As the presentation gathered steam, it became increasingly difficult to contain myself. I began to jitter in excitement and my grin stretched so wide it almost cracked my face in two! Elbowing co-workers on left and right, I whispered, "This is FANTASTIC!"
When their gray, sagging faces remained unresponsive -- Hello? What is the matter with you people! -- I leaned across to tap Sue Ann's knee: "Isn't this just GREAT!"
But, apparently, she neither heard me nor felt my insistent tapping in her knee, even though her leg spasmed and kicked the seat in front of her. Sue Ann stared straight ahead like a grim statue, arms crossed tightly over chest. And was she making a low pitched growling sound? Oh right, shit! Her department was totally axed, heard that yesterday. After sixteen years with the company, she's left with a mother with dementia, a laid-off husband, three kids, a new home purchased at the top of the market, two weeks' severance and four weeks' health insurance. Whoops! I made one of those abashed "whoops" faces people make when they fart in the elevator, and leaned back in my seat. Well, you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs. Can't be done.
"The dead parts have to be lopped off with a chainsaw -- vrrrrrrrr -- exactly like the bathroom scene in 'Scarface.' Then cauterize the wounds with a white-hot poker, sizzly sizzly, without anesthesia! Splash on the boiling tar! [pig squealing imitation here] That's the only way back to corporate health and we can't afford to get sentimental about it!" So said the new Director of HR when I ran into him, half in the bag, at Hooters. He was quite agitated about it: face flushed, eyes wet and blinking, throat working like there was too much saliva in his mouth. Nice to see someone so enthusiastic about his job.
Still, Sue Ann was a good egg. I'll drop her an email later, attach a Dilbert or a Far Side cartoon. Something to make her giggle. She'll land on her feet.
I craned around to make eye contact with Bob Feeney two rows back, give him a thumbs-up. He's a smart cookie. He'd understand the implications of what was happening here today. But Bob was hunched over, elbows on knees, staring at something between his feet. Probably counting commission dollars! His clients would be begging for our exclusive line of new cell phone-shavers! (With the optional earplug/mike, you could shave your face, head, legs or armpits while driving to work and still make those important business calls!)
Regrettably, the meeting had started unhappily, when some halfwit in Tech Support discovered the t-shirts taped under the chairs, and the chairman's opening remarks were completely drowned out by the rolling tide of rip-screech, as people tore them free and attacked the plastic wrapping. "Please, wait until we give the word," Old Man Fucht pleaded, before shuffling back to his seat on the dais. To no avail, I looked around sternly at the perpetrators of this unforgivable rudeness -- and finally ripped out mine as well, but as slowly and quietly as possible. Across the front, in bold, blood-red paint strokes: Take It Back!™ On the back: our logo (a duck on a unicycle) and We're Fucht-Tup! Oh, yessiree, this is a good one. I pulled it on over my sports jacket.
Then the new CEO stepped up to the podium, and a hush fell over the room.
"Fucht-Tup was Number 1 in 1972." He spoke quietly, matter of factly, and yet effortlessly held us in the palm of his hand. I strained to hear his words as he leaned forward to make piercing eye contact with each and every one of us. "But then we allowed ourselves to get complacent. We forgot our roots. Forgot the customer." He stopped, momentarily dumbfounded by the loss and waste of that great dream. He threw up his hands, and walked to the edge of the stage, shaking his head and sighing. He was clearly departing from the script; he was going to shoot from the hip and tell it like it was!
"So, what should we do now? Shall we just lie down and die?" He shrugged, twisted the corner of his mouth, raised his eyebrows. Maybe that was the best thing to do. "Close the doors, let them tap dance on our corpse? Huh?" Scratched the back of his head, rubbed his mouth: he was honestly open to suggestion. He glanced and nodded around the auditorium, only one quarter full after the latest round of strategic layoffs. (The 3 person "campus" in Milpitas -- last remnant of our Worldwide Satellite Network -- was participating via speaker phone.) And, of course, all the others in Operations except me were using the time to either proactively empty their desks or sneak hardware into their car trunks. But they were going to regret missing this. Oh boy, this was nothing like the last four re-org meetings, though to be fair, those had had some very inspirational moments as well.
