ table. When the stick was less than three feet from the ground, he tried again. He was getting low, people gathered to see if he would make it. Martin Gold, the chubby, uptight tellers’ supervisor was finally letting it all hang out.

“Martin, Martin, Martin,” they started to chant as he arched over lower and lower. In an instant, Martin lost his balance. He fell, split his pants and vomited all over himself.

Embarrassed beyond all possible consideration, someone had helped him to his feet. The shrieks of shock and laughter echoed around him above the Latin beat. Miserable, Martin found his way to the washroom. He dabbed at his sweater with damp paper towels and washed his mouth out in the sink intermittently.

Sophie had called a few times but Martin hadn’t answered. He didn’t feel good enough to talk on the phone without giving away his dismay.

When he looked at the phone the time displayed 10:18 PM. In a panic, he had to get home in time to watch Dick Clark’s countdown with Sophie. He peeked into the function room. Many of the old timer’s were gone. He could see his jacket on the back of a chair at the table. The music was louder than ever and the Limbo game was still in full swing. Martin entered carefully, not wanting to attract

any attention.

Most of his coworker’s were focused on a busty young black teller from another branch. They clapped vigorously to the rhythm. She was arched over, hands only inches from the floor, gorgeous breasts thrust heavenward as she jiggled under the limbo stick.

Martin gazed guiltily for a few moments then took advantage of the distraction. He grabbed his coat, zippered into it then slipped out the door, virtually unnoticed.