“Two years ago we had the office party at a fancy nightclub. Last year it was downsized to the executive conference room. This year it’s going to be separate checks at the Olive Garden. What’s next? The bus station?” Paul did not look happy. He missed the open bar of years gone by. He missed the uniformed staff circulating with trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne. He missed the Christmas bonuses. But mostly, he missed letting other people do his job. Now, with the staff cuts, he had to do the work of all the people he used to manage.

Ellen was furious. “Our party this year is going to be in the eighth floor cafeteria. No liquor. They’re going with fruit punch. No sober person will make a pass at me, which means I won’t have anyone to blackmail next year. I don’t think I can make it on my crappy salary alone. A drunken pass by a married executive was always good for a few days off or being able to come in late every now and then. It was part of my bonus package. No drunks, no bonuses.”

We were all in the local, commiserating about the sad state of the economy and the ghost of Christmas parties past.