Tag: Characters You’d Like to Meet

Calling 9-1-1

I guess I’m a bit like Benjamin Disraeli when it comes to traveling: I have seen more than I remember and I remember more than I have seen. But my travels, generally deplete of drama, stand in stark contrast to the latest sojourn of one Alistair J.

Alistair is the second cousin of the third earl of some ceremonial county in northwest England that ends in shire. Alistair is a buyer who scours the globe in search of any emerging technology that could be useful and profitable.

A proper preamble to this story requires the infusion of context. The Small Office is more known for its subtleties than its subterfuge. We are more strategic than surreptitious. In other words, there is little clandestine about our business – at least in the way we conduct it. Some low grade industrial espionage, perhaps. Patent surfing and back-engineering of competitive products. Raiding of competitors’ employees. Under-the-radar acquisitions. Off-book deals. Nothing to write home about in the unlikely event someone there truly cared. So tales of intrigue and artifice are beguiling to say the least.

Alistair is tall as befits an earl, and has white hair as befits a gentleman in his 70s. He often travels with his 20-something niece who is collecting obscure recipes from third world countries for publication. The two just went to Bangladesh.

Muggings are common, kidnappings common enough.

Bangladesh is notoriously dangerous for travelers. Especially well-dressed 70 year-old travelers with 20 something consorts. Muggings are common, kidnappings common enough. Alistair has already been robbed at knifepoint, had his room ransacked, and has been the recipient of numerous unsettling threats to life and very specific, rather important limbs.

Miscreants of all types scour airports for marks. Cab drivers are among the usual suspects. One common ruse is to wait for an unsuspecting businessman to grab a cab and, once on board, the driver robs his victim of all valuables. All of this only slightly offsets the fact that Bangladesh is duty free.

Alistair told me his latest trip to Dhaka was uneventful – even with his niece in tow – because, as always, he took an ambulance to and from his 5-star hotel. Apparently, no one robs ambulances – a nod, I suppose, to the fact that ambulance service is not much of a cash and carry business. Atif, Alistair’s regular driver, is always on call for his patrician bandhu. Atif’s vehicle is a full-sized, fully tricked-out, air-conditioned van, a rarity in this capital city where you are more likely to see a very pedestrian Maruti Omni human hauler with little more than a cot and an oxygen tank doing the job. In the business of getting around safely, what you know and who you know are one and the same.

I imagine that, going forward, I will take my extended, if relatively uneventful, travels in greater stride.

Q for Reason

Q was the name we gave our former head of R&D. Yes, it’s a little Bond, but it was also a play on his name, McHugh. I had written a story on him several years ago, how in his 60s he saw the end of his career rolling in with the tide of youth. “I am too young to start looking back,”, he told me once, “and a little too old to be looking ahead.”

Anyway, I was shuffling through old papers and I found what he called The 10 Q-mandments of R&D. Q had taped it to the door of his lab. The sheet was a bit rumpled and had yellowed over time. The remnants of Scotch Tape were still visible on the edges. I read it over again though, really, I knew it by heart.

He saw the end of his career rolling in with the tide of youth.

1. Question – Everything…in particular the status quo.
2. Quibble – The answers are in the details.
3. Quantum – Seek quantum, not incremental, improvements.
4. Queue – Set priorities, keep to them.
5. Quick – First to market gets the advantage.
6. Quiet – Loose talk gives the advantage away.
7. Quality – Not to be sacrificed for expediency.
8. Quixotic – Quirky doesn’t make it creative. And it’s not creative if it can’t be done.
9. Quit – Know when to walk away; failure should be avoided, not fixed.
10. Quagmire – Where you are when you don’t walk away.

I carefully pressed the page and slipped it and a protective cardboard into an envelope. I brought it to Whiny Baby and asked her to have it framed and sent to Q.

It’s about time.

Pyramid Scheme

I was having a coffee in the small lounge reserved for senior managers. We had installed a Tassimo-compatible machine and I was trying out the Dark Italian Roast – a full-bodied selection, says the pod, made with 100% high quality Arabica beans. It has an extra bold taste that is both sharp and intense. (Sounds like a bout at the dentist.)

I was sharing what might otherwise have been a contemplative moment with our CFO, General Ledger. He is a curiosity, with ears that make him look like Mars with its two moons. To the left, Phobos. To the right, Deimos. He is no Jupiter, thank goodness; its 67 moons would certainly have made him something to ponder.

So General Ledger was talking about this kid, Jason. Jason is working for the summer in the Accounting Department, entering data. A philosophy major, he is exactly wrong for this job, but a paycheck is a paycheck.

