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How many times have you asked yourself: How can I work with these people?

I have worked for a handful of publishing companies, some small, some medium-sized, some skyscraper huge. But regardless of the size, publishing firms in New York City can easily be noted for having quirky employees. Being the lucky employee that I am, I seem to always end up working with the most particularly strange colleagues. Usually, I tell myself that I am just a lonely ol' sane person lost in a sea of oddball work faces. I try to simply do my work and keep to myself.

But recently, I was suckered into an unwanted hang-out with the co-workers and I started to question if being outside the office with a nutty co-worker can be any less torturous than being inside the office... At least within the confines of the office there are other people to talk with, other things to focus on, right? And also, I'm getting paid. But outside the office, that's a totally different deal. That's MY time.

When I first met Ray, I knew I was in for a bumpy ride through geek land, but I never guessed I could be abused and mortified all in the name of after-work get togethers. Ray introduced himself to me with a glad hand and a bubbly tour of the conference rooms on the floor. At first, I couldn't look at him without turning the other way to reflect. With forest green Dockers jacked above the waist and white shiny old man retirement sneakers gleaming beneath his tapered cuffs... He was just too much to soak in at once. To complement fully color clashing get-ups, Ray wears purple and red-ribbed turtlenecks with various sports team logos planted on the neck. Had he preferred a t-shirt to be underneath them, it most assuredly would have been tucked into his undies.

It was the second day of my job when Ray asked about my previous publishing company during an introduction lunch allowing me to meet the team. I told him that I worked for a sports publishing firm on basketball titles for a few years and had a similar job in production.

After a slight cock of his head, he shined an excited grin at me and eagerly chanted, "I play ball, yeah, yeah... I play ball...ahh, I'm the 2...guard, man, guard."

Since he was perky with enthusiasm, I told him that I played basketball in high school and, from time to time, I'll watch an NBA game but I don't care who wins or loses. Throughout the lunch, I nodded along to his excited sports patter, learning that he is a die-hard basketball fan and that his squad plays at the Y in his neighborhood.

After the lunch Ray, took me around to meet the rest of the staff. After being introduced as "This is Carolyn...CC...she plays ball...," I knew he was going to make a jackass out of me and overshadow the impressive effect I secretly wanted from my ability to make really firm hand shakes. After the chipper run around the offices, he hooked me up on the production department instant messenger and tried to persuade me a few times to see the WNBA Liberty play.

"CC, they've got a new court temporarily at Radio City... It'll be great!"

I tried to remind myself that he probably means well and it's best for me to just steer clear of his geeked-out fanaticism for basketball. But for the rest of the week, Ray kept jabbing me with times and dates of when he had extra tickets to the games. I shrugged him off saying "Yeah, can't tonight, I'm busy" or "Uh, oh uhhm, no thanks, I have plans." I knew my excuses were lame and vague, but I have no interest in seeing a WNBA game in general let alone go to a real live game with this guy. As far as I'm concerned, it takes a special kind of adult male to hold season tickets to the damn WNBA. No offense, ladies!

The next day he pranced himself to my cube to say good morning and handed me two tickets to the freaking Liberty's last home game. Apparently, he ignored my brush-offs and seemed to have plotted a boy scout mission to enlighten me on the virtues of this once-in-a-lifetime exhibition. I was dumfounded but too busy with learning the ins and outs of a new office to direct ample attention to his just-won't-take-no-for-an-answer gesture.

An hour later, Ray tells me he and his friend would be at the game tomorrow night and asked if I wanted to meet up for dinner with them beforehand. I knew he was eager beaver for me to experience this Liberty hell, but I was still surprised that he convinced himself I was planning to go without my ever responding to him.

"Or if not, C, you guys can just pay for the seats when we get to Radio City."

Suddenly, I realized he had already bought me these tickets. And why was he constantly referring to me by my initials? I could have called him on his socially awkward stupidity by reminding him that I had previously told him I wasn't sure if I could make that game because "I had things to do at home," but I felt that would just add to this loser tailspin I had gotten myself into.

So I sucked it up, guilted my boyfriend Peter to be a part of this debacle, and we reluctantly agreed to meet by the entrance to Radio City. The two of us walked onto the mezzanine and spotted Ray positioned two seats shy of a smelly Dungeons and Dragons guy while cheerleading about the Liberty players with a butchy short-haired lesbian couple at his right.

Two minutes before the action started on stage, I turned to pay Ray for the tickets but he was way too distracted by the TV screen cast down from the ceiling above the side balcony. Apparently, as filler before the toss up, the players were being featured on the screen to relay their quick bio clips and pump up Liberty enthusiasm to the fans. That's when I noticed Ray bust a proud "thumbs up" move to the young blonde, plain-faced girl who seemed to be the most unmanly player on the team.

"B-E-C-K! Let's go! Gotta D Up tonight! D Up!" erupted Ray as her self-introduction trumpeted through the massive theatre speakers. The noise was startlingly crisp, and Ray seemed proud and aware of the clarity.

As part of this quick close up bit, Beck gave a double A-OK motion with both hands starting at her temples and then twisting out in kung fu style towards the camera, a disturbing move which Ray gave back simultaneously. I really wished I hadn't witnessed that... but I would have many more chances to see it. Throughout the rest of the game Ray was zealously in sync with all the Liberty pep-ups and the all-too-frequent "thumbs up" move.

I was sitting in my red velvet seat meditating for a quick end to this nightmare, and then overtime hit. My boyfriend grabbed my knee with secretive force and said, "Why did you subject me to this?" All I could do was whisper, "I'm so sorry..."

It seemed like the game would never end. The Thumbs Up Beck moves just kept coming and coming and coming.

On the subway ride home, I confided to Peter that I was coerced into going to the game, totally taken advantage of! My nice manners – abused, stomped over – Damn it! But, he didn't care and I was left accepting his taunts for involving him in such a miserable, never-ending experience.

Back at work the next day Ray asked if I was excited that "the girls" had won last night. I told him the game was odd, but male cheerleading is hot and I would be oh so sooo excited if he could rattle our fax machines with a rugged cartwheel. After an awkward smile and seemingly tensed body move suggesting he could gear his legs up for a jump, he didn't respond. Bummer. Now, I'm stuck trying to figure out an across-the-board excuse as to why I have developed sudden allergies to all sports events that excite my Thumbs Up Beck friend.

Carolyn C. Johnson: I'm a young New Yorker, terrified and amused by corporate culture. When I'm not being tortured by the suit and ties of the job, I like to read, write, travel, zone out to music, and go for long hikes with my fiance and my hound dog.

Permalink: When a Co-Worker Busts a Move by Carolyn C. Johnson

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