Issue 5, Winter 2008

A Chance Romance on a Night of Yuletide Merriment
by Liz Prato

I was seven years old when I created my first acronym. Bobby Morgan and Gino Finnelli and I had decided to form a club. Our clubhouse was a big box that my mom’s new refrigerator came in. We cut a window into the cardboard and placed it on my back porch, underneath the roof, in case it rained. The flaps at the end of the box were the door, and with red poster paint we wrote the word GAS. That was the name of our club, and it stood for Girls Are Smelly, or sometimes Girls Are Stupid.  It wasn’t much, but to this day I still get a little sentimental any time I see the word GAS.

The lobby of the hotel near Dulles Airport is more opulent than I expect. Most airport hotels are small and efficient, since guests rarely stay more than one night. They only stay there because they have to be close to the airport, otherwise they’d stay in town, near Georgetown or the Smithsonian or the Mall. But this lobby is ornately decorated in glossy black and gold, the columns and floors all marble and slick. A giant Fir tree rises into the three-story atrium, decorated with identical ornaments, all shiny round and crimson.

Standing behind a mahogany podium is the COGS – Coordinator Of Guest Services.

“Good evening, Sir,” he says politely. “How may I help you?”

Nice kid. Probably works here to put himself through college. Maybe pre-law at Howard. “I’m looking for the holiday party for the Syndicate for Creating Acronyms,” I say.

“Certainly, Sir.” He runs his finger up and down a piece of paper on his podium. His eyebrows scrunch up like black caterpillars running together. “I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t see—”

“It might be under SCA,” I say.

“Ah, yes!” His face brightens considerably. “There is it. You’re meeting in the Buchanan Ballroom.” He points me down a long hallway to the escalators.

I walk across the lobby carefully, trying to keep my shoes from squeaking against the marble floor. A couple of times my feet drag, and a squealing animal noise escapes from underneath my loafers. It skitters along, then disappears up into the atrium, three stories high.

Bob Frockner swivels through the lobby’s revolving doors. Bob and I have worked together on several projects, the most famous one being the PATRIOT Act, although we don’t go around bragging about it. At the time, we explained to our Senate liaison that the government already had a PATRIOT acronym in place (Phased Array Tracking to Intercept Of Target), and suggested we work from the word FREEDOM. I had some good ideas for that one, but our liaison was adamant that we use the word patriot. That was pretty unusual. Normal protocol was that we were given a set of parameters involving what concepts the acronym should define, and then we created it from scratch. For example, when NASA (which was derived long before my time, by the way) asked us to create one word that described the group of workers responsible for ensuring the safety of aerospace missions, we provided them with SMART: Safety and Mission Assurance Review Team. That’s how it usually worked. But the Senate was under a lot of pressure right after 9-11, so they gave us a draft copy of the act in mid-September and scrawled the word PATRIOT at the top, underlined.

The Fall of 2001 was a pretty stressful time for everyone. Bob and I stayed up all night in LILAC – the Linguistic Laboratory Complex – writing and crossing out words on the big board. Somewhere around four a.m. we arrived upon: Provide Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism. The President was pleased, but I think that was the first time Jillian seriously considered leaving me. But I figure it could be worse. We could have been the guys who came up with CREEP, real cautionary legends in the Syndicate.

Bob straightens his blue and red striped tie and asks, “What’s the four-one-one, Harry?”

“Buchanan Ballroom,” I say.

He nods his square head and we walk toward the escalators together. We ascend to the mezzanine, which is not quite as high as the atrium. I’m relieved when our feet finally hit carpeting, and the squealing animals take a hike. Bob also doesn’t have a date for the party, but that’s more the norm than the exception among Syndicate workers. Very few of us have been able to maintain a MORSEL (Marriage Or Relationship Spanning an Extensive Length). I know some people call them LTR’s (Long Term Relationships), but that’s the official designation for Laser Target Receiver. When you consider that it’s actually an initialism and not an acronym, and that laser was originally an acronym, itself (Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation) . . . well, it’s hard to feel too romantic about that.

We pass the Monticello Ballroom, with an flashing electronic marquis advertising: “Friedman Bar Mitzvah.” Inside is approximately twenty-three thirteen year olds and their parents, and a shiny black piano with a Billy Joel impersonator singing a medley of “Piano Man” and “Havah Nagilia.” Next door to the Friedman Bar Mitzvah is the Buchanan Ballroom. Its marquis flashes the words “SCA Yule Fest.”  

“Yule?” Bob says. “What does that stand for?”

 “I think they mean it literally,” I say.

“Jesus.” Bob quickly squeezes his eyes shut tight, like how a sleeping puppy looks, but not so cute. “I forgot what time of year it was, why we were even here.”

