Friday, August 21, 2009

The Malaise

What a marvel it is to be alive today. The sun has never risen over a world more beautiful and just. One hesitates to describe or even to enumerate the extravagant glories experienced by every man, woman and child on earth, for they are myriad. I shall try, for an examination of our blessed condition is a noble endeavor; it will guard us against complacency, remind us why we strove so hard to achieve our elevated state. And, at the risk of immodesty, I would like to propose that there is the possibility that it might at least in some small measure decrease the Malaise.

Where to start? Consider, for example, the complete absence of hunger, that most elemental concern. Benevolent multinational corporations in the agricultural and food processing industries long ago banded together, with the assistance of their respective countries, to eradicate starvation. Once that relatively modest goal was achieved, and even the poorest of the poor in neglected, war-torn places could rely on daily rations of nutritious, soy-based pulp, these enterprises set out to teach the poor farming techniques that were appropriate to their environments and cultures. These initiatives were combined with others in the areas of justice, literacy and infrastructure to build resilient, thriving, modern communities in which a baby that once had a twenty percent chance of living to the age of one was now virtually guaranteed a bright future of not only physical well-being but of intellectual, spiritual and material fulfillment. Their only real concern, of course, was the Malaise.

The elimination of poverty occurred naturally as a result of the elimination of hunger. Beautiful towns arose where dusty decay had reigned; vibrant economies where there had only been corruption and want. This transformation produced far-reaching and sometimes surprising benefits: as every living soul passed into affluence, there was no longer anywhere a dichotomy of haves and have-nots. Everybody was a have. Centuries-old conflicts were resolved as though each side had suddenly forgotten its grievances: Israel and Palestine declared a truce and economic alliance; Pakistan abandoned its claim to Kashmir and Muslims and Hindus intermingled happily in either country; Basque separatists abandoned their struggle in exchange for fuller participation in Spanish government and culture. Terrorism waned along with political and economic disenfranchisement. Soon the very idea that anyone would murder innocent people seemed like an absurd joke, and no one could quite believe that it had ever happened. Unfortunately, jokes don't seem so funny anymore. Since the Malaise.

As people became not only wealthier but better educated, human rights abuses (whether in the name of the state, of God, of superstition or merely of tradition) began to vanish. As the lot of people of every color and ethnic group improved, racism evaporated as if by magic. Women everywhere became full members of society, incontestably equipped with equal rights, unveiled to the world. They entered every professional class, and even the clergy of every major religion. Likewise, discrimination and crimes against homosexuals became an artifact of the past. Individual freedom – of thought, of expression, of dress, of religion, of sexuality – was not only tolerated but celebrated. It did not even need to be enforced; everyone accepted it as a given. The entire world was gravitating toward freedom, reason and compassion; toward love. Little did we know, we were also drifting toward the Malaise.

The complete disarmament of the entire planet, initiated when the most powerful nations decided, independently, to unilaterally eliminate their stockpiles of nuclear weapons, has produced a world free from the threat not only of catastrophic nuclear or biological apocalypse but of any kind of war at all. Borders of nations grew blurry as a spirit of openness, cooperation and welcome took hold where even the most entrenched disdain had once held sway. Today, people move freely between what were once known as "countries." Everyone is free to benefit from the natural and cultural bounties of every place on earth. How could it ever have been any other way? This evolution has occurred on a personal level just as it's occurred on a national one: no one would ever think to harm their neighbor, for the boundaries between ourselves and others have dissolved, too. We are effectively a single organism now: humanity. And this organism is afflicted with a single ailment: the Malaise.

Today, the Malaise has us in its clutches and shows no signs of letting go. It was first reported in the media as a vague sense of ennui, of disenchantment, that seemed to be taking hold of the collective spirit as worldly concerns abated. This was to be expected, specialists said. It was a temporary symptom of the trauma caused by the rapid shift in our mental and emotional priorities, they speculated. They reassured us: Relax. Enjoy your perfect world. You created it. You deserve it. But it only grew worse. Those who suffered most severely were hard put to describe the problem. Something just doesn't feel right, they said. And that's really all they needed to say. Everyone knew what they meant. People began to weep openly in the streets, falling to their knees, trembling with despair, clawing at their guts as though to breach through to the emptiness inside.

