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Expedition Contributions · Joined: 20 Jul 2005 Posts: 47

oi · Guest

Mr. Jones has a hairy chest. (Seattle 13)

Candy waits on the shelf to be eaten
Mr. Smith jumps the gun
He pretends confidentially speaking
Some new bullshit he thinks of as fun.

Mrs. Fitz knows to smile by the hour
No more tidy a desk than is hers
Where´s the point in observing the other
Through her glasses the edgy shape blurs.

Mr. Wilson would go to the devil
To play chess with a partner of range
Once he thought that the cause of all evil
Was the human desire to change.

Who will jump from the top of the tower
Almost certainly wants to be watched.
Like a line on a page in the drawer
Daily routine untouched.

jan_v · Joined: 18 Apr 2006 Posts: 2

Another Day in Corporate America

What is he talking about? Boclund’s monologue was soaked with silly metaphors, dot-com terminology and ‘good-of-the-company’-crap.
“Look, Adam. What we are aiming at with this is to investigate the reason for our disappointing February results.”
Boclund had been talking for approximately twenty minutes now. He still had not made his point. Adam was nodding every once in a while, waiting for him to drop the bomb. If Boclund only knew where this would lead to. Adam was prepared. They had put a memo on his desk the other day, about a week ago:
Dear Mr. White,
as announced, our efficiency reports are still ongoing and now in their final stage. The results will be evaluated during the next days and then revealed in private. Accordingly, please come to Mr. Boclund’s office on
Friday, Feb 18th
4:00 pm
Adam for himself knew how this monologue would end. Word in the cantine was that they would lay off a bunch of employees. He nodded again and again to whatever Boclund said. “Of course, Mr. Boclund, I can see that.” That was eloquent, Adam thought. There would be no need for big words when Boclund is done talking. Adam had read about studies that proved it is better to lay off people on a Friday because the chance of an incident is lower than, say, on a Monday. It was him who was about to explode the whole theory.
“The thing is, Adam, you always have to bear in mind: don’t think what the company can do for you, but: what can YOU do for the company?”
He DID NOT just say that. Adam took into consideration to end Boclund’s speech a little earlier than scheduled. He was confident to know the bottom line anyway. Adam had worked there for about seven years. Seven years in Corporate America. Adam was truly living the American Dream of the new millenium. Cubicles, ringing phones, beeping fax machines, screeching printers, memos, efficiency reports. The garishly colored walls were just a pathetic effort to distract from the boredom and pointlessness of the employees’ miserable life. Adam was lost in thoughts and wondered who actually evaluated these efficiency reports.
“You know, Adam, I think you’re a nice guy. Unfortunenately, I am not the only one making the decisions. There is a whole group that decides what is good for the company. And these people do not know you personally. They just see your results…”
Now he’s wriggling like an eel, pushing the responsibility away from himself. That is nothing but despicable. Adam was seething with rage. Around him, outside Boclund’s office, the usual business. Ringing phones, beeping fax machines, screeching printers, annoying secretaries answering calls with honeyed voices “Good afternoon, STFU Industries, my name is Laura, how can I help you?”
He could not take it much longer anyway, therefore, him being laid off would only function as a trigger. A reason. That’s all Adam needed. Eventually pushing him over the edge of self-control. He started shaking. He had brought a little bag with him, and he had it sitting on his lap. Boclund had not even noticed, why would he? At this point, just when he was about to go for another round on the ‘good-of-the-company’ ferris wheel, Adam grasped the 9 in the bag and cocked it. This place would be a bit more noisier than usual. Secretaries screaming, laser printers burning, up-and-coming junior assistants fleeing under tables crying, chairmen’s heads bursting. Adam had a plan. Every step, every shot, every move. One for Boclund’s forehead, out of that room, take a right, one for Suzie, because of that incredibly annoying voice, move on, one for Cathy, just for being so goddamn stupid and shallow, get out of there, cause more mayhem, riddle Corporate America with bullets, leave one for himself, step out of the building, cops probably waiting outside, shout out: “THIS IS FOR THE GOOD OF THE COMPANY!” and put an end to it. He was trembling. Boclund’s words had turned into dull sounds from a surreal world outside of Adam’s mind. His eyes were playing tricks on him. Boclund’s fat appearance blurred into something that seemed like a blabbering sweaty meatball in a suit. With glasses. The meatball’s monologue was on the home stretch. Adam could tell that much. He discretely took the 9 out of the bag and held it invisible to Boclund underneath the desk. Now his hands were getting sweaty. “But I know, Adam, you are well aware of what I just told you. We can tell from your magnificient efficiency. I am sorry if I kept you away from work for almost half an hour now. Anyway, I am glad to let you know, that as a result of your amazing work here, we are going to raise your wage by ten per cent. Now get out of here, buddy, before I change my mind!”
BLAM!
Adam was rudely awakened from his state of almost complete mental absence. He hastily put the gun back in the bag, took the envelope from Boclund, hurried out of the meatball’s office and slammed the door. He leaned against it, sweating. He took a look around.
Ringing phones, beeping fax machines, screeching printers, memos, efficiency reports.

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