by Thomas L. Traband III
I sat alone in my office. It was the office of my dreams. My chair was of exquisite Corinthian leather. Several forests were destroyed to find the perfect blend of oak for my desk. Several nuclear power regulations required by-passing to provide electricity for my ultra-advanced, complete, state-of-the-art, hi-fidelity stereo entertainment system. Several major cities were leveled during testing of the sound quality. The test was conducted from aboard the space shuttle “Pembroke.” I listened from a concrete bunker, two hundred fifty miles away.
I possessed all the money any man could ever spend and then some. I had a direct telecommunications link with all the important international government leaders. I presided over the largest company ever to exist. Despite all of my money and power, I felt as though something was missing.
“Bzzzzzz!” buzzed the phone insistently.
“Yes, Miss Tidwell,” I sighed, in utter lethargy.
“Mr. Traband, sir, the heli-thingy is ready to take you home.” Miss Tidwell was one of those people who, no matter how often they speak, still manage to leave the impression they are only bobble-headed dolls.
“Thank you. I'm on my way.” I replied, casually tossing another telephone out the window.
I arrived home with virtually no idea of what to eat for lunch, where to go for lunch, and, for that matter, who to take with me. My trip was unannounced, and was only for the weekend. I soon discovered most of my friends were out of town or had simply fallen off the edge of the earth. I was about ready to call Rick Cowan, when I remembered an old friend who was still living in the area. I hadn't spoken to her in quite a while, but the only other alternative was Rick. I called.
“Hagans,” answered the young voice. I recognized it instantly as the object of my fateful call.
“S.R. old girl, how are you doing?”
“Just fine. Where are you calling from?”
“I'm home for the weekend. What are you doing tonight? How about we get together and discuss the current international socioeconomic situation,” I recommended congenially.
“I'm sure that would be fun, but…”
“What would you rather do?”
“I don't know.”
“Let's see a movie, then.”
“Okay. That sounds like a good idea.”
Hologram movies had become the ‘in’ thing. The extraordinary effects of three-dimensional entertainment justified the astronomical cost of a ticket. Don't misunderstand, the price in no way reflected the cost of making the film. It was pure example of supply and demand. The masses felt comfortable paying the price and the movie industry felt comfortable in taking the money. Everyone was comfortable.
“Well, that killed two hours, but we haven't had the opportunity to talk,” I offered in my most bored tone. “Where shall we go now?”
“I don't know,” she responded with what was rapidly becoming an old line.
“Did I ever mention that you sound a lot like Paul Shaffer?”
“Who?”
“Forget it. We'll just go to my place. I'm sure we can find something to do there,” I leered.
“We can always just scre…”
“Don't say it!” I hastily interrupted, as I nudged the accelerator a little bit further.
Something nearly, but not quite, tangible floated in, appeared to do nothing in particular, and, as suddenly, left. The point of the exercise eluded my grasping mind and came close to causing me to spend too much time pondering the implications. There were certainly implications. The general mood was subtly altered. I'll spare the sordid details.
Of course, the following day was a let down. What could compare? I asked myself. Other than windsurfing on Mars, I added. Six hours spent on the grey, twisting asphalt ribbon, commonly referred to as interstate eighty-one certainly was comparable only to having one's planet blown up on a Thursday morning. Car trouble only served as a garnish.
“Miss Tidwell, take a memo,” I commanded of my hapless secretary. She gave new meaning to the dumb blond theory.
“A what, sir?” Miss Tidwell asked incredulously.
“You're right. After three years of non-memo-giving corporate leadership, there's no point in starting now.”
“Non-what, sir?”
“Forget it. Am I the only person around here with a brain?” I pleaded to the ceiling, which, of course, didn't answer.
“Miss Tidwell, have R&D come up with a sympathetic paperweight, or something.”
“H…A…V…E…”
“Aaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh!”
Nearby, an unobserved paperweight sobbed quietly to itself. I didn't know this, of course. Call it poetic license.
It's a common misnomer, most inanimate objects have no feelings. This theory was concocted by human beings based on observation, or rather, the lack of observable manifestations by inanimate objects. Humans have confused an absence of feelings for a total disregard for human concerns. Once again, the humans have gotten the relationship mixed up.
I was bored. Takeovers had ceased to thrill me. My interest in business luncheons, speaking engagements, and the talk-show circuit had waned. The worst thing, though, was the fact that R&D had come up with a paperweight that spent most of it's time crying over the non-existence of MTV in Tanzania. Wondering why a paperweight should care if people in Tanzania had MTV or not turned out to be more that I could handle.
I picked up the receiver and jabbed the call button.
“Miss Tidwell, get me the motor pool.”
