Meanwhile, the RIMS Project was getting ready to present to Nard and Mae used her wiles to convince the team I should be the presenter. After the losers in Operations and the admin assistants in Marketing spent a few sleepless weeks doing all the work, the presentation was ready and I was told to show up at Nard’s door at 3:00pm on the 13th.
Sissy was smiling sweetly and counting her breasts to make sure they both were still there as I approached. Sexual grunts and coos mingled with the radio, new financial services lit the waiting room with hope, joy erupted from Nard’s office—
oh nard oh nard do me use me fill me love me nard nardy nar nar ard ard ard nar nar …
Coffee? Sissy said.
No thanks.
Jude.
Yes.
You’re presenting RIMS to E.L.
Yes.
You realize you’re going to have a difficult time.
Is Mr. Nard not receptive today?
You could say that.
She paused to admire her cleavage.
Have you seen the email?
There were 14 billion emails a second in Marketing.
The one from Ms. Mori.
There were 171 emails a minute from Ms. Mori.
Come Jude. She took my hand and guided me to her monitor, nuzzling her genetically modified breasts into me and telling me to read—
may 13 2:51pm
to Jude Peer, Senior Consultant, Communication, Marketing Division, New Bank
from Mae Utne Mori, Senior Relationship Manager, Marketing Division, New Bank cc Marketing Division, New Bank
subject segmentation strategy
oh jude, I just came from nard blabbing about segmentation strategy he’s so gross and all I could see was your hot hot shaft. i so want to lie against you, and kiss you, and feel your heat. i know you'd protest, but i'd unbutton your shirt, and lift up my camisole so that my breasts could rub against your chest so happily, while i kissed you so joyfully. How could i ever taste something as wonderful as your cock, even if you aren't completely willing--you know i love to taste it so. it would make me moan so if you parted my thighs, and wet your finger against my ready cunt. you would make me scream if you put your glorious cock inside me--fuck me, jude. you know i want your silky cum inside me, on me... I'm so hot for you... mae
She’s accidentally copied it to the whole Division Jude. You know E.L.’s always wanted her—he’s as jealous as hell. RIMS doesn’t stand a chance. Neither do you.
Crises in our careers occur for many different reasons, sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes for Oedipal miscalculations, sometimes because the gods are bored, sometimes because someone doesn’t like our deodorant. For an MBA, this particular crisis would be a career opportunity … everything was a career opportunity for an MBA: there could be increased tribal warfare, strategic cudgel politics, resume leapfrog, great pitch and battle … but I wasn’t an MBA. I did a decent job of imitating their bedroom antics, of playing their blabby games—survival after all is mainly about pretending—but for me, it wasn’t an opportunity for advancement, but an opportunity to run away. Lief’s sister was right … fighting is so much work; it’s smarter just to slip out and not care that nobody cares. Running away is a tactic that’s underrated. True, it burns bridges and isn’t in the manuals, but it’s the path of least resistance and, frankly, it’s more fun. So I walked away from Nard and the screams, his 38DD sidekick, the cornucopia of products, back to the sudden irrelevance of my office … for there’s nothing more damaging to your career than possessing something your boss wants but can’t get … except perhaps not caring.
One of the chief delights of being a middle manager in a large institution is how you are, from time to time, given the opportunity to do nothing at all for months and months. Most do not take advantage of this unusual gift—whether due to guilt or fear, I don’t know. I, however, wasn’t one of those types troubled by conscience about playing Robin Hood for myself, and I contentedly accepted my six-figure salary while arriving in my office at 10:30, expensing my 3-hour lunches, and leaving at 4:00. The privates, corporals, and captains in the massive global professional armies feel important through the continual carpet bombing of emails, voicemails, texts, and meetings they’re subject to. But if you do as I did and allow yourself to become professionally homeless for a time, the calls and emails stop. No one invites you to meetings or drinks. And you realize that all those wonderful ego-bursts—of feeling needed, of your continuous necessity to tomorrow—have nothing to do with you. You’re as dispensable as a fly.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.