Dec. 12: The work Christmas party

 The worst office Christmas party ever was in 1994. I was 21 and had been working as a collection agent for a television cable company for about three months. It was an awful job, which consisted of visiting people at their homes, reminding them that they were delinquent in paying their cable bills, and, preferably, collecting payment then and there. I got $1.50 every time I collected payment, 45 cents whenever I just left a reminder notice.

Very few people paid me. Most of the time, they insisted that they had already paid and then they invited me to get off their property.

My supervisor was a military wife who lived in a condo in southeast Calgary. At the end of the day, I had to take all of my invoices and paperwork to her house and throw it in a lockbox that she kept on the deck of her condominium. The thing that I was doing as a full-time job was, to her, "pin money."

The work Christmas party took place at a comedy club in downtown Calgary. The company paid for our admission and for one drink. I was the only one there all by myself. The comedians picked on me. I left during the final set. Somewhere in there, my supervisor took pictures of everyone. In my picture, I was sitting alone, a ginger ale in front of me, not smiling. My eyes were closed.

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It is tragic that what should have been the prime of my life - what most people consider to be their "fun years" - were actually quite miserable. I pretty much hated life for half of my twenties. 

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Before the economy took a downturn and before the COVID-19 pandemic, my former newspaper used to hold big Christmas parties at the local curling club. There was a catered meal, a DJ, and - spoiler alert - a magician. Yes, I was the magician. I don't mind doing free magic for my colleagues at Christmas. It is a fine exchange for the privilege of working a full-time gig that I adored.

 The picture above was taken at the 2012 office Christmas party at The Glengarry News. I am in the middle. This picture is Exhibit A in an ongoing court case sponsored by The Society of People Who Think Shteevie Looks Awful With Long Hair. I think it was a 70s themed party.

That was a fun party but the one eight years later, in 2004, was better because I did my umbrella card stab trick and everyone in the audience, including the picky Leos, thought it was fantastic.

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In 2011, The News' receptionist, Joan, won tickets to an NHL game between the Ottawa Senators and Calgary Flames. Knowing what a massive Flames fan I am, Joan gifted me the tickets. I was so touched that I bought her a bouquet of flowers, which she said was "totally not necessary."

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There are three types of work Christmas parties that I have attended over the years. They are:

- Office Christmas parties where I liked my job.

- Office Christmas parties where I hated my job.

- Office Christmas parties where I was doing magic.

I like the third type best.

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In 1997, I was employed as a delivery driver for a printing company in downtown Calgary. I went to the holiday Christmas party, which was held at Heritage Park, but it felt very strange, like I was an outsider. Most of my fellow delivery people weren't there. They were out skiing or snowboarding or going to Red Hot Chili Pepper concerts. I tried to hobnob with one of my department supervisors but he totally brushed me off. 

"I don't like you," he said. 

Less than a month later, I was dismissed.

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Somewhere in there, I drove a colleague home from the office Christmas party. The colleague was falling down drunk. On the way home, he opened up to me. He told me I was still young enough to get out of community journalism and urged me to do so as quickly as I could.

"You get no money and no respect," he said, and there was real resentment in his voice. "Do you think the people in this town respect us? They think we're just hacks who don't have the balls to make it at a big city newspaper. They laugh at us."

He was half right. There's not a whole lot of money in community journalism - or any journalism, for that matter - but there is respect. There really is. 

I told my colleague that his articles and pictures were probably magnetted to so many fridges in the county. That his clippings had been pasted in scrapbooks and were even now yellowing with age. "You helped them preserve memories," I said. "Most people know that we're not just journalists, we're historians, and we play small roles in writing the history of this little piece of Canada."

I don't know what happened to that former colleague of mine. I know he didn't like me much. He found me arrogant and full of myself (he was probably right, I thought I was pretty clever when I was in my late 20s and had escaped the hell of my early 20s.) But I hope he's happy today and I hope he got to go to an office Christmas party this year and that he felt respected there.