Anyway, there's two things in Corporate Land that I deal with on a daily basis - one that I'm relatively indifferent about (elevators) and one that I hate (new-age yuppie snobs that don't save a penny of their disgustingly overpaid salaries and blow it all on their BMW Z3 and suits from Italy in dark grey or French blue). Just the other day, as I first arrived in the morning to begin my day, these two things, these two of the many facets of Corporate Land collided - and I was in the middle. Since I don't kiss ass in order to get ahead and I try to save my money for some future, greater, valuable investment than a crappy car a midget couldn't even fit in, I bag my lunch more often than I go out. As I was walking to work, one hand occupied holding my lunch, and the other occupied holding my laptop bag, I noticed some blowhard yapping it up behind me. I turned my head and there he was, the symbol of all I distrust. Not hate, mind you, just distrust. The air about him gave the instant impression that this guy will smile to your face and curse your back. Dark suit with the coat flapping open in his wind, dark, French blue shirt left open at the top, black but somewhat beaten shoes, one hand swaying at his side with his BMW keys and keychain flapping about for all to see, and, of course, one hand plastered to his head via a mortar made of cell phone. I turned my head forward again and minded my progress into the building, through the lobby, the sharp turn left into the west corridor, and to the elevator. It seemed as if he managed to get louder the instant he walked into the building, but the art in the lobby (if you can call it art) makes people think they're in a museum so it's usually quiet in there, therefore idiots like him are easier to hear. At the end of my trek, having reached the elevator from my unbelievably distant parking spot, I raise my weighted down hand to press 'up', and almost instantly the door opened. Mr. New-age Yuppie was gaining. I walked into the elevator, issued much effort to my arm to press '4', and I waited for the invisible system of cables and pulleys and weights, both above and beneath me, to help me avoid stairs. Mr. New-age Yuppie made the elevator, walked in (still on his cell phone), said, "five?," in an asking yet still expecting tone, and continued yammering. My hands full, I said, "no, I'm going to four." He looked at me, smiled with that still expecting me to do his bidding smile, and kept talking. By the time the doors closed and we were past the second floor and on our way to the third, the realization that I wasn't going to move a muscle for him finally set in and he made a grand gesture, slightly invading my personal space, and pressed five for himself. I'm no genius like this fella' obviously is, but I came up with a theory as to why he was unable to press a button for himself on account of the fact that the payload he was carrying in each of his hands was far greater than mine. Now, bear with me. You see, I'm carrying a laptop which is work related and is rather heavy after five blocks of walking, and I'm carrying lunch which isn't as heavy as the laptop, but it's definitely nothing in comparison to the $75 Thai Lunch this shmuck's probably got 'schedules' or 'lined up' or 'arranged' for a little later in the day. He, on the other hand, has his keys on the ready just in case, out of nowhere, be he in the elevator or in the lobby of the building or at his desk (if he actually has one he goes to), his car will show up desperately wanting to be driven. He's on his cell phone for the whole of the six to seven minutes in which I was within his audible area, saying a whole bunch of nothing to the three people on the other end (he said he had to go to take a call - twice), keeping them on the line so that, just in case he gets into trouble or the elevator gets stuck, there's someone on the other end that knows and can send help. See? When we got to the fourth floor and I was almost completely out of the elevator, he placed the palm of his key-hand over the part of his cell phone he spoke into and said, "thanks," to me in an incredibly futile and feeble attempt to try to come across as bigger, better, and busier than me. I don't know who that putz was, but I came to grips with the reality that he's probably some idiot that's going to bath in the all the praise a project I worked on achieved. Every car, every good car, has a powerful engine, a driver, and shiny paint on the outside. He's the shiny paint. |