“Would you like them in your office? Heeheeheehee!” She convulsed with laughter for several minutes. I had my shotgun loaded when I heard the reassuring click of my call being transferred.
“Motor pool, boss. Whadaya need?” came a voice that seemed to be prevented from operating by an unusual concentration of dead plant fiber.
“I need something sporty, but inconspicuous.”
“Whdoes inconspikus mean?” He was a competent mechanic, but as quick witted as a slug. Or perhaps my secretary.
“Just get me a Ferrari, okay? Make it red.”
“Sure, chief.” The connection was broken at roughly the same time as my telephone. One day, I thought, I'll have to hire some people who possess some modicum of intelligence.
I hit Springfield in two hours, leaving seventeen highway patrol vehicles behind with blown engines. I suppose it was a good idea to have registered the car in Rick Cowan's name. Someday, I'll have to make it up to him.
I had a seven o'clock with the old ball and chain on Saturday, but the intervening time was mine. I made the most of the opportunity: I slept.
Preparation for the meeting went well. I had gotten myself into the proper frame of mine. I didn't expect too much progress to be made. Reconciliation can be a long process. I still hadn't figured out why I was doing it, even as I raced over to her house.
The details of the meeting are unimportant, but I left with a positive feeling about the future of our business dealings. The potential for a sound partnership was there. I felt so good, I was moved to give Rick Cowan a call.
“Cowan? Traband here. What's in the works for this week?”
“Thomas, not enough. I need the details on this reunion-thingy. Also, we need to do lunch. How about Maxim's on Wednesday?”
“Slow down, I'm an old man. First, nine o'clock, Friday, either in Georgetown or we could go to Georgetown. Second, pencil me in. We'll have to take my Concorde, of course. I wish you'd buy one.”
“As soon as I get my Visa Gold card.”
“Still mortgaging your kids' future, I see. Well, gotta run. I'll see you at the Millers' estate sometime this week, I'm sure.” With that, I added another statistic to the rising telephone mortality rate.
Seeing all my old cronies helped me gain a better attitude on life. We vetoed Georgetown in favor of “The Bathroom”: Farrell's. One horror flick and a Monty Python film later, I experienced the insensitivity of yet another inanimate object, the clock, which had discreetly altered its features to read “three-thirty”.
I drove some people home in my weary Ferrari. I arrived home myself at four in the morning. I can never be sure, but I would have sworn my clock radio looked sullen. I wrote a memo to R&D suggesting an improvement in quality control. I sent it out via Pembroke Express. These emotional products were driving me crazy.
I crashed into the motor pool at eleven, Sunday night. The Ferrari was mutilated beyond all recognition. One mechanic asked me where I had gotten the Edsel from. I fired him.
“How ya doin’, boss?” inquired my hapless head man in the garage.
“Just fine, thank, George. You know something, George, I think you need a vacation. Tell you what, you get your stuff together and leave right now, I'll give you a $10,000 bonus. Fair enough?”
“Gee, thanks Chief! I'm history!” He disappeared in a nanosecond. They're only stupid to a point.
I strode to the elevator. It opened without a sound. For once, I was grateful. I made a mental note to send R&D a bonus.
“Welcome home, Mr. Traband! Did you have a fun vacation? I'll bet you got fuc…”
“Miss Tidwell,” I interuppted jovially, “George from the motor pool just ran off from his post. I want you to go after him.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” she beamed. “You bet I'll go after him. He's such a hunk,” she squealed in childish delight. She vanished nearly as quickly as George.
“Lessee, security's extension is… hmm… ah, 666. Now, how do you work this phone? It can't be too hard…” I mumbled to no one in particular.
“Security,” answered a gruff male voice; one that obviously was not accustomed to much use.
“The head of my motor pool just ran off with my secretary. I want them both taken care of. Use some of the new tools you have.”
“Sure thing. Anything else?”
“Transfer me to personnel.”
“Hang on.” I heard a click and I was speaking to my personnel director.
“Personnel,” whined the female voice at the other end of the line.
“I need a new secretary and a new motor pool supervisor. The secretary needs to be beautiful, loyal and intelligent. No Barbies, got it? Put some brains in the motor pool supervisor, too. Get them here ASAP!” I roared into the unlucky receiver. The reason I call it unlucky will become apparent shortly.
“It'll be tough, but we'll come up with something.”
I slammed the phone down, fulfilling my foreshadowing of the previous paragraph. I knew I was going to enjoy corporate life again. I moved into my office and went after what was left of my phone there.
“Ted, how are those Hawks of yours doing? That's great, but I'll come to the point of my call. I plan to buy your WTBS Superstation…”
To Be Continued…