Nobody really liked Mr.
Edgley. But they had to tolerate
him. Whenever the engineers in Florida
heard that Mr. Edgley was flying in from Houston, some genius from one
department or another would sneak into Edgley's office and unscrew the base of
his chair or program his personal computer with a startup message that demanded
he flick off the florescent lights in his office before clicking on the
continue button.
Edgley, on the other hand, was absolutely certain that he was one of
the great managerial leaders of the Twenty-first Century and that this talent
was both a blessing and a curse that he had to overcome.
Edgley was heavy-set and eternally be-suited, even though wearing a
proper suit and tie had gone out of style years ago. He had so much butt-hair sewn into his scalp,
every time he passed-wind his hat popped off.
(By 2044, fairly big hats had come back into style because they
protected you from daily exposure to sunlight with a UV rating of
"ozone-free".)
His flight from Houston was early and he felt certain that he’d be
able to slip in and observe how the work environment operated in his
absence. However, the engineers, who
were insanely well paid, pitched in and hired a private detective to watch
Edgley’s every move. They had reports
every five minutes by instant messaging that were read out in a public
announcement.
“Ten minutes from the Edge!” reported everyone’s SPECTACLs.
When Edgley entered the building, all the staff were working , heads
down, busy as beavers. No fraternizing.
No Holo-Pong between cubicles. No
projections of Edgley’s head grafted to Suze Hardbodee’s naked shoulders in the
main atrium. Just hard working
engineers, tirelessly double-checking every read-out in preparation for the
flight of the world’s first orbiting garbage-truck.
This was Edgley’s project, which meant that every employee throughout
the company assumed it had to be a disaster waiting to happen. Edgley wasn’t an engineer and he wasn’t from
finance. He worked his way up from the
Procurement Department, which meant that every penny of expenditure was
strained through a fine-tooth comb that Edgley kept in his breast pocket.
Nobody wanted to be connected to this new project when the garbage hit the fan. The widespread neglect of every aspect of the job was a direct result of an entire organization of nearly 5000 employees all trying to work on something else so the blame wouldn’t land on them.
Blame was something that seemed to squeeze out and plop on exactly the wrong employee’s shoulders at Space Traffic Control. When anything went wrong, it was like someone filled a sock with blame, cut a hole in it and indiscriminately whipped pink slips around the building.
For instance, when the first Space Traffic Control Station was launched in 2027, it rotated too quickly and the “lowest-bidder” retro-rockets were bolted on in such a way that they could only further accelerate the rotation. This meant that everyone on board the STC1 came back to earth with massive thigh muscles from living at G-forces that plastered them against the wall if they dared try to come into contact with the ship’s controls. The floating crewmembers were forced to make adjustments to their flight path by making a grab for the appropriate knob as it whipped past.
The litigation resulting from the permanent vertigo experienced by crew members upon their return was being hotly contested by STC’s entire floor of lawyers, their lobbyists and a number of physicians they acquired from a defunct tobacco company.
Edgley entered his office, placed his SPECTACL on his desk, sat down and fell over. “Bloody chair!” he yelled as he stood up. “Third one this year!”
The camera on top of Edgley’s computer monitor had captured the entire
mishap and 467 employees and guests were holding their sides and laughing
throughout the building. Edgley heard
the din and immediately stomped over to his office door and threw it open --
instant silence but for a dim echo. “Ms.
Webster,” said Mr. Edgley.
“Yes – snick – sir,” snorted Ms. Webster.
“My chair has fallen apart again,” growled Mr. Edgley through clenched
teeth, trying to harness his fury.
Tears were streaming down Ms. Webster’s face as she fought back a
bubble of repressed laughter. All she
could do was squeal out in a quiet, restrained voice: “I’ll have it fixed,
sir.”
“Yes, well. Are you okay?” he
asked.
“Mm hmmm” – snort.
“I’ll just take this,” he said, removing Ms. Webster’s guest swivel
chair, which had become his custom under these circumstances. As he pushed the chair into his office,
Portia, Mickey, Donny and Lyle entered the outer office. Lyle was wearing an amusement-park hat with
long droopy ears that had the eerie effect of making him look exactly like the
cartoon dachshund it promoted.
“We’re here, Mr. Edgley,” said Portia.
Edgley turned to take in the picture of the florescent funfur trio and
their keeper. “My heavens, you really
weren’t kidding.”
“No sir,” said Portia. “May we
come in?”
“Uh,” stuttered Mr. Edgley.
“Are they?” He looked them over,
a little afraid that they might be violent.
“Yes, they’re house trained, don’t worry.” And with that, Portia led
her team past her boss and into his palatial office.
Lyle barked “bow wow,” stuck out his tongue and panted on his way past
Mr. Edgley, who flinched.
There was an oval board-table with 6 chairs off to one side and Portia
invited the 3 recruits to sit at the table.
Next: Getting the Job
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