And then there were the suicides. People decided they could no longer tolerate this paradise. It exerted such a powerfully oppressive force on their psyches that they were left with no choice but to escape. People killed themselves singly and in groups. Suicide clubs were formed. Institutions arose to facilitate the suicide process. Many made elaborate rituals of the experience, inviting friends and family, videotaping the event, and leaving behind lengthy, poignant notes. They considered it their life's work. People began to plan their suicides years in advance, reserving spots in the most sought-after automortuariums. Parents even created trust accounts for the eventual suicide of their children. Suicide came to be seen as the one grand objective of every soul unlucky enough to be born, the only act with a hope to make one's life complete. Accordingly, it should be beautiful, moving, and – depending on one's circumstances and taste – lavish, ostentatious.

This is a last, gasping plea to whoever or whatever might be out there. Or in here.

Save us
. My God, what have we done? What have we done? Like errant borrowers, have we consolidated all of our sins into a single, massive, usurious delinquency? Is it vanity, the sin of vanity? What is it? What is it, goddammit!? Tell us what it is, we'll fix it. God (if there is a God): what do we do now? Look at us. We were good. We were so good. We tried. We tried so hard. Didn't we? Didn't we!? God? You bastard? Why do you hate us so much? Why are we still not reconciled? Why, goddammit? We thought there was a way back home. Now we're more lost than ever.

Now we have it all. We have nothing.



Thursday, August 20, 2009

I traipsed through Midtown yesterday, on a mission to complete some dreary chores. Sweat poured off my scalp in rivulets that ran down my forehead and into my eyes.

A few fat drops of rain fell before I got on the 42nd Street crosstown bus, just enough for everyone to catch one on the flesh. It was one of those hybrid buses with the elevated platform in the back; the front was crowded but a man sat alone in the middle of the back row, legs apart, regal. I made myself small and sat in a window seat beside him.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

The Streak - 45

Evan awoke around the time when ordinarily people dutifully rise to face the workday with all its petty tribulations. But he rolled over with a groan and buried his throbbing head beneath his pillow. When he opened his eyes again the cool and quiet light of morning had given way to the blaring sun; to cars and buses honking in the street; to a diligent and hopeful world, plainly capable of carrying on without him. It was 11:28 am.

He stared at the ceiling for a few moments and examined his condition. He had a hollow sensation in his arms and chest, surely a symptom of cocaine and ecstasy comedown, that seemed no less dire than a catastrophic depletion of life force. He was nauseous but not enough to puke. Worst of all, something alien, possibly metallic, seemed to have taken root inside his brain. When he sat up and set his feet on the floor his head swayed from its burden.

Nothing was right and everything was wrong. Everything good was corrupted and everything bad was really bad. Irredeemably bad. Evan thought about his wife and kid, how fucked up that all was, how everything Denise ever reproached him for was true. The stubbornness. The disregard. The atrocious sins of vanity. And Ryan, who only ever wanted to idolize him. All along Evan had perversely refused to let him. Why? To protect the kid? No. In fact, he had undermined Ryan's loving worship specifically in order to avoid having to even pretend to live up to it. To claim it was for Ryan's own good was a grotesque, self-serving rationalization. Though in the end, it might also be true. This was the most depressing truth of all, he realized. Could a bad thing possibly get any worse?

In a fog of self-reproach, Evan gingerly proceeded through the steps that would lead him back into the world. Pissing. Brushing his teeth. Putting on the coffee. He got in the shower and said, "Fuck." And as the first, cold drops of water rained on him: "Godammit. Cocksucker." Some people sang in the shower. He muttered curses.

Friday, August 14, 2009

The Autobiography of Someone Else - 14

Mom and Dad started drinking when we got home. Gin and tonics. Dad always made the drinks at the kitchen counter. The awful, hissing crunch of ice cubes wrenched loose in the lever-action tray. The happy rattle of the ice in empty glasses. A squeeze of lime. A little bit of gin, that deceptively sinister spirit: clear but imbued with the essence of mysterious vegetation, possibly toxic, possibly medicinal. Daddy held the open bottle under my nose and laughed at my contorting face. Beefeater Gin, with the man in the gilt red uniform and the top hat and the staff. The incongruity of the name and of the picture somehow underscored the adult quality of this product. I couldn't imagine ever understanding what it all meant. Beef. Eater. Gin.

