EHYA Banquette
I just got back from my gig at the European High Yield Association's annual charity ball, and, to say the least, it was a blast. I got this job kind of on a whim. My friends at Ithaca told me about a flyer they saw looking for a few college-aged interns to help run a major corporate function that pays 50 quid, which is around $100, as well as dinner and a cabride home to help out setting up, passing out literature, etc. To be quite honost, it seemed too good to be true. I was only half-right -- it was too good, but it was also quite true! I ended up doing less than half the work I originally expected, and still got paid the same I was told.
I had no idea what I was getting myself into originally. I arrived 4:20, 10 minutes earlier than I was supposed to. I wanted to make sure everything went as smoothly as possible, so I borrowed a tux from the Ithaca program's director Bill and a silver tie from my flatmate Leo. I even wore my brand new SpecSavers glasses to add an extra degree of spiff.
It worked. I even got a positive comment on my hair, something that happens as often as Bush pronounces "nuclear" correctly, white made me giddy.
So allow me to introduce the cast of characters. First, there's Robin Myers, the woman who planned this whole event. She's a perrenially late American with a Sephardic look to her, with shoulder length black hair that waves and flows out in every direction. It would look crazy, but there's enough style to it that it "works."
Second, there was the Toast Master Tony. Describing Tony should be easier than it seems due to his distinctive trademark look, but my American-upbringings handicap hinders my ability to rightfully describe such a describable character. Allow me to explain -- this man is your typical British Toast Master. He was a jolly fat man of average height in his 70s with blinding white hair, a well-crafted goatee and narrow pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. He strutted around the hall like he owned the place in a white tux with white bow-tie, garnished with a red-orange jacket and oversized pocketwatch hanging out of his pocket.
Now, the interns. The first person who I met was Patricia. She kind of reminded me of Alex Mack's character in 10 Things I Hate About You's older sister. Sorry I forget her name, and double sorry for the horribly vague comparison. If you know who I'm talking about then kudos. Anyway she was busy highlighting some xeroxed text and was in no humor to honor my attempts at conversation. Sitting in the green velvet chair to her right was Martin, who I did not even know was an intern until later, because he looked a bit shady and didn't say anything when I asked if anyone had seen Robin.
The next girl to walk in was the other NYU girl (the first was Pat), Laura. Laura was much better. She introduced herself as a misanthrope, so it shouldn't surprise anyone that she was the one who I got along with the best. We had nice conversations about our schools, lives, and London experiences. She was the one who liked my hair. Gnarly.
Charles was next. A taller blonde French kid who is studying at LSE, he was friendly but a bit of a tool. He was more than happy to walk around and help out as much as possible, but he had a funny gelled curl in the front of his head that just screamed "I'm trying too hard." He was also the only one of the 3 guys to actually wear a bowtie.
The last intern to meet was Ophelia, a Chinese post-grad studying for her masters in accounting. I really liked Ophelia. She was the most friendly and the most willing to engage in the everyday small talk that I love. She was also the best at pretending she understood what you're saying.
Ok, those are the characters. Here is what happened.
All in all, it was a giant money-spending orgy, with rich white guys in tuxes making lame jokes and spending thousands of pounds on champaign auctions. Some guy even spent 450 pounds on a power tool!
And all I did, along with the 5 other interns -- all college kids -- was lay out the name tags that were all ready in alphabetical order in alphabetical order, walk around and look busy, help stupid rich people who are too important to figure out on their own where to sit where to sit, look busy, eat dinner and listen to the toastmaster's stupid jokes, look busy, bring out the auction prizes, clap for the auction winners, laugh on the inside that some ignorant bloke spent 2900 pounds on a case of wine, draw raffle tickets, clap for the raffle winners, look busy for a bit longer, then have a glass of wine. It was quite a busy night, believe me. Money well earnt. After a while more of watching these rich white guys in tuxes turn into drunk rich white guys in tuxes, our taxi came and we went home. A night well spent I do say.
I had no idea what I was getting myself into originally. I arrived 4:20, 10 minutes earlier than I was supposed to. I wanted to make sure everything went as smoothly as possible, so I borrowed a tux from the Ithaca program's director Bill and a silver tie from my flatmate Leo. I even wore my brand new SpecSavers glasses to add an extra degree of spiff.
It worked. I even got a positive comment on my hair, something that happens as often as Bush pronounces "nuclear" correctly, white made me giddy.
So allow me to introduce the cast of characters. First, there's Robin Myers, the woman who planned this whole event. She's a perrenially late American with a Sephardic look to her, with shoulder length black hair that waves and flows out in every direction. It would look crazy, but there's enough style to it that it "works."
Second, there was the Toast Master Tony. Describing Tony should be easier than it seems due to his distinctive trademark look, but my American-upbringings handicap hinders my ability to rightfully describe such a describable character. Allow me to explain -- this man is your typical British Toast Master. He was a jolly fat man of average height in his 70s with blinding white hair, a well-crafted goatee and narrow pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. He strutted around the hall like he owned the place in a white tux with white bow-tie, garnished with a red-orange jacket and oversized pocketwatch hanging out of his pocket.
Now, the interns. The first person who I met was Patricia. She kind of reminded me of Alex Mack's character in 10 Things I Hate About You's older sister. Sorry I forget her name, and double sorry for the horribly vague comparison. If you know who I'm talking about then kudos. Anyway she was busy highlighting some xeroxed text and was in no humor to honor my attempts at conversation. Sitting in the green velvet chair to her right was Martin, who I did not even know was an intern until later, because he looked a bit shady and didn't say anything when I asked if anyone had seen Robin.
The next girl to walk in was the other NYU girl (the first was Pat), Laura. Laura was much better. She introduced herself as a misanthrope, so it shouldn't surprise anyone that she was the one who I got along with the best. We had nice conversations about our schools, lives, and London experiences. She was the one who liked my hair. Gnarly.
Charles was next. A taller blonde French kid who is studying at LSE, he was friendly but a bit of a tool. He was more than happy to walk around and help out as much as possible, but he had a funny gelled curl in the front of his head that just screamed "I'm trying too hard." He was also the only one of the 3 guys to actually wear a bowtie.
The last intern to meet was Ophelia, a Chinese post-grad studying for her masters in accounting. I really liked Ophelia. She was the most friendly and the most willing to engage in the everyday small talk that I love. She was also the best at pretending she understood what you're saying.
Ok, those are the characters. Here is what happened.
All in all, it was a giant money-spending orgy, with rich white guys in tuxes making lame jokes and spending thousands of pounds on champaign auctions. Some guy even spent 450 pounds on a power tool!
And all I did, along with the 5 other interns -- all college kids -- was lay out the name tags that were all ready in alphabetical order in alphabetical order, walk around and look busy, help stupid rich people who are too important to figure out on their own where to sit where to sit, look busy, eat dinner and listen to the toastmaster's stupid jokes, look busy, bring out the auction prizes, clap for the auction winners, laugh on the inside that some ignorant bloke spent 2900 pounds on a case of wine, draw raffle tickets, clap for the raffle winners, look busy for a bit longer, then have a glass of wine. It was quite a busy night, believe me. Money well earnt. After a while more of watching these rich white guys in tuxes turn into drunk rich white guys in tuxes, our taxi came and we went home. A night well spent I do say.
posted by xdredd at 6:21 PM
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