Fiction 12.20.05
I'LL MANAGE
908 words by Stanley Lieber
He was unhappy again; but when he halted to appraise the situation rationally he found that nothing had really changed. Why then this morose disposition? Each season Plinth Mold selected the action figures that would comprise the next year's line. He did this alone -- that is, his decision was final -- because Plinth knew that to consult a committee would signal weakness to the trade press. Such fanfare had been made of his spectacular rise, his subsequent reign and famously charismatic management style, that he was wary of reversing the polarity of this momentum, reluctant to sour himself in the public eye by demonstrating an acute lack of direction. He well knew that each word of praise committed to print was representative of an investment expected to yield generous dividends; that the looming weight of his success was not itself immune to the ancient and respected laws of gravitation. In fact there was a balance to the world, after all, and he was loathe to tip it off-kilter. The problem, then, was that these latest designs were not going to work. That is to say, Plinth could not decide between them. In years gone by such an impasse would have met with the unhesitant scrapping of the entire line -- Plinth would fire the team who had been working on it and start over from scratch. But, it was far too late for that this year. He would have to make a choice from amongst what he already had in front of him. He knew it was imperative to come to a decision, but still he was unsure of which design to go with. Yes, so something of some significance had actually changed. He flicked between each layout and reprimanded himself sternly for his indecision. Why was he making this so difficult? As he stared at each proposal he could not determine to his own satisfaction which was superior. They all seemed to consist of essentially the same elements, to be of roughly equal merit. "There is urine all over the front of this toilet," said Maude Mold, Plinth's wife of some twenty-five years. "Sometimes I sit down and my pant leg touches it -- I can feel it." "I guess I'll have to clean it up," Plinth returned. "That'd be a good idea, so I don't fucking retch." An earlier foray into indecision had cost him an entire season's work -- he had ended up pushing a wave of repaints into the stores for Redaction Day. No truly new figures for six months. Mention of that debacle was now off-limits in staff meetings, but it lingered in his memory all the same. Fatigued, he thought to himself that bouncing back from abject failure and humiliation was a young man's game. To All Employees: Our Guiding Principles form the basis for how we should manage our day-to-day interactions with customers and each other. They are the unchanging foundation that supports how we conduct ourselves everyday. Along with our Business Plan objectives and Factors for Dominance, the Guiding Principles form the building blocks to ensure the Figures department and ultimately UNIVERSAL MOLD's success. Click here to view the presentation of the month that discusses the importance of "Hold Yourself and Others Accountable." Act with Honesty and Integrity at All Times Exhibit a Positive Attitude Treat Everyone with Courtesy and Respect Do What You Say You are Gong to Do Seek First to Understand Then Be Understood Communicate Clearly and Often Inspect What You Expect Execute Flawlessly Everyday Recognize and Encourage Continuously Hold Yourself and Others Accountable Thank you, Plinth Mold President, UNIVERSAL MOLD "I can't believe I just wrote that," thought Plinth Mold. "I wonder how I would respond to a message like this, were I to receive it from my own boss." But of course, Plinth Mold did not have a boss. Had not, in fact, for some time. (Maude, it was true, was only his wife.) He tapped the appropriate region on his leaf's screen, causing the message to be sent out. He hated these condescending dispatches but it had needed to be done, and if that were the case it might as well bear his signature instead of some sub-manager. He tried to find solace in embracing the inherent responsibilities of his position, but curiously this acceptance didn't seem to alter his sagging mood. He still felt blank -- or worse, confused. "When you sit there with your pen, scritching away, it almost looks like you have friends," said Maude. "The movements, the gestures toward what appears to be the hashing out of a communique of some sort, are so realistic." Plinth sighed, folded up his leaf and turned off the lamp on his nightstand. He removed his eyepatch and laid it on the table next to his face, then ran his fingers over the concave surface where his eyeball would have been, were he a real little boy like his brother. His toes were freezing but Maude would not countenance another blanket, or any adjustment to the environmental controls. Perhaps he could show her the designs, see if she could muster a preference for one in particular. Immediately he wondered what that would cost him in the event of an acrimonious separation, and closed his mouth. He'd better just do it himself. Like so much else. "It's an expensive illusion, created just for you." There was silence, but he knew what was coming. |
Image by Degas, Portraits in an Office--The Cotton Exchange, New Orleans, 1873
creative.commons.attribution-noncommercial-noderivs.2.5
