Floyd gives his PowerPoint presentation. The only twist to the meeting that would get the listeners’ attention would be the mention of layoffs. If that were the case, the room would smell like perspiration and desperation and the refreshments would be left uneaten. But, for once, there are no such rumors, resulting in everyone being at ease. We sit and watch various charts and graphs of the company’s goals and expectations for the quarter. Although, if we meet said financial goals, it never translates into more money for the workers. So why bother?
My ass now feels as if I accidentally sat on a hypodermic needle filled with Novocain. I’ve been sitting here for about forty-five minutes already, and these normally go an hour. I positioned my cellphone on my lap so I can check the time without being too obvious. The only thing that’s keeping me awake is the occasional wisecracks from Jake. I can tell the meeting is coming to a close, because the PowerPoint is displaying the announcements for the quarter. First, Floyd brings attention the employees whose anniversaries with the company occurred in the last quarter. He starts off honoring the employees celebrating five years, then ten years, and so on. They stand and each grouping gets a round of increasing applause. Floyd ends with a man who’s been with the company for forty-five years, and he gets the biggest reaction from the room. I sit here wondering if these people even should be admired. What honor is it in staying in the same place for more than ten presidential administrations? I feel it teeters more on the pathetic side of things. What was the business even like when this relic started? When did the abacus give way to the calculator? Did they all dress up in suits with fedoras like in black-and-white movies? How was it when the first computer showed up in the office? Did all of his co-workers stand around in awe when the first Post-it note was used, admiring the way the yellow piece of paper stayed affixed to the wall of the cubicle? I hope I never ever get to that stage in my career.
“I want to do something different today,” Floyd says. “I want to talk about the people who currently make this company thrive. The people who’re going to take us to the next era of Schuster, Thompkins, and Dykes’s history. Who is going to write the new chapter? Who is going to be manning the ship?”
This is it. My coronation.
“The new pension operations manager, or POM, because you know we love to use acronyms here . . .” says Floyd with a snicker. There are scattered, hopefully forced laughs in the audience. “. . . will be Aida O’Connell.”
I place my hands on the plastic arms of my chair and propel myself out of my seat. A few people’s eyes shoot up at me in a way that makes me realize what I actually heard, and my name wasn’t called. I try to play it off by stretching, but the humiliation has already been done.
I don’t know exactly how old Aida is, but it’s anywhere from seventy to one hundred ten. She always wears dated Laura Ingalls Little House on the Prairie dresses. She doesn’t realize her name was called either. She’s sitting there near the far wall, looking out of the window and counting cars in the parking lot below, wearing an outfit that looks like she lifted it from Betsy Ross’s closet. The woman sitting beside her taps her on the shoulder. Then, she follows the tap by whispering into her ear. A big grin appears on Aida’s face. You would think we’ve just told her World War II was over and the troops were coming home. She slowly shuffles her boney frame up to Floyd at the front of the room. She begins to cry as everyone gives her a standing ovation. The only things missing from this scene are confetti and balloons falling from the ceiling. She’s so frail, that party favor combo dropping down might knock her unconscious.
I turn to Jake and mouth the words what the fuck? I probably could’ve screamed it and nobody would’ve
My ass now feels as if I accidentally sat on a hypodermic needle filled with Novocain. I’ve been sitting here for about forty-five minutes already, and these normally go an hour. I positioned my cellphone on my lap so I can check the time without being too obvious. The only thing that’s keeping me awake is the occasional wisecracks from Jake. I can tell the meeting is coming to a close, because the PowerPoint is displaying the announcements for the quarter. First, Floyd brings attention the employees whose anniversaries with the company occurred in the last quarter. He starts off honoring the employees celebrating five years, then ten years, and so on. They stand and each grouping gets a round of increasing applause. Floyd ends with a man who’s been with the company for forty-five years, and he gets the biggest reaction from the room. I sit here wondering if these people even should be admired. What honor is it in staying in the same place for more than ten presidential administrations? I feel it teeters more on the pathetic side of things. What was the business even like when this relic started? When did the abacus give way to the calculator? Did they all dress up in suits with fedoras like in black-and-white movies? How was it when the first computer showed up in the office? Did all of his co-workers stand around in awe when the first Post-it note was used, admiring the way the yellow piece of paper stayed affixed to the wall of the cubicle? I hope I never ever get to that stage in my career.
“I want to do something different today,” Floyd says. “I want to talk about the people who currently make this company thrive. The people who’re going to take us to the next era of Schuster, Thompkins, and Dykes’s history. Who is going to write the new chapter? Who is going to be manning the ship?”
This is it. My coronation.
“The new pension operations manager, or POM, because you know we love to use acronyms here . . .” says Floyd with a snicker. There are scattered, hopefully forced laughs in the audience. “. . . will be Aida O’Connell.”
I place my hands on the plastic arms of my chair and propel myself out of my seat. A few people’s eyes shoot up at me in a way that makes me realize what I actually heard, and my name wasn’t called. I try to play it off by stretching, but the humiliation has already been done.
I don’t know exactly how old Aida is, but it’s anywhere from seventy to one hundred ten. She always wears dated Laura Ingalls Little House on the Prairie dresses. She doesn’t realize her name was called either. She’s sitting there near the far wall, looking out of the window and counting cars in the parking lot below, wearing an outfit that looks like she lifted it from Betsy Ross’s closet. The woman sitting beside her taps her on the shoulder. Then, she follows the tap by whispering into her ear. A big grin appears on Aida’s face. You would think we’ve just told her World War II was over and the troops were coming home. She slowly shuffles her boney frame up to Floyd at the front of the room. She begins to cry as everyone gives her a standing ovation. The only things missing from this scene are confetti and balloons falling from the ceiling. She’s so frail, that party favor combo dropping down might knock her unconscious.
I turn to Jake and mouth the words what the fuck? I probably could’ve screamed it and nobody would’ve
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