Shock. Pulse-pounding, ice-water-in-the-belly shock. Twenty pairs of eyes all went straight to the source.
His name was Mitch Weedleson. He was small – his chin barely cleared the conference table. He had a head of overly curly hair, and the babyfat look of the kid always chosen last for kickball. A perpetual deep right-fielder. He had big expressive eyes, an intelligent face, and was the only one at the table wearing a bowtie. He was also the only one wearing polka dots (also on the bowtie). He was a teddy bear come to life in a sports jacket and khakis.
And he kept talking. “Shouldn’t we make toys with redeeming qualities, something more than just an ad campaign, something that holds kids’ attention longer than the five minutes it takes to get back from the store? Do we really want to substitute ad campaigns for quality? Do we want disposable product instead of great toys? Do we want mediocrity instead of excellence?”
Silence.
Jeff looked around the table, trying to gauge what everyone was thinking. Miss Peppy Executive was easy to read: little veins stood up on her forehead as she stared bug-eyed at Mitch. Who was this twit interrupting HER pitch session?!
Jeff hesitated. He wanted to say something…he should say something. Now was the time…the time to agree, to back up Mitch’s opinion. He started to open his mouth…
When the Voice Of God boomed out from the opposite end of the table.
“Mr. Weedleson.”
Jeff turned his head and automatically shut up before he even began. The baritone belonged to Mr. Carruthers, Jim Carruthers, “Mr. Boss Jim Carruthers to you,” the CEO of Wacko! Toys Inc. The fifty-something man sat like a king in his court: charcoal grey suit elegantly tailored, regal silver hair immaculately groomed, large manly hands crossed, grand imposing face tanned from a thousand golf courses. He leaned forward from his place of honor at the head of the table, and smiled a tight little smile.
“That’s exactly what we want.”
The crowd of executives exhaled a collective sigh of relief. Half of them beamed at the CEO, the other half shot daggers at the upstart in their midst.
Jeff cringed in sympathy, and looked over at Mitch.
Mitch looked deflated, yes. Scared, yes. Beaten up, yes. But not beaten. Not humiliated. Still fighting. He opened his mouth, as though to say something –
For the love of God, man! Jeff wanted to shout. Don’t you know when to keep your trap closed?
Mr. Carruthers did the job for him. “Because the profit margin is higher, Weedleson.”
With that, the Great Man turned his gaze away, effectively dismissing any other dissenting viewpoints. Mitch Weedleson sat there with his mouth open as the Booger Blaster presentation continued, the unasked question still perched on his tongue. As Jeff looked at him, he felt his stomach fill up with a peculiar kind of coldness as the waves of blather washed over him and numbed his ears and brain.
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Copyright © 2008 Darren Pillsbury. All rights reserved.
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