be listened to and my memos read. There was a god we worshipped then. A powerful god called Synergy. He was a god who promised us a bright, harmonious future. But that god was the devil in disguise. He’s dead now. We are no longer allowed to mention his name.
Twenty percent is the fact I haven’t had sex in twenty-nine days. It’s causing something to build up inside me. And not just physically. There’s a resentment taking hold, a sense that I’m being taken advantage of in ways I never consciously agreed to. Something has changed between Sam and me. What used to be a dance now feels more like hand-to-hand combat.
Thirty percent is the residual impact of spending twenty minutes this morning in the company of Erika Fallon. Her bottom teeth are slightly crooked, I noticed. But crooked in the most delightful way.
The remaining forty-five percent of my distraction revolves around Judd and the thought of him flexing his MBA muscles for Erika. I shouldn’t care. I’m a married man. It’s not as if Erika Fallon and I could ever be together. But if she is going to be with somebody, she needs to choose someone other than Judd. Lucky Cat understands. I had a quiet conversation with him this morning. I told him I didn’t want to become the kind of bitter, tormented person who can’t stand to see other people having fun. But still, I pointed out, I have to draw the line somewhere. Lucky smiled at me wisely. I think he could really empathize with what I was feeling.
Jeremy is recapping his idea to make sure I fully understand it. I nod to give the impression I do. It’s a shame because his idea isn’t bad, and our operating methods could certainly use improving. But Jeremy still hasn’t grasped the basic truth: we can’t accept any of his ideas until we accept him. New employees are like organ transplants: if you’re not compatible, the body rejects you.
“Look, Jeremy, I can’t argue with you about your idea. We could be way more profitable if we could combine our resources in the way you describe. There’s only one problem: it’s way too logical.”
“Too logical?” I watch the excitement drain from his cheeks.
“Have you ever heard of the writer Christopher Finchley?” I ask. I open the drawer of my filing cabinet and bend down, skimming through the handwritten tabs of the manila folders haphazardly arranged inside.
“Finchley?”
“He’s actually very good. You might find him worth studying. He writes a column each month in Vicious Circle . It’s a magazine not many people have heard of, but it’s very well read in opinion leader circles. Ahh. Here it is.” I sit back up and lay a folder on the desk. “When I read this particular article, I thought I should make some copies. It was almost as if Finchley were speaking directly to me, talking specifically about our company.”
“‘History versus Logic,’” reads Jeremy. “‘Why Some Businesses Prefer to Repeat Their Past Mistakes Rather Than Risk Making New Ones.’”
“It’s a great article,” I say. “Take a copy. The basic gist of it is that all old economy companies like to talk about doing things differently. They yearn to stretch themselves in new directions. But when push comes to shove, they snap back into their old habits. They can’t quite combine their desire to create ‘a new paradigm’ with their corporate need to do things ‘a certain way’—i.e., the way they’ve always done those things before.”
“But that’s not how it is here, is it?” says Jeremy. “Everyone’s always talking about the need for reinvention and new ideas.”
“Talking and doing are two different things. Finchley points out that history and logic can be combined in only three ways.” I pick up one of the photocopied sheets and read aloud: “‘One: historical and logical. Two: historical and illogical. And three: logical and nonhistorical.’”
“But what I’m suggesting would be so easy to implement,” Jeremy
Twenty percent is the fact I haven’t had sex in twenty-nine days. It’s causing something to build up inside me. And not just physically. There’s a resentment taking hold, a sense that I’m being taken advantage of in ways I never consciously agreed to. Something has changed between Sam and me. What used to be a dance now feels more like hand-to-hand combat.
Thirty percent is the residual impact of spending twenty minutes this morning in the company of Erika Fallon. Her bottom teeth are slightly crooked, I noticed. But crooked in the most delightful way.
The remaining forty-five percent of my distraction revolves around Judd and the thought of him flexing his MBA muscles for Erika. I shouldn’t care. I’m a married man. It’s not as if Erika Fallon and I could ever be together. But if she is going to be with somebody, she needs to choose someone other than Judd. Lucky Cat understands. I had a quiet conversation with him this morning. I told him I didn’t want to become the kind of bitter, tormented person who can’t stand to see other people having fun. But still, I pointed out, I have to draw the line somewhere. Lucky smiled at me wisely. I think he could really empathize with what I was feeling.
Jeremy is recapping his idea to make sure I fully understand it. I nod to give the impression I do. It’s a shame because his idea isn’t bad, and our operating methods could certainly use improving. But Jeremy still hasn’t grasped the basic truth: we can’t accept any of his ideas until we accept him. New employees are like organ transplants: if you’re not compatible, the body rejects you.
“Look, Jeremy, I can’t argue with you about your idea. We could be way more profitable if we could combine our resources in the way you describe. There’s only one problem: it’s way too logical.”
“Too logical?” I watch the excitement drain from his cheeks.
“Have you ever heard of the writer Christopher Finchley?” I ask. I open the drawer of my filing cabinet and bend down, skimming through the handwritten tabs of the manila folders haphazardly arranged inside.
“Finchley?”
“He’s actually very good. You might find him worth studying. He writes a column each month in Vicious Circle . It’s a magazine not many people have heard of, but it’s very well read in opinion leader circles. Ahh. Here it is.” I sit back up and lay a folder on the desk. “When I read this particular article, I thought I should make some copies. It was almost as if Finchley were speaking directly to me, talking specifically about our company.”
“‘History versus Logic,’” reads Jeremy. “‘Why Some Businesses Prefer to Repeat Their Past Mistakes Rather Than Risk Making New Ones.’”
“It’s a great article,” I say. “Take a copy. The basic gist of it is that all old economy companies like to talk about doing things differently. They yearn to stretch themselves in new directions. But when push comes to shove, they snap back into their old habits. They can’t quite combine their desire to create ‘a new paradigm’ with their corporate need to do things ‘a certain way’—i.e., the way they’ve always done those things before.”
“But that’s not how it is here, is it?” says Jeremy. “Everyone’s always talking about the need for reinvention and new ideas.”
“Talking and doing are two different things. Finchley points out that history and logic can be combined in only three ways.” I pick up one of the photocopied sheets and read aloud: “‘One: historical and logical. Two: historical and illogical. And three: logical and nonhistorical.’”
“But what I’m suggesting would be so easy to implement,” Jeremy
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