The Recently-Booted Network Exec came to my office today. I wouldn't have known who he was except that my assistant, Delphinia is a drama major and she follows Industry gossip with a passion.
She ushered him into my treatment room, glancing sideways at his D&G black wool suit and red tie. “Oh my God, watch out for that guy, Charles!” she whispered. “He's a bully! Details at ten!” Then she went back to slurping her coconut boba.
Network Exec stood stiffly before me, beady-eyed, his sweaty forehead shining. I asked him, “How are you feeling today?”
No part of him seemed to possess a moveable joint except his jaw, which opened just enough for these words to escape: “Since you asked, I have a headache.”
I waved him in. “Please make yourself comfortable. Lie down while I give you a treatment. Headaches are one of my specialties.”
“No thanks,” he said. “Your receptionist is dressed rather too casually, don't you think? If I were the manager, I'd replace her—mid-season if I had to. Just write her out.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said, “but this is an acupuncture office, not a sit-com. My assistant looks fine to me.”
Delphinia was auditioning for the Tierra del Fuego Dinner Theatre production of “Planet of the Apes” after work, and was wearing an off-the-shoulder bearskin and pearls.
“Humph,” said the man, moving little more than a lip and an eye, “I'd still replace her. In fact, your whole office is sub-par. Those autographed photos covering the wall may be appropriate for Jerry's Deli but for not for a medical establishment. And what's with the Kewpie dolls in the fish tank? If I were the manager here, the first thing I'd do is move your time slot and then I'd--”
“Wait a minute,” I said, “did you come here for the clinic manager position that was on Craigslist?”
“Yes, of course,” said the lips.
“Sir,” I said, “you're looking for the medical marijuana clinic next door. But you needn't bother because they've just been shut down.”
The stiff, little man who had put on a black wool suit and gone looking for a job in record-setting heat showed a glint of emotion. It was disappointment. “They've been canceled?” he said.
I felt a a pang of empathy. “But if it's a management position you're looking for,” I said, “I happen to know that this building is in need of a manager.”
“Oh?” he said. “And where would I apply?”
“The office is in the basement,” I said. “and I suggest you go there right now, before they close for lunch.” I opened the door for him to leave.
“Excellent,” he said, then paused to scratch his chin. “Now, ehm...er...might I possibly use you as a reference? I don't think I should count on my previous employer.”
“Sure,” I said, “if you promise to get my leaky sink fixed.”
“Yes indeed! Consider it done,” said Network Exec, with great purpose. “I'm a man who makes hard decisions and gets things done. I may be imperfect, but what man isn't? The important thing is, I take responsibility for my actions, right or wrong. And I return a favor with a favor. I will do my best to make sure your sink is fixed. Sooner or later. And that's a promise. More or less.”
And that's all I can ask for. Sort of.
* * * * * *
I guess it's time we started worrying about Myron. He was supposed to get back to L.A. three days ago but I haven't gotten a call. He warned me he wouldn't be allowed to use his cell phone while driving his U-Haul full of paintings over the border from Canada.
Myron is bringing the paintings—by major artists--to his boss in L.A. The artworks are to be magically converted into equity for film production. It's a little-publicized aspect of movie making and I don't really know how it works. Nor do I want to. And so I close up my office for the day and call Myron's house. His grumpy Czechoslovakian maid, Fanny answers.
“Ach, no, Charles,” she wheezes. “I hef not heard from Mister Myron and I ehm gettink vorried. Thees whole thing is bad, bad! Looks bad, smells vorse. Who are dese people he vorks for? Hoodlums is who! Bang, bang! Such people I would not vipe my shoe on! Oh my Gott, my rump roast is burning. Goot-bye!”
Just then a message comes in on my i-Phone. Is it Myron?
“YOU MISSED OUR PARENT/TEACHER MEETING,” it screams. “CALL ME IMMEDIATELY OR ELSE!” It's Miss Feather, my daughter's kindergarten teacher. Since I won't be bullied around, I delete it. If I could delete the entire world I would push that button too. My day is over and it's time to go home.
