closer, I realized that I was actually face-to-face with the original handiwork of Dalí, Matisse, Braque, Picasso, Chagall, Bonnard, as well as the masterpieces of lesser-known but equal talents—and that I was the only one who seemed to notice. That’s the thing about big money—incomprehensible money—it buys everything, including the sweat of genius; it turns your living room into a wing of the Louvre. It was surrealistic—not to mention sad—to think of what some of those wretched beings went through in order to produce their work, then to watch the philistines pass by, oblivious to the struggle.
Hundreds of bodies came and went. There were terse telephone conversations between the receptionist and an unseen presence regarding me. They made me wait a long time. Finally I was handed a card laminated in plastic— DAY VISITOR, it read—and told to clamp it onto the lapel of my jacket and keep it there at all times.
A uniformed guard appeared and escorted me up to Ivan Holland’s office on the third floor. Ivan was an affable teddy bear of a man somewhere in his forties. His sleeves were rolled up past hiselbows and his tie was slightly askew. For the early hour—eight thirty—he looked like he’d already been hard at it.
We shook hands. He showed me to an empty chair next to another guy.
“This is Lars Peterson,” said Ivan. I shook hands with him, too. Lars was about my age, a bit soft in the gut, with a mop of unruly Swedish-blond hair. What I liked about him right away was his casual duds—rumpled sports coat, unpressed olive-green khakis, soft boots. Since he was smoking, I lit up, too.
“You fellows will be working together on a long-term, top-secret project I’ve been overseeing here since last June, so before we start anything, you’re both going to have to sign a nondisclosure agreement. The parent company is considering divestiture for some future point in time, and my task force is taking a close look at how Indiana Bell—a prime example of one of the unit companies—would fare in a deregulated environment in a hypothetical scenario when the national telecommunications superstructure has been deconstructed…. Got it?”
I had no idea what the fuck the man was talking about. I glanced at Lars. I doubted he did, either. Ivan went on talking. The practical upshot of it was—as far as I could make out—that we were to proof earnings projection printouts from the parent company against actual earnings from the field—whatever that meant.
After we affixed our John Hancocks to the promise not to leak company information, Ivan led us through a maze of corridors to a compact, windowless room. On the oblong table sat enormous stacks of two-by-four computer printouts, pads, pencils, and paper clips.
“All right, fellas, go to it. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
With that, he disappeared, closing the door behind him. Lars and I shrugged at each other. We went to it.
S oon it became patently obvious that not only did Lars and I have no clue what we were up to, but that it didn’t really seem to matter in the least. For days on end we never set eyes on Ivan (he was forever “tied up in a meeting”), and when he did come around, it was to cryptically order us to stop what we were doing and await further instruction, or resume what we were doing until further notice. Any and all activity in this joint was shrouded in mystery, and even after gabbing with the other inmates at the lunch table, we never got a clear idea of what anyone here actually did, aside from attend those all-important meetings. What we couldn’t help but notice was that each and every employee of the Big Telephone Machine carried a single sheet of paper at all times while in transit in the halls. But aside from the comic value to Lars and me, we stayed in the dark on what the business signified.
To stave off boredom, we played games with the dictionary (“Okay, for three points, what does
Hundreds of bodies came and went. There were terse telephone conversations between the receptionist and an unseen presence regarding me. They made me wait a long time. Finally I was handed a card laminated in plastic— DAY VISITOR, it read—and told to clamp it onto the lapel of my jacket and keep it there at all times.
A uniformed guard appeared and escorted me up to Ivan Holland’s office on the third floor. Ivan was an affable teddy bear of a man somewhere in his forties. His sleeves were rolled up past hiselbows and his tie was slightly askew. For the early hour—eight thirty—he looked like he’d already been hard at it.
We shook hands. He showed me to an empty chair next to another guy.
“This is Lars Peterson,” said Ivan. I shook hands with him, too. Lars was about my age, a bit soft in the gut, with a mop of unruly Swedish-blond hair. What I liked about him right away was his casual duds—rumpled sports coat, unpressed olive-green khakis, soft boots. Since he was smoking, I lit up, too.
“You fellows will be working together on a long-term, top-secret project I’ve been overseeing here since last June, so before we start anything, you’re both going to have to sign a nondisclosure agreement. The parent company is considering divestiture for some future point in time, and my task force is taking a close look at how Indiana Bell—a prime example of one of the unit companies—would fare in a deregulated environment in a hypothetical scenario when the national telecommunications superstructure has been deconstructed…. Got it?”
I had no idea what the fuck the man was talking about. I glanced at Lars. I doubted he did, either. Ivan went on talking. The practical upshot of it was—as far as I could make out—that we were to proof earnings projection printouts from the parent company against actual earnings from the field—whatever that meant.
After we affixed our John Hancocks to the promise not to leak company information, Ivan led us through a maze of corridors to a compact, windowless room. On the oblong table sat enormous stacks of two-by-four computer printouts, pads, pencils, and paper clips.
“All right, fellas, go to it. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
With that, he disappeared, closing the door behind him. Lars and I shrugged at each other. We went to it.
S oon it became patently obvious that not only did Lars and I have no clue what we were up to, but that it didn’t really seem to matter in the least. For days on end we never set eyes on Ivan (he was forever “tied up in a meeting”), and when he did come around, it was to cryptically order us to stop what we were doing and await further instruction, or resume what we were doing until further notice. Any and all activity in this joint was shrouded in mystery, and even after gabbing with the other inmates at the lunch table, we never got a clear idea of what anyone here actually did, aside from attend those all-important meetings. What we couldn’t help but notice was that each and every employee of the Big Telephone Machine carried a single sheet of paper at all times while in transit in the halls. But aside from the comic value to Lars and me, we stayed in the dark on what the business signified.
To stave off boredom, we played games with the dictionary (“Okay, for three points, what does
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