I emphatically shook my head. Uh uh, not me. No way, I'm not going to lie down to have my carcass picked or boogied upon, or whatever.
"HELL NO! WE'RE GOING TO TAKE IT BACK!" He roared. I jolted off the seat and squeaked in alarm! Oofah! This new guy was powerful, clearly worth the 25 mil a year. Now, where did they find him again? Oh right, Old El Paso Toilet Tissue, the marketing genius behind the unscented, Caballero-style "tough as leather" double-roll. Well, I believe it: he's infinitely better than our last CEO from RC Cola. (His re-org slogan, and I've got that t-shirt too: "Me, You, Us: Fucht-Tup!™") Much less the fellow from Intel (baseball cap: "Fucht-Tup Inside!™").
In the stunned silence, he gazed out at our shocked faces (my neighbors were quietly weeping), and took it down a notch. Oh, he played us like a ukulele. "When I look around this room today, all I see are winners. We are going to turn this company around together," very serious now, even pensive, choosing each word carefully.
"AND WE'RE GOING TO HAVE FUN DOING IT!" he thundered, pounding the lectern with his right fist! "HOW ABOUT THAT, PEOPLE!"
The executive team jumped to their feet in rapturous applause. Pounding music blasted out the speakers, and our new leader -- I say that in the highest sense of the word -- grabbed the podium on both sides: eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, jaw clenched. No one could doubt -- not for one single second -- that he meant every damn word, so help him God. He began shaking the hands of his stout-hearted captains, clasping each hand in both of his own, collecting their allegiance to this bold and unshakeable vision.
I pumped my fists into the air and ululated in exhilaration --- ulululululululu! I nodded right back at him! It was an honor to be part of this team. As soon as I got back to my cubicle, I was going to send him an email, express my feelings of enthusiasm and gratitude, my commitment. Sweet Jesus, yes! We're going to take it back! And have fun too! Why the fuck not? Yee haw! I pounded the knee of the guy on my right.
The lights dimmed and the slide show kicked off: handsome, intelligent, smiling men and women of all races speaking into headsets, pointing at computer screens, giving dramatic, multi-media presentations to impressed customers, and driving trucks, talking to HQ and shaving their armpits all at the same time: all part of one strong, tight Fucht-Tup family. The sound track was -- Wow! -- electrifying the auditorium with its pulsing techno beat. Bada Boom! Take it Back! Oogah oogah! Take it Back!
That's when I gave up -- fuck it! -- trying to control my excitement. I jumped up from my folding chair. "Come on everybody! Into a conga line!" The new guy from accounting, fat Herb, grabbed my waist with two sweaty hands, and we started down the center aisle. I was shaking my fists like maracas, both of us wiggling our booties and kicking out our legs like the Tropicana Banana Lady, and shouting "Take it back! Take it back!" right along with the audio-visual. "Come on! Join on!" I shouted to the sparsely populated rows. We conga-ed down to the front, and then, in a burst of daring -- Herb squealed in terror, clutched my belt and tried to pull me back -- shook our butts right up the stairs to the goddamn stage!
"Take it back! Take it back!"
I motioned with my head for the CEO, VPs and Board of Directors to grab onto Herbie's waist, but this didn't happen. They backed away warily, as if from a diseased cur of indecipherable intentions. And Old Man Fucht was firmly pushed back into his seat by Public Relations. Well, most of these fellows were new and probably still a bit nervous. After traversing the stage a couple times, Herb and I danced down the steps and up the aisle and finally arrived back at our seats, red-faced and wheezing, sweat circles under our armpits, a little self-conscious, sure, but triumphant too. We were winners!
The music died, the lights came up: the meeting was over. As I sat there, wrung out from the emotion and the adrenaline, gazing up at the now empty podium, my associates -- I love you guys! -- shuffled out in silence, carefully avoiding one another's eyes.
On the way back to my workstation, I wandered around and collected another couple dozen t-shirts discarded between the empty seats. Then, just as I was leaving, the custodial team appeared with their brooms and their garbage cans on wheels. "These are for co-workers who couldn't attend the meeting," I yodeled. But they only waved me off; janitors don't attend company meetings, so they had no conception of the magic, which had taken place here today.
Henry E. Panky
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