The Corporatorium: Out of the Frying Pan (Episode Seven)
It was a quiet week. The officers were in a state of high anxiety;
our collective failure to “make our numbers” due to the crappy economy, the
unlikelihood of year-end bonuses and the visitation of Capital B, all hanging
over their heads like some poisoned Sword of Damocles.
I, myself, was unusually quiet following the “No one talks to you because…”
debacle, and my self-imposed exile.
The “drums”—Twitter, and the text
messaging that kept us informed and a half step ahead of leadership—had also
been uncharacteristically quiet.
The strain caused TWO to call a special
production meeting—the second in less than two weeks—to strategize about how we
would handle the inevitable visitation of Capital B and Brett.
“They’ll be here all day,” TWO was
saying when I zoned back in. Generally
nothing worthwhile happened at these impromptu meetings of hers so I typically
used the time to think about other things.
“So we should probably plan on going out to lunch as a group.”
This caused everyone to tense. TWO was notoriously cheap. And group lunches were always a sore point
because she would insist on divvying up the tab at table and collecting cash from
each attendee. TWO would seize the bill,
scan it and pass it to Diana—who once was a waitress and thus naturally
disposed to tip calculation—to calculate the tip and do the necessary
division. Then there would be the usual
riot of digging in purses and wallets for cash followed by the inevitable: “Do
you have change for a twenty?” This was
especially embarrassing for the underfunded and uninitiated who assumed that
because TWO had invited the group out to lunch, she would pick up the tab as a
departmental expense.
It didn’t matter who invited whom for
what reason, or where you went, you still had to pay.
Diana said, “I vote for The Chinese
Restaurant,” referring to the overpriced Chinese eatery with which we shared
the lower lobby. Its chief
recommendation appeared to be the possibility of catching a glimpse of the chef-proprietress
famous for throwing miniature corn at the head of the sous-chef for displeasing
her in some small but crucial way, and so mean she was once arrested for
punching a pregnant meter maid.
“We could always order in, I
suppose…” This brought groans as it
conjured images of limp lettuce, soggy vegetable wraps and small bags of potato
chips, each containing approximately six chips.
Barbara the first suggested an
Italian place in town. Now, we work in a small suburban village which grandly
calls itself a town—imagine Mayberry but
with overpriced houses and snobby entitled women wrestling premium baby
strollers from the backs of massive SUVs then pushing said baby strollers from
one over-priced baby store to another.
Add to this a “main street” two lanes wide with a stoplight on every
corner and no turn lane and you can probably imagine what it was like driving
from one end of town to the other at lunchtime.
Walking was equally out of the
question as sidewalks were scarce and where they actually existed they were
narrow and crowded with determined aggressive women maneuvering massive strollers
as if they were tanks, forcing you to step off the pavement into the
gutter—muddy patches at the edge of the road where the unfortunate carcasses of
road kill could be parked until the parks service could be contacted.
“No!
If we go somewhere on Main Street we’ll have to drive. And I don’t want
to get stuck in a car with Capital B.”
“That’s why I suggested The Chinese Restaurant,” Diana, the very voice of reason, said. “It’s downstairs—so no driving anywhere. The menu isn’t bad and it’s not all Chinese
food so everyone should be able to eat something.”
“Maybe they’ll leave before lunch,”
one of the Cerberus offered hopefully.
“Oh, fat chance of that happening,”
another Cerberus countered.
Okay, we were officially stymied over
lunch. I, myself, was desperately trying
to think of which of my clients I could persuade to call an emergency last
minute meeting so I would have an excuse to miss lunch.
“Oh, you know what?” TWO finally
said, “Let’s just let them decide when they get here. Hell they’re just gonna
do what they want anyway.”
“Good point,” one of the Cerberus
said.
“You’re so right,” the second
Cerberus said.
“She speaks the truth!” the third
Cerberus proclaimed.
Nigel rolled his eyes.
Barbara the second stifled a yawn and
addressed TWO, “So do you know when they’re coming?”
“No,” TWO said bitterly. “Why should Capital B tell me anything? I’m just chopped liver!”
I thought of that old doggerel about the Boston Brahmins—the Cabots and the Lowells: “…the Lowells talk to the Cabots, and the
Cabots talk only to God.” Evidently when
you were Capital B you only had to talk to …the devil.
“Is there an agenda?” Barbara the
first asked, “I mean I assume they’ll want to meet with everyone…”
“I believe they want to meet with the
officers first then we’ll meet with everyone to introduce Brett. You should expect to tell him a little about
yourself and your experience and the kinds of projects you’re currently working
on.”
“What if I can’t think of anything to
say?” the third Cerberus asked.
TWO glared at her but said
nothing. Nigel, a “touch texter,” always
kept his hands in his lap out of sight so he could text at will during
meetings. When my phone wiggled in my
pocket, I knew he’d tweeted.
Surreptitiously, I withdrew my phone
and glanced at his message:
Nigel
Gale @MannequinMan
Just do what you always do: repeat
what the person before you said
I almost laughed out loud. The effort of restraint caused my cheeks to
swell and my mouth to twist with suppressed mirth.
“Are you okay?” Barbara the first,
all keen observation and caring, asked.
Shit! “Yeah, fine,” I gasped.
Nigel smirked quietly.
Just before the end of the day a
tweet came through putting us out of our misery or perhaps only moving us out
of the frying pan and into the fire.
Marta
Harry @dblagent
DEFCON 1: The eagle will land @ your
location tomorrow morning
Immediately following this tweet was
another:
Nigel
Gale @MannequinMan
Fasten your seat belts—it’s going to
be a bumpy ride!
Copyright © 2016 Larry Benjamin
D I S C L A I M E R
The characters and events described in this blog post exist only in its pages and the author's imagination.
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