It seems that Anne, Jason’s supervisor, was complaining about him. Jason has six or seven stacks of soft drink cans in his cubicle, each can precariously perched on the one below – or, as he would say it, under the one above. He refers to the stacks as pyramids, which Anne finds stupid and annoying. The stacks are, apparently, in a race to reach the top lip of the office dividers. On his desk is a robot made entirely of thumbtacks and elastic bands. Anne has concluded that he had to be building this stupid thing on company time, although she does admit that it really does look like a robot.

A philosophy major, he is exactly wrong for this job.

To further confound Anne’s sensibilities, Jason works off-kilter hours, which he can do because, after all, he just enters data. He comes in at 10:00, works through the noon hour and takes his lunch at 1:30. So in the early afternoon, when everyone else is working, he is sitting back, reading Descartes’ Discourse on Method or Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. The other employees look at him and think he is goofing off. Then he leaves after everyone is gone, so no one knows what he is doing.

Also vexing for Anne, who would have made a good puritan, is that Jason is cute and all the young ladies in her group find reasons to drop in on him and chat. Jason is nothing if not polite and he accommodates them with charm and cordiality.

Sounds like a fine lad, I said. So what is the issue? Well, he answered, his outsized ears turning scarlet, Jason is clearly not a fit.

I sipped my very bold coffee slowly. It was still hot. Does he get the job done? I asked. Yes. Does he make mistakes? No. Hmmph, I said, in my best Tom Selleck. Clearly not a fit.

Well, I suggested, if he is cordial and likes working later hours, why not transfer him to our Customer Care Center where he could be a service rep. Then everyone would be happy… except, I suppose, the girls in Accounting.

General Ledger’s eyes lit up. Of course! Why had he not thought of that?

I don’t know. Why? But then, like the man said, as long as the answer is right, who cares if the question is wrong?

H.O.G. Tied

Early in my career at the Small Office, I became friendly with a guy in shipping – a foreman we used to call Snake. His nickname had nothing to do with his personality and everything to do with a stunning diamondback rattlesnake tattoo that covered nearly the entirety of his back. He did a few favors for me and, when the time came, I put in a good word for him, helping him get promoted to supervisor. He always had a walkie-talkie attached to his hip and, when a crackely voice would reach out through the static, he would acknowledge it with an “I am listening”. The “I am listening” became his trademark – even more so than the rattler.

Well it happened one day that I was going to a funeral way out in the East End. It is a thing in the Small Office that when a close relative of an employee dies, a notice goes up on the bulletin board and, almost certainly, a crowd will gather and find its way to the funeral. In the company of our pretty but poutish advertising manager, Whiny Baby, and Sue O’, my assistant, I made my way to an older, less savory part of town.

It was around lunchtime and we had time to kill before the funeral, so we drove around looking for a place to eat. We had no idea where we were or what was available. My best guess was nowhere and nothing, respectively.

We eventually found a hole-in-the-wall eatery and decided not to be choosers. We parked the car nearby and went inside. It was a bit divy, the menu was overly simple, the two grizzlies hunched over a corner table were sketch, and the waitress was rather indelicate to say the least. All considered, I figured the food would be good.

It was like we had landed on the set of Chopper Chicks in Zombietown.

I heard a throaty rumbling outside and took a quick look. There were about a half dozen Harleys and a bunch of Hell’s Angels types congregating in front, no doubt for their daily prayers. I looked to the womenfolk and they looked back, eyes wide. It was like we had landed on the set of Chopper Chicks in Zombietown and everyone here was Billy Bob Thornton.

The waitress or whatever she was dismissively looked down at us. Well, she said impatiently, what’ll it be? I was thinking of asking for a tall glass of milk but thought better of it.

Just then, I heard my name called out. I spun around. It was Snake, all decked out like some outlaw biker. He roared, grabbed both my shoulders and practically hoisted me out of my chair. Snake barked at the waitress, told her to bring us all burgers and brews and then sat down to talk. Whew. So this wasn’t going to end up being the Northville Cemetery Massacre after all.

Well, we had a fine lunch: the burgers were really quite tasty, the beer icy cold, the conversation loud and friendly. We were joined by some of Snake’s buddies and all was very cool… even me in my Brooks Brothers suit. We eventually left for the funeral where things were… uh… more subdued.

The next day, as I walked through the shipping door to the office area, I got knowing nods from the guys. Word of our adventure got out and, suddenly, through no fault of my own, I had cred.

Smug and smiling to myself, I wondered, where I can go now that I’ve finally arrived?

Sew to Speak

A company in Tennessee supplies the Small Office with certain proprietary technologies. A group of their technical people, including their CTO, came to visit us the other day.

