The boss needed just one more thing
by Susan Palmer
Bob opened the dishwasher and picked up the bowl. He gave the cereal box a shake. Half a bowl. More than expected. He opened the fridge. Still a few gulps of milk in the carton. As he opened the milk carton, he noticed the half-pot of cold coffee on the counter. He looked at the cereal, looked at the milk carton, looked at the coffee, looked back at the cereal and poured the milk.
“Lew!” Irish Setter Lew was already standing at his bowl, waiting, watching. “Here you go, boy,” and Bob filled his bowl.
He jumped on his bike, headed to the office. “8 hours till volleyball.”
“You’re early,” Beth, the receptionist said.
“Why, you seem surprised.”
She smiled. “It’s Frank’s birthday tomorrow.”
As he walked past the CFO’s office, he leaned in to say, “Fred, it’s Frank’s birthday tomorrow.” Fred looked up. “That’s nice.”
Bob turned to glance at the office manager’s cubicle. Christy smiled and held out a couple of $20s. “The white chocolate raspberry cheesecakes. Thanks!”
Bob thought, “Maybe I’ll mix it up. One huge cheesecake and one of those fancy bundt cakes, or I could cover the conference table with baby bundt cakes.”
Bob settled in his desk to finish the presentation. After he opened the PowerPoint, he wondered why he had expected to be charged up to work on this. Every bit of it looked tired.
What were the magic words that would persuade the client. What would give this pitch some swagger, a touch of allure.
He needed a drink of water. He had read somewhere that when The Beatles got stuck writing, they wrote “pomegranate” to hold the place for the word to come. He typed “pomegranate, pomegranate, pomegranate” until he filled half a page. He paused. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He needed a drink of water.
“I’ll answer emails. That will get me in the zone.”
“I better catch up on that filing.” As he closed the filing cabinet, he heard a squeaky noise. “That’s no good.” A few squirts of WD-40. Good as new.
He stared at his computer screen. “I should dust this.” He clenched the mouse and reopened the presentation. “Well, well, it’s not so bad. The charts look nice. Kind of snappy, really.”
He printed and bound the presentation file and dropped it off with the marketing VP’s assistant.
“5 hours ‘till volleyball.”
“Time for lunch.” He grabbed the notebook and headed to Hennessey’s for a celebration burger. Win or lose, the presentation was done. Time for his real work. He waited for a table near the window so Jean would be his server. He remembered when they first talked. She noticed his notebook and said, “When do I get to read it?” When she handed him the check, she said, “Always keep writing. Everyone needs something creative. I paint porcelain.”
Sometimes he shared an idea or a few pages. She had a sharp eye for a plot hole. “He wouldn’t have gone to the shed. He needs to look for the sister.” She had a soft spot for the quirky characters who operate in the background and have the winning idea. Her favorite parts were the characters who worked together and helped each other.
Bob had never known anyone who read so much. Sometimes she read all night. Once he asked her if she fell asleep as she was reading. She stared at him, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. “No. Because I never read boring books.”
Bob was going to dedicate his first book to her. He flipped open the notebook and wrote, “Beth couldn’t find a trace that Mike had been in this apartment.”
“What if Mike were a secret agent. Beth thought he was a student. Yeah, yeah, that will work. She’ll go back to headquarters and talk with Curt. They’ll figure it out with Larry, their professor friend.” He wrote quickly and munched his burger
After lunch, he wandered down to the pier. Watching the waves and surfers always gave him new ideas. As he leaned on the rail, he overheard two guys talking. “Yeah, my wife won’t let me quit to start my own business, but I’ve got a plan. While I’m at work, I’m going to visit every page on the Internet. That will get me fired for sure.”
His friend nodded, “Good idea.”
Bob flipped open his notebook. “This will be great for the book,” and scribbled it down.
As he stood on the pier, a man walked by talking on his phone. He said, “Yes, yes, I’m at the store right now. Sure, I’ll pick that up.”
Bob scribbled that down too. He walked back to the office. “4 hours till volleyball.”
When he got back, the marketing VP came to his desk. “Bob, can you come to my office?”
Harry, the marketing VP, was an elegant guy, in his way. Bob didn’t know enough about fashion to know the quality of fabric or design of Harry’s suits, but they all had an Oscar buzz.
“Bob,” Harry said, as he sat on the corner of his large oak desk. “Bob,” this is great work,” as he slapped the presentation on the desk. “I just have a few notes. I punched it up a little.” He handed the presentation to Bob.
Bob flipped it open. Red pen and arrows in all directions. “There are two kinds of executives,” Bob thought. “The ones who give you direction before, and the other ones.”
“No problem. I’ll get right on it.”
“I’m going to need it before the end of day. It shouldn’t take too long.”
“Classic exec-u-line challenge,” Bob thought. “How do you reply to that? No it’s going to take a very long time because I’m generally incompetent and slow as mush?”
“No problem.”
It didn’t help that Terry unplugged the color copier while Bob was printing so that Terry could print his presentation.
Lew strained at his leash to sniff the baby trees newly planted on the Greenbelt. Bob looked at the colors of the sunset through the trees. Over the years, he must have taken a dozen or more photos of this moment. The fading light makes the tree branches appear dark, almost black. The curved spaces between branches fill with the purple and orange of the sunset. Above the trees, as if they were headed to the beach to follow the sun, float fluffy and wispy pink clouds.
The dieharders would still be playing. Back in the day he and the gang played on a court near the city parking lot. One day, the sun went down before their game was finished. Some kind soul turned his headlights on the court to give them enough light to play. One Saturday, they even played in the drizzle. It must have been Pam’s good cheer that saved them from catching cold. She said, “Come on, it’s like playing football.” Those were good days. No gatekeeper crap. No “I’m going to sit this game out.” Just playing and loving the game.
He leaned over and patted Lew. Two days till Saturday volleyball. ER