I'd tasted tonic before, in a rocks glass with ice and lime so I could pretend to be a grownup. Cold, green, prickly bitterness shot through my brain. As the tonic suffused my mouth and throat it seemed to leave them drier than before; it was anti-liquid. I poured the rest into the sink with a heartful of regret, for even though I could not drink it I wanted it very, very much.

Dad brought Mom her drink and they sat serenely in the living room, reading the paper and listening to country music on the radio.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Sitdown Comedy

The Bible is funny. There's a lot of things in it that seem pretty weird when you think about it. Not just Abraham being told to kill his kid and that type of thing. But little episodes. Like Jesus turning water into wine at some wedding. Always struck me as sorta funny.

Couple things about that.

First, getting Jesus Christ to turn water into wine is kind of like, I don't know, getting Superman to fly down to the 7-Eleven to get you a bag of Doritos. It's cool and everything, and it is miraculous, but... it ain't exactly giving sight to the blind. It's like wishing to a genie for a hundred candy bars.

Second, who forgot to buy enough wine for his daughter's wedding? Dude: you had plenty of time to shop. You knew how many guests would be there. You invited Jesus Christ, for Christ's sake. What's next? "Jesus, we're in an awful bind. We don't have enough boutonnieres for the groom's frat brothers. Little help?"

Moral of the story: Make the necessary goddamn preparations so Jesus can focus on redeeming mankind. True, the wine merchants are closed on Saturday. Plan ahead!

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

The Streak - 44

Carlos beamed at Evan walking through the lobby.

"Good night, sir!"

"Good night." Evan, self-conscious about the relatively short time that had elapsed since he entered the building, perceived a mocking tone in the doorman's voice.

"Good luck tomorrow, sir!"

"Thanks," Evan said with a rueful smile.

Out on the street, Evan phoned Kyle and they agreed to have a nightcap at Cassidy's. Evan got a cab and sat deep in the seat, scrutinizing the familiar, intoxicated views through window and windshield. He wondered how fucked up he was. He shouldn't have asked. The coke and ecstasy were receding rapidly now, allowing whisky to flood his synapses. It was as though the booze were angry to have been made to wait. Now it possessed him. He tried to keep his head up, to discern something in the blur. They stopped at an intersection, he was pretty sure of that. The cab was moving and now it's not, he told himself. If he could just be sure of a thing or two, he might be all right. The car seat's cool against my neck. These were fragile, ungirded facts, subject to the winds. But in this uncertainty lurked the absolute truth about everything, like a lighthouse in the fog. He was pretty sure of it, anyway. But where?

A panhandler approached the cab. The geometry of it all. He came 'round the front and sure enough, down the side. He looked through the glass and Evan looked back. Lines upon lines and grids upon grids. Minutes and seconds and years. Volume. Boundaries. The man touched his fingers to the glass. Evan touched his to the other side. Angle of incidence and angle of reflection. Evan felt a sensation in his right foot, a prickly tickle. The man withdrew and walked away, and at once the sensation ended.

Evan knocked on the locked bar door. Sean opened up and let him in.

"Your confederate's here."

"Thanks Seanie."

Kyle sat wide-eyed at the bar, gulping whisky. His right knee bobbed mechanically.

"What's the word, bro?" he asked, as though they hadn't spent the better part of the last twelve hours together.

"Oh, not much," said Evan. He took a seat and immediately rested his face in his hands. "Almost got assassinated. Almost got a blowjob."

"I hear that."

"What happened to you?"

"I was fooling around with Tania on the couch."

"Did she offer to get you a drink?"

Kyle thought a moment.

"I don't know."

"Go on."

"Then there's this pounding on the door. Just as we're starting to, you know."

"Play Monopoly?"

"Just as we're starting to fuck. I got up and pulled my pants up and looked through the peephole and it was one of those suit cocksuckers from before."

"Matt."

"Yeah. He tells me to step into the hallway for a second. He asks me if Tania is present and I say yeah. He says she may or may not be a terrorist or some shit. He tells me to make up some reason for her to leave. He's very insistent. He's also very apologetic."

"Did you tell her you were gay?" Evan asked drowsily.

"Fuck you. I just told her to go."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Like, 'I know we were starting to have sex, but go away?'"

Kyle nodded and took another sip.

"How did she react?"

"She said, 'Why?'"

"What did you tell her?"

"I said no reason. Go. Just go, go, go, go, go. It was killing me, believe me."