The CTO is a shortish, somewhat roundish, white-haired gentleman with a broad smile. He wore grey pinstriped pants held up by bright red suspenders. With his matching red bowtie, he looked a bit like Tweedledee come of age.

“There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and the talking over its head. `Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse,’ thought Alice; `only, as it’s asleep, I suppose it doesn’t mind.’” (from Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll)

We brought them to a conference room. On a side table, coffee, tea, water, muffins, cookies. With their in-flight service meager, they were more than happy to sample our wares. We then made our way to the large, glass-covered table for discussions on extending their contract for another two years.

“The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: `No room! No room!’ they cried out when they saw Alice coming. `There’s PLENTY of room!’ said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.”

The CTO calmly removed his pants right there and then and began sewing.

Before we started, the CTO pointed to a tear in his pants that he sustained in his travels and wondered if we had a sewing needle and thread. It was a very odd business, but I went along. I spoke to Sue O., my assistant, and she was able to produce both a needle and an assortment of threads from her purse. I returned to the conference room and handed over the tools of the tailoring trade. The CTO calmly removed his pants right there and then and began sewing.

We picked up the discussion on the contract, settling everything quickly since both sides were happy with a straight extension. The CTO put his pants back on, slung the suspenders over his shoulder, and handed back the needle and thread. I guess I must have scratched my head and opined that nobody here would have done that. And most probably can’t. He, however, found it not the least bit strange, a simple repair and on with business. “’Caint’ never could do nothing, “ he said matter-of-factly.

“Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter’s remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. `I don’t quite understand you,’ she said, as politely as she could.”

Double Dipping

The Sundance Kid was always one of my favorites. He was a marketing manager who I once described as “a sandy-haired, terminally under-dressed fortysomething with an idea a day, some of which actually worked”. He laughed easily, but there was an underlying sadness about him, likely related to an ailing child for whom prospects were dim. Marketing was, for the Kid, both a vocation and an escape. He had been with the company for a long time – long enough, in fact, to be part of our Defined Benefit Plan. And therein lies the sum and substance of our discontent.

The Kid is now in his early fifties, his hair infused with grey, making it less espresso and more caffè crema. The sadness is now permanently etched into the corners of his eyes which no amount of collagen will cure.

As it happened, he received a fairly lucrative offer from our largest competitor, one he could hardly refuse. The additional salary augmented by a pension would result in a significant cash flow increase for his family. Loyalties and prejudices aside, the Kid could hardly be blamed for jumping at the opportunity.

This was no comfort for our senior managers who felt he was feeding at two troughs. Because he knew our programs, products and practices so well – many of which he actually put in place – he could help our competitor while we paid for the privilege.

He was feeding at two troughs.

Bull Terrier was livid when this competitor beat us to market with a device he remembered first being sketched on the backside of a restaurant place mat. He asked Rigor Mortis if there was anything we could do to prevent the Kid from revealing trade secrets that possibly we legally owned. And he asked the Black Widow if we could withhold his pension, in whole or in part. And because he knew the Kid was my protégé, he asked if I could do something, anything at all.

Bull was met with a chorus of shrugs, eight from Black Widow, two each from the rest of us.

In truth, while I am sorry to see the Kid gone, I cannot have my conscience be his guide. He served us well when he served at our pleasure and, now, he serves himself and his family. So, yes, I cannot muster more than a shrug and a furrowed brow for show. I feel only slightly bad that I don’t feel worse.

The Cats in the Hats

“It is our responsibilities, not ourselves, that we should take seriously.” – Peter Ustinov

Helen is the secretary/receptionist in our Tech Center. She is tall. Very tall. A cornstalk in a field of alfalfa. And it’s not like she slouches to be less conspicuous. She stands straight as a lighthouse on a promontory, a beacon for ships lost at sea. If Helen were a ship, she’d be… uh… a tall ship.

Late Friday afternoon, her daughter Nancy came to pick her up at work. They were going out for a night on the town. Or perhaps tea at Downton Abbey. Nancy is an impossible inch or two taller than Helen. The twin towers still stand… and glide in tandem down the Small Office corridors. Except on this day, they were going to meet up with their sisters in the Red Hat Society. They were appropriately attired for the occasion.

A cornstalk in a field of alfalfa.

To be sure, they would be easy to spot in their red hats and purple dresses even if they were not so statuesque. It should be added that their hats were exquisite with their Sinamay fascinators, tall feathers and hair combs. If I were a cardinal in flight, I would have found them impossible to resist.

They are vivacious, curvaceous, in equal measure buoyant and flamboyant, no longer young and not the least bit worried about it. I stared without shame and admired them without reservation.