We start inside the Buchanan Ballroom, but stop in the doorway at the sight of a woman playing Greensleeves on a lute, accompanied by a man on panpipe. He’s wearing tights. In fact, all the men are wearing tights, some black, some brown, some green. On top, they wear tunics with puffy sleeves. A lot of them seem to be carrying swords. It seems like those puffy sleeves would get in the way of those swords. The women inside the Buchanan Ballroom are dressed in long, full skirts made out of several – maybe six or seven – layers of purple and gold and crimson cloth. They could easily hide a whole other person underneath there. On top they’re wearing tight bodices. They might technically be corsets. Either way, they show lots of cleavage. One thing is clear: the Buchanan Ballroom doesn’t appear to be the Christmas party of a government think-tank.

We turn back to the foyer where Margaret is speaking loudly into her cell phone. She looks strangely thin in her charcoal pencil skirt and wool jacket. “There are other people here,” she’s saying. “In our ballroom, and they think it’s their ballroom. It’s a total disaster. I want you to get someone down here to fix this now!” She snaps her phone shut.

“Who are these people?” I ask her. “They look like they’re in some sort of play.”

 “I don’t care who they are,” Margaret says. “I want them out of our room!” Margaret seems to be taking the mix-up rather seriously. She’s a perfectionist, which is why every year we appoint her the HOFFA (Holiday Fun and Festivity Administrator). Her parties usually go off without a SNAFU.

A young woman in a navy pantsuit with a clipboard walks toward us briskly. Her ponytail is high and tight and swings like a horses tail, except I’ve never seen a horse’s tail quite that blonde. She could easily be mistaken for one of us, except that she’s wearing a Marriott nametag that says “ZOE.”

Zone Of Exclusion.

“Where have you been?” Margaret greets her shrilly. “This is a catastrophe!”

“I apologize that there’s been some sort of mix-up,” the woman named Zoe says.  Her cheeks are a little pink. “I’m still trying to figure it out myself. Now your group is the SCA, right?”

“Right,” Margaret says. “The Syndicate for Creating Acronyms.”

Zoe scans the paperwork on her clipboard, then looks up. “Not the Society for Creative Anachronism?”

“The what?” Margaret says.

I run the words through my head quickly. “They dress up and pretend they live in another time, right?” The ballroom does have a distinctly medieval feeling.

“Is it some kind of cult?” Bob asks.

My brain parses it out fast. “A Community of Understanding, Love, and Truth.”

“Ah, nice work Harry.” Bob smiles, but I suspect he’s mad he didn’t think of it first. We’ve always been competitive, ever since I was plucked out of the linguistics program at Yale only one month after he was recruited from Harvard.

By this time a crowd of blue business suits and chain mail has started to gather around us. It appears the Anachronistic people aren’t any happier about the mix-up than we are. Well, than Margaret is, at least.  For years, Bob and I have been lobbying to change the name of our organization to a pronounceable acronym. Initialisms are such a cop-out. It’s been a tough sell, though, because changing our name would require an act of Congress. But maybe this incident will bolster our case.

“They’re eating our food,” a full-breasted woman in an orange bustier—maybe corset — tells Zoe. “And the food’s all wrong. You got the roasted pig and the mincemeat pie right, but there’re all these mini-quiches, too.”

“There’s mini-quiche?” Bob asks. “What flavor?”

The woman rolls her eyes and mutters, “Moderns.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bob asks.

“Masters of Deception and Error-Related Negativity,” I fill in. I don’t normally show off like this in public, but there’s something about that blonde ponytail that’s making my brain and my mouth work in overdrive.

“That’s not what—” the corseted woman begins, but Zoe cuts her off.

“Please don’t be offended. I don’t think they can help themselves.” She smiles at me conspiratorially. If any other woman has smiled at me since Jillian left, I haven’t noticed.          

ZOE can also stand for Zone Of Entry.

“Forget how it happened!” Margaret says. “Just fix it now! Just open another ballroom.”

Zoe presses her lips tightly together. They’re shiny and red, like decorations. Like Christmas. “That might be a problem.”

“It certainly cannot be a problem!” Margaret looks like she’s about to shatter into a millions pieces, and Zoe is standing so close by that some of the shrapnel is bound to hit her. “We’ve been planning this event for months!”

“She doesn’t have another ballroom available,” I tell Margaret. “And her staff is maxed out. What’s in there . . . .” I point toward a woman curtseying in front of another wearing a crown. It’s some crown, gold with lots of shiny blue and green stones. “That’s what we’ve got.”

“It’s either that or the Friedman bar mitzvah,” Bob says.

“They’ve got a hell of a Billy Joel impersonator,” I say.

“A what?” Margaret says.

Bob stares inside the Buchanan Ballroom, then back to the woman in the orange corset. He smiles jovially. “So, may I buy you a goblet of mildly elevating alcoholic drink?”

“What?” Her long curls bounce as she turns to face him suspiciously.