And that's all I can ask for.
She ushered him into my treatment room, glancing sideways at his D&G black wool suit and red tie. “Oh my God, watch out for that guy, Charles!” she whispered. “He's a bully! Details at ten!” Then she went back to slurping her coconut boba.
Network Exec stood stiffly before me, beady-eyed, his sweaty forehead shining. I asked him, “How are you feeling today?”
No part of him seemed to possess a moveable joint except his jaw, which opened just enough for these words to escape: “Since you asked, I have a headache.”
I waved him in. “Please make yourself comfortable. Lie down while I give you a treatment. Headaches are one of my specialties.”
“No thanks,” he said. “Your receptionist is dressed rather too casually, don't you think? If I were the manager, I'd replace her—mid-season if I had to. Just write her out.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said, “but this is an acupuncture office, not a sit-com. My assistant looks fine to me.”
Delphinia was auditioning for the Tierra del Fuego Dinner Theatre production of “Planet of the Apes” after work, and was wearing an off-the-shoulder bearskin and pearls.
“Humph,” said the man, moving little more than a lip and an eye, “I'd still replace her. In fact, your whole office is sub-par. Those autographed photos covering the wall may be appropriate for Jerry's Deli but for not for a medical establishment. And what's with the Kewpie dolls in the fish tank? If I were the manager here, the first thing I'd do is move your time slot and then I'd--”
“Wait a minute,” I said, “did you come here for the clinic manager position that was on Craigslist?”
“Yes, of course,” said the lips.
“Sir,” I said, “you're looking for the medical marijuana clinic next door. But you needn't bother because they've just been shut down.”
The stiff, little man who had put on a black wool suit and gone looking for a job in record-setting heat showed a glint of emotion. It was disappointment. “They've been canceled?” he said.
I felt a a pang of empathy. “But if it's a management position you're looking for,” I said, “I happen to know that this building is in need of a manager.”
“Oh?” he said. “And where would I apply?”
“The office is in the basement,” I said. “and I suggest you go there right now, before they close for lunch.” I opened the door for him to leave.
“Excellent,” he said, then paused to scratch his chin. “Now, ehm...er...might I possibly use you as a reference? I don't think I should count on my previous employer.”
“Sure,” I said, “if you promise to get my leaky sink fixed.”
“Yes indeed! Consider it done,” said Network Exec, with great purpose. “I'm a man who makes hard decisions and gets things done. I may be imperfect, but what man isn't? The important thing is, I take responsibility for my actions, right or wrong. And I return a favor with a favor. I will do my best to make sure your sink is fixed. Sooner or later. And that's a promise. More or less.”
And that's all I can ask for. Sort of.
* * * * * *
I guess it's time we started worrying about Myron. He was supposed to get back to L.A. three days ago but I haven't gotten a call. He warned me he wouldn't be allowed to use his cell phone while driving his U-Haul full of paintings over the border from Canada.
Myron is bringing the paintings—by major artists--to his boss in L.A. The artworks are to be magically converted into equity for film production. It's a little-publicized aspect of movie making and I don't really know how it works. Nor do I want to. And so I close up my office for the day and call Myron's house. His grumpy Czechoslovakian maid, Fanny answers.
“Ach, no, Charles,” she wheezes. “I hef not heard from Mister Myron and I ehm gettink vorried. Thees whole thing is bad, bad! Looks bad, smells vorse. Who are dese people he vorks for? Hoodlums is who! Bang, bang! Such people I would not vipe my shoe on! Oh my Gott, my rump roast is burning. Goot-bye!”
Just then a message comes in on my i-Phone. Is it Myron?
“YOU MISSED OUR PARENT/TEACHER MEETING,” it screams. “CALL ME IMMEDIATELY OR ELSE!” It's Miss Feather, my daughter's kindergarten teacher. Since I won't be bullied around, I delete it. If I could delete the entire world I would push that button too. My day is over and it's time to go home.
And that's all I can ask for.
