BIMA‘s biggest event is their annual summer cruise, a jaunt around Boston’s harbor. BIMA also holds a Christmas gala, but the turnout’s not quite as good: it’s harder to coordinate people around the holidays. Everyone shows up for the good weather and free booze, though.
My coworkers suggested we walk from Copley Square to the harbor. I gently reminded them that it was 90 degrees out, even at five in the afternoon, but didn’t want to be the sole veto. Another half hour found us staggering down Sleeper Street in South Boston. I had pushed myself pretty hard in yoga that afternoon, stretching my hamstrings to the breaking point, and was suffering the aftermath. My feet went numb. At one point I found myself listing to the left while on dry land. Thankfully there was no line to register, so we got aboard the boat with no waiting. I ordered a gin and tonic, my preferred summer drink, and basked in the air-conditioning. Waiters came by with scallions wrapped in bacon, miniature quesadillas and trial-size spanikopita. I took double handfuls of everything.
No one drinks like young professionals, except perhaps Irish mourners, and the party hit its stride an hour before docking. I wheedled a few coworkers onto the dance floor and worked my groove to some top 40 hits (plus Tribe Called Quest, to my surprise). I wasn’t the center of attention, though. That honor fell to a sweating gentleman in a button down shirt and shades (indoors, after sundown), working his magic on every woman within sniffing distance. He popped and locked. He got low. At one point he made it rain with a shower of business cards. I scooped one up, noting the (unknown) wireless ad exchange of which he was a VP of sales.
“Why aren’t you out there working it?” a coworker asked later.
“Because I might want one of these people to hire me someday,” I said.