“Mead,” Zoe says. She’s catching on pretty fast.

The corseted woman looks at Bob with her thin eyebrows bunched together. I hope she doesn’t curse at him in Gaelic. He’d probably know what it means, and it might hurt his feelings. Bob’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.

“We can talk about Carn Menyn,” he suggests. “I was there a couple of years ago.”

“The quarry where the bluestones for Stonehenge were mined?” she asks.

He smiles big, shows lots of teeth. “The very one.”

Her eyes go soft. “Okay, but just one drink.”

Bob extends his elbow for her. She takes his arm, and Bob escorts her inside the ballroom.

Margaret watches for just a minute, then turns back to me and Zoe. Me and Zoe – that construction makes it sound like we’re one entity. “Now wait a minute,” Margaret says. “We simply cannot—”

“M’lady, if it’s not too bold of me to ask, wouldst thou dance with me?” asks a man in green tights and a tunic with puffy sleeves. He’s down on one knee in front of Margaret.

“What?” she asks, looking down at him, then back at Zoe, then back down again. “I mean, I don’t—”

“I’m only a humble knave, tis’ true,” he says. “But I’d feel like a king if you’d agree to dance with me.”

“Well, I . . . .” She smoothes the flat side of her cell phone over her shiny black hair. “I just don’t . . . .”

I’ve never seen Margaret nonplussed before. It’s not in any of our natures to be at a loss for words.

“It would be her delight,” I say.

“Lovely,” the knave in green tights says. He rises from his knee and takes Margaret’s hand. He has to gently push aside a couple of Brooks Brothers suits standing cautiously in the ballroom entryway, then leads Margaret inside.

A third, but lesser known meaning is Zero Entry — a total lack of imagination among the creators of that one. That’s when I remember it, the real definition of Zoe’s name.

She’s scribbling something on her clipboard. I want to know what words she uses and how she uses them. But to see what she’s writing, I’d have to stand very close and lean over her shoulder and my mouth would be too close to her ear. I’m just not that kind of guy.

I ask, “Would you like to have some quiche or pig with me? It looks delicious.”

“Sorry. I’m on the clock.” She doesn’t look up at me, just writes more fast notes onto her Client Layer Interface Port for Business Office Application and Remote Data. Most of my Syndicate co-workers have already inched their way inside the ballroom, and I’m disappointed I don’t have anyone to share the CLIPBOARD acronym with. Zoe’s been a pretty good sport so far, but I’m not so sure this is the time to push it.

“Then you couldn’t dance with me or drink some mead with me, either?” I ask.

Zoe’s eyes rise up. They’re like chestnuts, not straight out of the fire, but still warm. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do any of those things here.”

I’m not terribly surprised. A woman like Zoe must have businessmen hitting on her 24/7. I’m about to say g’night and go find myself a glass of spiced wine. I can smell the cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves. Or maybe it’s the malabathrum and squinant and mace. Either way, it’s nice, like how Christmas should be.

Then Zoe says, “I could drink or dance with you some other place, some other time.” She reaches into her navy blue pocket and produces a business card for me. “If you like.”

I run my finger over the font on her Compact Accessible Reference Document. “I’ll call you, then.”

“Good.” She turns, walks a few steps away, then stops and looks back. “So, did you think of one?”

“One what?”

“An acronym for my name?”

“Oh . . . .” I feel kind of hot, kind of Christmas crimson. “Well, there are already several, and none of them are very good. None of them really fit you.”

“Well, you know what it actually means, don’t you? I mean, from the Greek?”

“Sure,” I say, wondering if she can see that little nod that feels like it’s about to snap my head off. “It means life.”

She smiles, then walks away, hips swaying.

Back in the Buchanan Ballroom, Bob has taken over the pan flute. He’s playing Aqualung, and the lutist is making a gallant effort to keep up, plucking intensely at the strings. Bob’s new lady friend is standing in front of him, swinging her ample hips around so all those layers of colorful cloth twirl like a kaleidoscope. Several of my navy blue co-workers are awkwardly wiggling their hips and jiggling their legs to the tune. 

Margaret is standing at the long banquet table with her knave. He’s offering her the roasted leg of some large bird, something you’d think was actually extinct by now. Margaret moves toward the leg, nibbles at it gently. Her knave shakes his head and chomps down on his side aggressively. He chews and nods at her reassuringly. Margaret tries again, digging her teeth into the crispy flesh. She pulls away a large chunk of meat. It’s half in her mouth, half dangling down the side of her face. Juice runs down her chin, and her knave reaches over to wipe it off. She laughs, mouth open.

I slip Zoe’s CARD into the pocket of my wool trousers. Then I take off my navy blazer, and throw it over the back of a chair. “Everybody dance!” I yell. I take a running start toward the dance floor. When my loafers hit parquet, I slide. It’s nice. On the wooden floor, my feet don’t squeak.