ninanevermore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ninanevermore) wrote2009-11-16 02:41 pm
ninanevermore) wrote2009-11-16 02:41 pm
Entry tags:
Monday – Elevator Ride With Bob
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One morning when I worked at Big Death I rode up in the elevator with a dour-faced, overweight older man in a very expensive black suit, who just so happened to be the founder of the company, its former CEO and its current chairman of the board of directors. Most of the people I write about from Big Death I supply with a courtesy pseudonym, but since Bob sounds like a pseudonym anyway, and it's what all those nearest and dearest to him call him, I'll just go ahead and use it here.
Now, I have met founders and heads of companies before, but most of my former jobs were with small to mid-sized companies so everyone knew everyone on a first-name basis no matter how high or low their rank was. I've also worked at a county government agency where I met local politicians from time to time. Politicians are almost always friendly because they know you can vote and may have some pull in how the people you know also vote. It wouldn't be good to lose votes in a close race because you were rude to some lowly office clerk at the Toll Road Authority and she went around broadcasting that when the news cameras are turned off Commissioner So-And-So is actually an arrogant, insufferable jackass. Commissioner So-And-So might actually be an arrogant, insufferable jackass, but he knows better than to act like one in public.
But Bob did not found a small or mid-sized company, and he is not running for election. Those guys have their own egos, but their egos are not in Bob's ballpark. I actually had seen Bob's face before, but at the time I didn't know his name because frankly I didn't care. I just knew he was "the founder" and could afford to have his portrait painted in oil and put in a frame that costs more than my living room furniture, because I'd seen that very portrait once before.
Big Death's corporate office is in a 12-story building. The top two floors at Big Death are for VIPs only, and the tip top floor is reserved for VVIP's. That's where Bob offices. To get the elevator to open on these floors you must have a key. Otherwise, the door will not open unless someone on the top floor who is expecting you tells the security guard on the first floor to open it. One day I had to deliver a report to a big wig on the 12th floor, and so the security guard was instructed to allow little ol' me entrance to Shangri-La. When you get off the elevator on most of the floors at Big Death, you are greeted by an oil paining of some sort. When you work there, you learn to watch for your floors painting so you don't accidentally get off on the wrong floor. My floor had an abstract painting that I thought looked kind of like rose petals and gold cords caught in a whirlwind. Other floors had landscapes, or Japanese quoi, or some such thing. Next to the elevator on floor 12, there is an oil portrait of Bob.
I remember looking at that portrait on the occasion I saw it and thinking that for what he paid for it, you'd think he could have slipped the artist a few extra 20s to make him look less stern and less jowly. But perhaps that is not what Bob wanted. I wonder if the portrait is not his way of ensuring that he gets to scowl at everyone who gets off that elevator on that floor, whether he is there or not.
After I dropped off my report I took the long way around back to the elevator. Someone had told me to make sure I saw the "red room" while I was up there because it was just something a person had to see to believe. It is the conference room on the 12th floor where the board of directors meets.
"It's all done up in red velvet," the person advised me in a conspiratorial whisper, "I think it's decorated like the old funeral homes used to be, back when they liked to make them look like Victorian brothels."
Indeed, if I had to think of a phrase to describe the style of décor where Big Death's board meets, Elite Victorian Brothel would have to be it. The room is paneled in dark stained wood, and the table and chairs are ornately carved in the same dark shade of stained wood. The curtains and the upholstery on the chairs are all rich, red velvet. It looks both very expensive and hideously tacky.
"It just goes to show that all the money in the world cannot buy good taste," I told my husband when I described it to him that evening. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the costs to decorate and furnish that room were more than the mortgage I am paying for the house I live in.
So on that morning when I rode up in the elevator with Bob, I recognized his scowling mug from the oil portrait in Shangri-La. Still, I figured he was a human being like any other human being except that he had way more money, so I smiled and wished him a good morning.
He looked slightly shocked, and the scowl was momentarily replaced by a looked of annoyed surprise. I could tell by his face that if there was one thing the lord of this corporate empire couldn't stand, it was a cheerful, perky peasant. Still, at an earlier point in his life I suppose he had a mama who raised him right, and he mumbled a good morning in return even as the scowl intensified. When I got off the elevator, I smiled again and wished him a nice day, like he was any other human being, and he scowled and nodded in return.
I rode in the elevator a few more times with Bob, but on those occasions he was with other 11th and 12th floor people wearing expensive suits that he could smile and hold conversations with while ignoring any peasants such as myself riding up with them. Most of the people at Big Death say his name with a serious sort of awe, as if just speaking aloud it might invoke some sort of curse or perhaps trigger a bolt of lightening to strike them dead. Its never just Bob, it's Bob and his last name, said in a slightly hushed tone. I never quite got it, and for that reason alone it's good that I no longer work for Bob's Big Death.
As far as I'm concerned, he's just a fat old man who made his fortune off of other people's tears. He built an empire based on the idea that since your clients are coming to you on the worst day of their lives when they just don't have the energy to shop around, you can easily sell them more than they need and charge them more than they should have to pay. Even with his brilliant business epiphany that you can make money off of other people's anguish if you play your cards just right, he still puts his expensive pants on every morning in much the same manner as I slipped into my non-expensive blue jeans this very morning.