"And she left?"

"She asked me who it was at the door. I told her nobody, now go. She kind of got pissed. I wasn't sure if it was because she was not going to be able to fuck me or if it was because she was not going to be able to kill me."

"You frustrated her, anyway."

"She put her panties on and left. That dude was still standing in the hall, too. I guess he wanted to make sure."

"You managed to give her no reason whatsoever why she should leave, and yet she left."

"I told her to go."

"You have a way with the ladies, my friend."

Kyle's phone chirped its stupid alarm again. Kyle stopped it angrily and fumbled with the settings to turn it off for good.

"Goddamned fucking hell," he said.

"I love you, brother, but if I hear that sound again in my entire life I'm gonna kill you."

"You and me both," said Kyle.

Friday, August 07, 2009

What Howie Said

Everybody knew what Howie said. Though the media seldom had the temerity to print it, let alone to say it, his words had infected the public consciousness like a virus. Young, old, men, women, every race and creed. The taboo was so powerful and universal that its violation had a democratizing effect. Now it was the secret everybody shared. No one could repeat it. But they knew.

There were those who sat home thinking Howie never should have said it but were secretly glad he did. Among those were those who were glad he did because they had fantasized about saying it themselves, and among this subgroup were those who had fantasized perversely about saying it, knowing it was wrong to say, and a smaller group who had fantasized purely about saying it, because it was what they believed and what they thought should be said. There was another group among those who were secretly glad he'd said it: those who were entertained by the misfortunes of others. This group was large but also rather unimpassioned. They did not clamor in the streets or on the Internet. They watched it all play out from afar, happy to see a cross be borne by anyone but them. Of course, there were also those who thought he never should have said it and that it was an abomination that he did. The quiet, pious mothers of the world. They were steadfast in their uncelebrated view, lowering their gaze when they saw differing ones paraded on TV. And on TV there were those who proclaimed their outrage at what he'd said and sought to rouse others into fits of venomous fury whose target extended far beyond the original statement itself or even the sentiment, such as it might be, that lay behind it. Many of these people seemed to be leveraging the simple offense felt by the civilized in order to – for unclear reasons – disrupt civilization itself. It might be said that this group was angry that he'd said it but glad he did, for his saying it finally rallied their forces from their slumber and focused their disparate objections on a single point, a single statement, a single man. There were two other constituencies in public view, the first one minor and the second major: First, those who heartily endorsed what he had said. For them, the statement breached a long-weakened barrier and allowed the full force of their grievances to flood our common ground at last. Second, there were those who objected keenly to what he'd said but were willing to defend ("to the death," they liked to claim) his right to say it. This last group and the one consisting of those who objected and sought to forever stifle such speech were the most antagonistic pair of all, for they were brothers on opposite sides of the war.

There were rumors that children – mischievous, uncomplicated – had adapted Howie's words into a skipping rhyme.

And then there was Howie, barricaded behind his door. TV trucks in the yard. On day three his longtime girlfriend, Hannah, emerged from the house clutching her terrier, suitcase in tow. She fought her way through the frenzied pack of reporters to her car. How's Howie? she was asked. Did he hurt you? What did he do to you? I have a lawyer, she replied obscurely. Are you suing him? No. Are you leaving him? Did he rape you? No comment. No. Then, How could you have sex with someone who was capable of saying that? No reply. Another reporter followed up. What was sex like with Howie? I'm not going to answer that. What's he doing in there? Does he have a gun? Not to my knowledge. Let me go.

Howie had made no statement to the press, but occasionally a camera pointing through the window would catch him darting from bedroom to kitchen, a furtive ghost haunting his own home. He was presumed to be suicidal, a deranged loner in a standoff with himself as hostage. His only contact with the rest of the world consisted of phone conversations with three people: his mother, a high school friend back home, and his boss, Ron. Soon the media surrounded his mother's apartment building and his friend's house, and hounded them from the moment they exited their doors to the moment they reentered. Howie's mother ended their last conversation by saying she loved him but she could no longer speak to him. "I can't take it anymore the people bothering me, Howard," she said. Then Howie's friend abruptly changed his number. Now only Ron, his mentor, the epitome of reason and professionalism, remained. Howie began their conversations with pleas to retain his employment and ended them with anguished self-recriminations, prolonged crying jags and shudders of despair. Finally Ron was advised by legal to "discontinue all contact with Howard Landerman unless at the direction of the legal department." Howie was cast adrift.

