Holiday Office Ambiance Channel Cecilia Kennedy

Into the Impossible

The pour-the-beer-in-themiddle-of-the-day-andhave-a-slice-of-cake office party baby shower was postponed. However, the holiday party--the most anticipated gift exchange of the year--the fire-crackerswivel-chair-we-came-wesaw-we-Cuervo’d dream-is on track for the late afternoon and into the night, and I’ve pulled my back. There’s an online option for out-of-towners, so I log in.

Online, a handful of us gathers. We hit up the chat in several different time zones. Our cameras are off, but we can see the party in full swing in the secret lounge of the headquarters, which is all paper snowflakes and food and shots of tequila and bottles of beer—and I think about getting into my car and driving over there anyway, but when I stand up, an unsettling throbbing sensation in my spine reminds me my pain meds will wear off soon.

Holiday music fades in and out in the background, and our bosses stop by the camera set up at the party to look into it. They seem puzzled. It’s the camera through which we can see the party—but they can’t see our chat unless they log into their phones. Some people come by to wave. Some walk around with a phone, so we can see the different groups up close. I’m the only one from my team that didn’t show up in person, and I’m hoping they don’t care or notice.

About thirty minutes in, I see flashing lights in the background. The chat bustles with jokes about a possible holiday glitch, but then the music comes on clearly, softly; I begin to relax, watch the people mill about, bunch up at the edges, wander around the food table. There’s still plenty to eat and lots to drink because most people, I suspect, are there for the presents and the group photo at the end. But that won’t happen for at least two more hours.

Along the edges of the wall, flashing lights grow brighter, and they can’t be coming from the tree, which is in another room. The chat grows silent as we watch. A “this meeting is being recorded” message appears, but not one of us set the recording button, and it looks like video cameras in the room are activated as well. We see what looks like sparks hitting the ceiling, and my head spins, wondering if I’m about to witness an electrical fire. Someone types into the chat exactly what I’m thinking, and they ask if the people at the party can see the chat, but they can’t—not unless they’re logged in on their phones—and no one’s looking at their phones at the moment—as the room fills with smoke.

All we hear is holiday music, running on a loop. The lights go out in the lounge; then a massive burst of light erupts near the food table, as coworkers jump back from the explosion. The flashes along the walls in our view seem to pop and send sparks. Someone, somehow has planted and activated fireworks in pots scattered about various places in the massive lounge. We have no choice but to watch coworkers run to the spillover room on the other side and hope they make it. Plates and plastic cups hit the screen of our camera. The lights come back on, the music still playing. Our co-workers are trying to break down the door, which appears to be locked, while bits of plaster fall like snow in the background, “Silver Bells” lilting. The words, “Thank you for your submission to the Holiday Ambiance Channel” light up our screen in the chat, just as company board members, bottles of José Cuervo in hand, jump out from a closet near the back, laughing, yelling “surprise” over the holiday music. They slap the backs of our stunned coworkers, who stumble about, pulling bits of streamers and cake from their hair. The board members then raise their glasses for a toast, surely because they think they’ve nailed the Holiday Ambiance Channel competition. With their footage, they’ve provided a lasting end-of-year bonus: a wild holiday snow-globe office party unfolding chaotically, to replace the traditional crackling fireplace on hundreds of screens.