In the big scheme of things, he's just a fat guy named Bob. If you see him stepping out of his limousine onto the street were you are walking, go ahead wish him a good morning. I can almost grantee that the look of irritation on his face when you do will more than make it worth your while.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
One morning when I worked at Big Death I rode up in the elevator with a dour-faced, overweight older man in a very expensive black suit, who just so happened to be the founder of the company, its former CEO and its current chairman of the board of directors. Most of the people I write about from Big Death I supply with a courtesy pseudonym, but since Bob sounds like a pseudonym anyway, and it's what all those nearest and dearest to him call him, I'll just go ahead and use it here.
Now, I have met founders and heads of companies before, but most of my former jobs were with small to mid-sized companies so everyone knew everyone on a first-name basis no matter how high or low their rank was. I've also worked at a county government agency where I met local politicians from time to time. Politicians are almost always friendly because they know you can vote and may have some pull in how the people you know also vote. It wouldn't be good to lose votes in a close race because you were rude to some lowly office clerk at the Toll Road Authority and she went around broadcasting that when the news cameras are turned off Commissioner So-And-So is actually an arrogant, insufferable jackass. Commissioner So-And-So might actually be an arrogant, insufferable jackass, but he knows better than to act like one in public.
But Bob did not found a small or mid-sized company, and he is not running for election. Those guys have their own egos, but their egos are not in Bob's ballpark. I actually had seen Bob's face before, but at the time I didn't know his name because frankly I didn't care. I just knew he was "the founder" and could afford to have his portrait painted in oil and put in a frame that costs more than my living room furniture, because I'd seen that very portrait once before.
Big Death's corporate office is in a 12-story building. The top two floors at Big Death are for VIPs only, and the tip top floor is reserved for VVIP's. That's where Bob offices. To get the elevator to open on these floors you must have a key. Otherwise, the door will not open unless someone on the top floor who is expecting you tells the security guard on the first floor to open it. One day I had to deliver a report to a big wig on the 12th floor, and so the security guard was instructed to allow little ol' me entrance to Shangri-La. When you get off the elevator on most of the floors at Big Death, you are greeted by an oil paining of some sort. When you work there, you learn to watch for your floors painting so you don't accidentally get off on the wrong floor. My floor had an abstract painting that I thought looked kind of like rose petals and gold cords caught in a whirlwind. Other floors had landscapes, or Japanese quoi, or some such thing. Next to the elevator on floor 12, there is an oil portrait of Bob.
I remember looking at that portrait on the occasion I saw it and thinking that for what he paid for it, you'd think he could have slipped the artist a few extra 20s to make him look less stern and less jowly. But perhaps that is not what Bob wanted. I wonder if the portrait is not his way of ensuring that he gets to scowl at everyone who gets off that elevator on that floor, whether he is there or not.
After I dropped off my report I took the long way around back to the elevator. Someone had told me to make sure I saw the "red room" while I was up there because it was just something a person had to see to believe. It is the conference room on the 12th floor where the board of directors meets.
"It's all done up in red velvet," the person advised me in a conspiratorial whisper, "I think it's decorated like the old funeral homes used to be, back when they liked to make them look like Victorian brothels."
Indeed, if I had to think of a phrase to describe the style of décor where Big Death's board meets, Elite Victorian Brothel would have to be it. The room is paneled in dark stained wood, and the table and chairs are ornately carved in the same dark shade of stained wood. The curtains and the upholstery on the chairs are all rich, red velvet. It looks both very expensive and hideously tacky.
"It just goes to show that all the money in the world cannot buy good taste," I told my husband when I described it to him that evening. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the costs to decorate and furnish that room were more than the mortgage I am paying for the house I live in.
So on that morning when I rode up in the elevator with Bob, I recognized his scowling mug from the oil portrait in Shangri-La. Still, I figured he was a human being like any other human being except that he had way more money, so I smiled and wished him a good morning.
He looked slightly shocked, and the scowl was momentarily replaced by a looked of annoyed surprise. I could tell by his face that if there was one thing the lord of this corporate empire couldn't stand, it was a cheerful, perky peasant. Still, at an earlier point in his life I suppose he had a mama who raised him right, and he mumbled a good morning in return even as the scowl intensified. When I got off the elevator, I smiled again and wished him a nice day, like he was any other human being, and he scowled and nodded in return.
I rode in the elevator a few more times with Bob, but on those occasions he was with other 11th and 12th floor people wearing expensive suits that he could smile and hold conversations with while ignoring any peasants such as myself riding up with them. Most of the people at Big Death say his name with a serious sort of awe, as if just speaking aloud it might invoke some sort of curse or perhaps trigger a bolt of lightening to strike them dead. Its never just Bob, it's Bob and his last name, said in a slightly hushed tone. I never quite got it, and for that reason alone it's good that I no longer work for Bob's Big Death.
As far as I'm concerned, he's just a fat old man who made his fortune off of other people's tears. He built an empire based on the idea that since your clients are coming to you on the worst day of their lives when they just don't have the energy to shop around, you can easily sell them more than they need and charge them more than they should have to pay. Even with his brilliant business epiphany that you can make money off of other people's anguish if you play your cards just right, he still puts his expensive pants on every morning in much the same manner as I slipped into my non-expensive blue jeans this very morning.
In the big scheme of things, he's just a fat guy named Bob. If you see him stepping out of his limousine onto the street were you are walking, go ahead wish him a good morning. I can almost grantee that the look of irritation on his face when you do will more than make it worth your while.