I could barely contain myself, and as the presentation gathered steam, I only grew increasingly excited. My grin stretched so wide it almost cracked my face in two! Elbowing co-workers on left and right, I whispered, "This is GREAT!"
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, even though her leg spasmed and kicked the seat in front of her. Sue Ann stared straight ahead like a statue, arms crossed tightly over chest. Oh right, shit! Her department was totally axed, heard that yesterday. After sixteen years with the company, she's left with a mother with Alzheimer's, 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 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, without anesthesia! 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 excited 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 Fucht-Tup cell phone-electric shavers! (With the optional earplug/mike, you could shave your face, head, legs or armpits while driving to work and making 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," the Old Man 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 red paint strokes: Take It Back! On the back: the company fluke-worm logo and We're Fucht-Tup! Oh, 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, 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." 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.
"So, what should we do now? Shall we just lie down and die?" He shrugged, maybe that was the best thing to do. "Close the doors, let them tap dance on our corpse? Huh?" Eyebrows raised: he was honestly open to suggestion. He glanced and nodded around the auditorium, only one quarter full after the ninth round of strategic layoffs (the 3 person "campus" in Milpitas -- last remnant of our Worldwide Satellite Network -- was participating via speaker phone). And then, everyone in Operations except me was either proactively emptying his desk or sneaking hardware into his car trunk. 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 good moments as well.
I emphatically shook my head. Uh uh, not me. No way, José. 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, 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 double-roll. Well, I believe it: he's infinitely better than the last guy from RC Cola ("Me, You, Us: Fucht-Tup!").
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. I nodded right back at him! It was an honor to be part of his 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 Fucht-Tup Team. The sound track was -- Wow! -- electrifying the auditorium with its pulsing techno beat. Bada Boom! Take it Back! Bada Bing! 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. We conga-ed down to the front, and then, in a burst of daring -- Herb squealed in terror and clutched at my belt -- 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. Well, most of them 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.
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