The conference room fell instantly silent and all eyes directed themselves to one figure as the pudgy man entered. Taking his time to settle lethargically into his massive leather chair, the chief of the corporation paused a moment to fidget with the nameplate in front of his place at the head of the table. He adjusted the gilded triangular plaque so that it reflected the incoming sunlight away from himself, and almost seemed to be flaunting his name, and the nigh legendary stature it heralded. Most of the executives made no attempt to hide their crafty sideways glances to the embossed name of Phineas K. Schmod. As the corporate mogul leaned back in his seat, he breathed a sigh and pronounced: “Shall we begin?”
The seat immediately to Schmod’s left catapulted its occupant to his feet as the vice president of the company began rattling off figures. Pacing nervously around the back of his boss’ leather throne, the gangly man recited numbers stating that the company’s financial plummet had finally slowed enough that one could say the worst had been behind them. Decelerating his speech towards the end, the V.P. finished with a question: “Shall we send the ‘damage control’ people into gear, P.K.?”
Rubbing his ample chin, the stout president feigned a moment’s thought before uttering, “Go ahead.”
Picking up her cue, the bespectacled public relations department head all but leapt out of her seat and commenced her own recitation of figures and plans that had been determined weeks earlier. As she regurgitated ideas thrown out during previous meetings, Schmod let his eyes wander to one of the many windows lining the conference room. Outside the twelfth-story pane, clouds lumbered through the air, mimicking the portly magnate’s demeanor. He sighed again, letting the speech, like the one before it, wander in and out of his consciousness. When the P.R. head finished, he idly repeated: “Go ahead.”
An awkward pause ensued, and the woman pushed her glasses up against the bridge of her nose and sat back into her chair. As soon as she was seated, a tall, bearded fellow rose and began offering suggestions towards calming an incident of worker unrest in one of the local plants. Proposals from the previous day’s meeting resurfaced, and strategies coughed up by lower-level employees ran into the president’s ears. Schmod rocked back in his chair, now fully oblivious to the activities surrounding him. Battling heavy eyelids for control of his awareness, he swiveled the creaking throne towards his favorite window and gazed at a small bird that had chosen to alight on the sill. As the anxious sparrow scanned its post and quickly flew off, the little man reacted with a terse grunt. Pushing himself off of the chair, he muttered, “I don’t need to be here,” and wandered back to the glass double doors.
As the mogul pushed his way out of the conference room, the bearded man stopped his narration. All eyes followed the stout chief, and none of the score of executives made a sound. They watched as Schmod ambled off towards the nearest elevator, stopping only to say something to the receptionist outside the conference room. When their superior had completely left their view, the executives darted a mixture of questioning, worried, and skeptical glances among themselves. A few began tapping pens against the table, and others cleared throats that did not require it. A full three and a half minutes crept by before the bearded man, still standing, inquired:
“What do we do now?”