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New World Order
November 13, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Business, Child, Father, Office, Son, Work | by davidbdale | 4 comments
I took my son to work today and they gave him my job. He looked so executive-ready in his Rocky and Bullwinkle tie, so stakeholder-inspiring, so regional vice-presidential, in fact, that he apparently defined a paradigm shift in leaderliness. As for me, I’ve been remaindered for sixty days to transition him, at partial pay, beneath a crap-colored parachute. From the first day of his pregnancy (yes she called it his pregnancy, not hers) his mother coddled him. Survival of the Fittest does not apply in the New World Order, she told me, so now he’s fit for nothing at all, but I’m the odd man out. He’s nine! What does he know about differentiating brand attributes? Nothing, the bosses tell me, but brands are passe. Concentrate his training instead on making him less derivative, by which they mean: Less. Like. Me. He sees me as one of those cavemen in the diorama at the Museum of Natural History, where, by the way, he peed his pants riding my shoulders and I changed him and bought him an ice cream cone and a second when he dropped it and he looked at me with admiration. I would kill the District Vice President of Corporate Indiscretion to see that look again, but he’s had no use for me since Bring Your Child To Work Day, when he shook the hand of the Chairman of the Board, who cannot remember my name, and cast his indifferent gaze on office items of fleeting interest and asked the Chairman, in a voice as cool as water, How much do you make? while simultaneously, with the back of his free hand, fondling the curvy bottom of the woman who will be his right-hand man. I was lying. I never changed his pants, or anything else.
Copyright © 1999
Boss’s Girl
October 23, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Boss, Business, Office, Violence, Work | by davidbdale | 3 comments
Stepping from the long car outside his office building, Number2 straightened the crease of his trouser leg, freeing it from the tongue of his shoe, and turned toward the private entrance. The freed pants leg flapped like a penitent in the wind. He considered his reflection in a mirrored wall and wondered could the shortness of his stride cost him a promotion? He must have meant pennant. Number2 delivered a full-armed slap, putting his shoulder into the effort, across the upper half of the doorman’s face. Morning, Jimmy, he said. Morning, sir, said the doorman. Boss in yet, Jimmy? Yes, sir, said the doorman. Bright and early. Number2 punched the doorman just above the belt buckle. Did I ask you when she got in, Jimmy? No, sir, said the doorman. No, sir, you didn’t. Number2 walloped the receptionist with a fist to the side of her head and picked up his overnight packages. Morning, darling. Morning, sir. With a knee brought swiftly from behind, he caught the elevator operator unaware between the hams and slammed his body against the wall. Eleven, Jack. Eleven, sir? Number2 banged Jack’s head against the cluster of buttons 21 through 29. Boss in? Number2 asked the boss’s girl. She’s waiting for you, sir. Number2 tipped her chair, spilled the girl against a bank of cabinets, and entered the boss’s office. Number1 was standing on her desk. Her head and shoulders disappeared through an open frame in the ceiling. Need help, boss? Asked Number2. Number1 clocked Number2 with a quick kick to the head. I think I got it, said Number1. Number2 crashed to the floor and lay there quietly, awaiting further instructions. He looked up at the boss’s legs, silently considering. His lip was beginning to swell. Thanks for coming in early, she said.
Copyright ©1997
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