The Last Buffet

WC 448

The Last Buffet

By Jack Rawlins

Like a hawk seizing prey Norman swooped down on the buffet’s shrimp. With the serving tongs as talons he snatched at the presentation. In seconds he built a pink pyramid that overflowed the edges of his plate. He then slop-ladled on globs of cocktail sauce, and waddled back to our table.

As I watched him approach, I cursed the cruelty of a job market that forced me into this situation. Here I was in Denver, Colorado, with a fat, lecherous, greedy slob who was now my boss. We were at a feed manufacturer’s convention attending the opening night reception and buffet. I had only been with the company four weeks when he insisted I travel with him so I could get exposure to our customers.

I had a fancy title –marketing communications director –a nice office and a fat salary.I loved being a part of Bio-Systems, Inc. And loved most of my new associates; but I hated my boss.

Greed is a great motivator for some people. Norman was one. He was very successful. He was also heartless and sneaky. He had a reputation for ruining the careers of any promising man or woman he thought presented a threat to him.

In the brief time I knew him, he made no overt sexual advances, only sneaky ones. He was always standing too close and finding ways to brush against or touch me. I needed the job too badly, though, to even consider a sexual harassment suite. What’s more, I didn’t have enough cause for one.

So, by the time we got to Denver, I was already depressed. And I saw no way to escape my dilemma.

Norman considered himself a wonderful conversationalist. That evening, he regaled me for hours with tales of his exploits with women and competitors, and in eating contests. He bragged that he didn’t enter eating contest for the competition; he did it for the food. In all of his stories he was always the hero.

After he had worn a rut in the carpet from his frequent trips to the bar and buffet table, he became more obnoxious by the minute. His tie looked as though it had been used as a baby’s bib. And still he was bragging and shoveling food into his big mouth as though feeding a furnace.

When he suddenly stopped talking, dropped his fork and coughed up a bay leaf I knew he had a problem. He grabbed his throat with both hands as though trying to send me a signal.

Unfortunately, I forgot how to do the Heimlich Hug.

Now that Norman is no longer with us, I am not depressed; and I love my job.

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