Only a week earlier, Howie was a relatively happy, highly valued project manager in a product development team buried deep within his company's byzantine organizational structure. It was Wednesday morning, status meeting time. They were all sitting around the conference room table waiting for the meeting to begin when he said it. No one was sure they'd heard him right. Maybe they were hoping they hadn't. (But was it not a worse thing to imagine than to hear?) There was an awful silence around the room as everyone tried to inhabit the new reality his utterance had produced, each mind reeling, struggling to adopt the proper stance. At first it seemed as though he'd be forgiven. Rachel, sitting to his right, emitted a momentary bark of laughter, mirthless and tense. A couple other people chuckled somberly in turn. But then she put her face down in her hands and seemed to sob.

"Howie... Howie... Howie..." said Ron. His voice contained a curious combination of reproach, pity and concern, a response that strove without success to reflect the vile enormity of the offense.

Howie stared blankly out the picture window to the parking lot. His mouth moved with a slight quiver. There were no words to unsay what he'd said.

"Good God," he finally exclaimed. He hung his head, then lifted it up and looked imploringly around the table. "I am so, so, so sorry, everyone," he said, his voice breaking. Everyone lowered their eyes now, knowing he was lost. Knowing he would be condemned.

Suddenly Jordan pushed her chair back and stood up, noisily gathering her laptop and cord.

"That's fucked up!" she shouted.

Ron held up his hand to try to calm her down. "Jordan, please," he said. She brushed by the back of his chair and strode out the door.

"Everyone, we obviously have a bit of a problem here," Ron declared. "Let's break for now, get back to work and settle down a little. I'm going to have a word with Howie."

They filed numbly out of the conference room, exchanging spooked expressions, and went back to their cubicles. Later in the afternoon, they all received an e-mail:

Team:

Words cannot express how sorry I am for saying the thing I said today. I don't know what happened – I guess I thought I was making a joke and it came out wrong. I don't really know why. What I do know is that I would give everything I have in this world to take those words back.

I am not that kind of person. I have never been that kind of person. In fact, I detest the kind of attitude and mindset that would ever make or endorse such a statement. I hope you know me well enough to know that, and I hope you find it within your hearts to forgive me.

I have some deep thinking to do personally, and some discussions with Ron and with H.R., before I know what my fate will be within the team and the company. For the moment, please just accept my deepest, most sincere apologies. If I offended any of you more than any others, let me especially and most deeply apologize to you.

Again, I hope we can all put this behind us. If not, I will understand and I will find a way to go on and be a better person for it.

Best,

Howie


Ron's boss's boss, Steve, flew in from out West that night to address the entire office in the morning. Apparently the affair had spun out of control overnight. Someone – or several people – in the group had spread what Howie had said throughout the company. Word had leaked to the outside; now the quote was ricocheting around the Internet, multiplying, distorting. Stories appeared in the mainstream press – with the quote heavily redacted, of course – as well as on countless blogs. There seemed to be a sense of glee among the media that such a stunningly foul thing was said within the walls of such a powerful and well-regarded company. In the meantime, Jordan hired a lawyer and initiated a hostile workplace lawsuit. She circulated an invitation to the rest of the team to join it; several did.

The message from Steve was conciliatory and calming. He read a prepared statement expressing his wish that "we all learn what we can from this episode and move forward," then invited a round of questions. Will anyone be punished for leaking Howie's remark to the press? Steve said he couldn't speak for legal but that it was his personal wish that no action be taken on that count. How is the PR department handling this? He said there were a number of initiatives on the table and PR was working aggressively with legal and with upper management to formulate a response that befit the circumstances. What's going to happen to Howie? Here Steve paused before responding.

"I've had conversations with Ron and with other parties, and I will continue to have those conversations. I can't say precisely what Howie's situation will be moving forward. I know that he's home right now – isn't that right, Ron?"

"That's right."

"He's home right now. Resting. Isn't that right, he's resting?"

"He's resting."

"Howie is at home resting."

Steve closed with a warning to stay mum to the media, to refer all inquiries to public relations. As the employees dispersed and resumed their distracted work, he and Ron disappeared into Ron's office with the door closed – an unusual and eerie sight. Over the course of the afternoon, the company's stock price plummeted by over eight percent.

By the end of the day it was clear the situation was getting worse. The TV news cycle was completely preoccupied with the implications of Howie's statement, its reflection upon the company, upon corporate culture generally, upon capitalist culture and upon the world. A guest on one show, a dubiously credentialed pundit, had finally said what many were thinking: "I don't disagree with what he said! I wish I'd said it myself. It needed to be said."

"Then say it," interjected another guest.

"What?"

"If you wish you'd said it, then why not say it now?"

"It's been said. I don't need to say it."

"That's hypocritical. You just want to say you'd say it. But you'd never really say it."

"Listen, we all know what was said–"

The host of the show interrupted the spat. "Stay with us, folks. Lots more to say about what Howie said. Back after these messages."

Over the weekend, a small but very determined Christian sect set out from Idaho. They had come to believe that Howie had spoken the unspeakable name of God, the sacred Tetragrammaton. This could only mean he was the Christ returned; this was the end of days. In fulfillment of Revelation 14:1, they had tattooed Howie's odious words on their foreheads. They were headed east in a heavily Bondoed Econoline van.

Several groups that had drawn different conclusions were also gravitating toward Howie. Among them were extremists of various stripes, including self-described Landermanians who planned to tunnel into Howie's basement, kidnap him, and make him the king of their secessionist commune in Western Massachusetts. Many who wished to sacrifice the scapegoat were on the road as well. Most of them had slapdash, poorly conceived designs.

On day five, there was great excitement on TV as Howie finally made a statement of sorts. It consisted of twelve sheets of paper, each with a single magic-markered letter on it, that he taped one at a time to the inside of his living room window. With each sheet posted, there was a flurry of renewed speculation as to what he might be saying.


I

I? I what? I'm sorry? I love you?


I D

I don't care?


I DI

I die? I die for you? I die for your sins?


I DID

I did it?


I DIDN

I didn't do it?


I DIDNT MEAN IT

Meanwhile, the company's ad hoc emergency task force worked around the clock to establish a strategy for the containment of the situation. It was comprised of senior members of the legal, human resources and public relations divisions as well as an elite team of outside consultants with expertise in crisis management, branding catastrophe, media engagement, communications, linguistics, philosophy, comparative religion. After about ninety consecutive hours of work, spanning the weekend and the beginning of the week, they emerged and presented the CEO, James Frost, with a two-point plan. He took the next flight out to meet with Ron. The following morning, they sat together in the very same conference room where it had all begun a week before.

"Ron, first of all, let me tell you how grateful we are for your work with your team and the way you've handled this thing so far. And all the work you've done in the past. You're a terrific asset."

"Thank you Jim. It's good to hear that."

"I really mean it, Ron. I really mean it. You're on the radar at corporate, I can tell you that."

"Thanks."

"So let me show you what our little geniuses have devised," Jim said, opening the PowerPoint presentation on his laptop. A slide appeared on the wall:


Unacceptable/Offensive Speech Incident #47273, Code Name "Maserati"
Crisis Management Plan

Strictly Confidential


"Why Maserati?" Ron said.

"Huh?"

"Why Maserati? Code name 'Maserati.'"

"Oh," said Jim. "All our offensive speech incidents are code named for sports cars."

"That's interesting."

"It doesn't mean anything, Ron. It's just a thing."

"Right."

"Here's where it really gets interesting," Jim said as he flipped to the next slide. On the screen appeared the following text:

Incident Data

                    Type: Unacceptable/offensive speech
                    Perpetrator: Howard Landerman
                    Witnesses: Product Development Team B-207
                    Team Lead: Ronald Martenson
                    Media Exposure: Potentiated
                    Litigation Exposure: Potentiated
                    Severity: 5
                    Priority: 0

"Tell me when you're ready," said Jim.

"I'm ready."

Jim flipped to the next slide, which in fact ended the presentation. It said:

Two-Point Crisis Resolution Plan

  • Howard Landerman's manager, Ronald Martenson, to take full, unequivocal responsibility for said speech
  • Ronald Martenson to resign

Jim paged forward anyway. There was a sort of postscript slide, a non-slide, at the end. It was entirely blank save for the following words:

This slide intentionally left blank.

"Ta-daa!" said Jim.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Any questions?"

"Why that slide?"

"What?"

Ron pointed to the screen.

"Oh. Legal has mandated that all decks from corporate end with that slide."

"I see."

"They gave us a template."

"Right."

"So we wouldn't have to, you know, insert it ourselves."

"Right, right."

"Any questions about the previous slides, Ron? I want to make sure you're on board with this."

"What about Howie?"

"We're gonna bump him up. We see a lot of potential."

"To my job?"

Jim nodded. "It's the counterintuitive play. Our advisors from Taoism Today came up with it."

"Who's Taoism Today?"

"Consulting firm. We really feel like this is the most effective way to contain the situation," offered Jim.

"It has a certain clarity to it."

"That's why we pay these folks the big bucks," said Jim. "By the way, you'll be compensated. Don't think you won't be."

"I understand."

"Julie from press relations will contact you about how, where and when to make your statement. We're striving for maximum impact. Ever been on television before?"

"No."

"It's a breeze. Remember to look into the camera. Try not to sweat too much."

"OK."

"Julie will have a packet of information for you."

"Great, great."

"Gotta race back to the airport, Ron," Jim said as he disconnected his laptop from the projector. "This has been good. Let me reiterate what I said before."

"I appreciate it."

"Glad you do."

When Ron returned to his office there was a manila envelope from inter-office mail in his inbox. It contained a folder of instructions for his impending mea culpa. The entire cover was printed with a soft-focus photograph of a dapper, professional black man smiling and holding a cup of coffee. At the bottom it said: What you need to know about your first press conference.

The phone rang. It was Julie. She told him he was to hold a press conference that evening at seven o'clock in auditorium B.

"Let's review the talking points," said Julie.

"OK." Ron set the single sheet before him and stared at the bullet-pointed list.

"Read them to me, OK Ron?"

"OK. I, Ronald Martenson, accept full responsibility for what has been widely reported to be the offensive words words that my employee, Howard Landerman, is alleged to have spoken."

"Good, good. Continue."

"I hereby offer my resignation, effective immediately."

"Good! Now what do you say if you're asked whether you, in fact, spoke the words?"

"I accept full responsibility for the words that were alleged to have been spoken."

"Good, Ron. And what do you say if you're asked whether the company forced you to accept responsibility?"

"I accept responsibility of my own free will and volition."

"And if you're asked whether we forced you to quit?"

"I am resigning of my own free will and volition because I am fully responsible for the words that may or may not have been spoken. Also, I wish to spend more time with my family."

"Perfect, Ron! You're a pro. Keep studying until go time. Good luck."

A few hours later, Ron stood at the podium, waiting for the press conference to start. Spotlights shone on his sweating face. In the darkness beyond the bank of microphones, he perceived a roiling frenzy of reporters, TV cameras, still cameras with telephoto lenses.

Suddenly, Ron's cell phone rang. It was Jim.

"Ron! Have you started?"

"No. I think we're about to."

"Change of plans, Ron! Plan B. Contingency plan. New strategy."

"Really?"

"We've made a negative assessment of Howie's capability in terms of integrating with the current construct," Jim explained.

"He can't handle it?"

"He's out to lunch, Ron. Sleeping in his shoes."

"I could have told you that."

"You should have been forthcoming. Anyway, listen. New plan. Don't quit. Blame it all on Howie. Tell 'em he had some kind of breakdown. You'd long suspected it."

"I don't know if I–"

"Tell 'em you were concerned that he had a substance abuse problem. Make it specific. What are those pills, oxy-vice? Something?"

"Jim, I don't feel comf–"

"Plane's about to taxi, Ron. Think on your feet. I trust you. You've been great. Looking forward to continuing to work with you."

"I don't like this, Jim. What about H–"

"Flight attendant approaching with a scornful air. Signing off!"

"Jim, what about Howie? Is he OK?"

"I'm reprimanded, Ron."

"What about Howie?!"

"Can't make out what you're saying over the wails of a terrified baby."

"Just tell me he's alive!"

"Mustn't interfere with the plane's electronic controls. Knock 'em dead, Ron."

Ron put away his phone and blinked into the lights. The conference had officially begun. He stared down at his obsolete prepared statement as the crowd stirred restlessly, straining for a better view.

"Good evening, everyone," he said. "I... I have a statement to make."

The room grew quiet now, though flashes went off madly. Ron leaned toward the microphones and paused a moment. Then he said the only thing there was to say. He said what Howie said.