Mr. Popular enjoys the fame that landed on him with the
unavoidability of a bird poop. He suddenly discovers himself being placed in
everyone’s centre of attention. He is the delight of the masses. The constant
preoccupation of the fools (more like a royal family, wouldn’t you agree?)
People who never exchanged more than a few formal words with him throughout the
year ("Hey, how are you? Good!") stop him on the hallway to have an
ample discussion about his new job: “Wow, really? Is that so? What about your wife,
how is she coping with the change? Is that so? Wow! That is cool, man. I'm
really happy for you! Congratulations!” And when they say
"congratulations" they use the same sneer as when they say "f...
you."
And on top of everything everyone is asking him out for
lunch. Could be the fact that Mr. Popular had decided to move his lusterless
career to a big institution, where an insider, a good friend of his, put a few
good words to another guy, who’s been in cahoots with another insider, who put
a few good words to the director of whatever, and so on the story goes. It
seems that that’s the kind of institution where people carry insiders instead
of shadows. And the things turn eerie, when the insiders-shadows retire (oh,
yeah, that's the kind of company where nobody in his right mind leaves, buddy),
or move out (sure, there’s always Florida!) or simply die. And then try to
imagine a guy without a shadow, to have in mind a bit of the image I’m
picturing right now in my mind. I can bet that whomever invites Mr. Popular out
for lunch (still at modest restaurants, as he is not a big shot, after all, and
he may never become one, based on what he showed so far, so why waste the
money?) thinks that someday in a not such a distant future, Mr. Popular could
be the insider who will pull him up on the steady ship of guaranteed
retirement, sailing the still waters of business with tax payers’ money. You
guessed, of course: Mr. Popular will be another one of those guys in the maze-like
government offices.
Which guy would not feel his level of testosterone going up
when almost everybody in the office would be taking delight in his mere presence?
Or wouldn’t smirk or even scoff when questions he finds silly were addressed to
him. Or smiling superior, and fully content with himself, when the people would
start involving him in deep, subtle and sometimes intricate debates on topics that
Mr. Popular had, has, and will have no clue about, ever. Like those challenging
debates (they call them design sessions), where basic analytical skills and a time
proof technological background are required and the problem solving desire is
the main thing. Mr. Popular would listen carefully to all those questions
addressed to him (he rehearsed this thing so many times with his workaholic
boss), then for a few good seconds would plop his eyes high up in the ceiling,
and with a deep, but barely noticeable sigh (oh, the thinker’s challenges!)
would conclude: “Good approach… I will have to think about that. Can I get back
to you… hmm, in a week?” And when he says that clearly introspective “hmm” Mr.
Popular would stick his eyes like two sharp pieces of shrapnel in the eyes of
the guy who asked for his advice. The sky is the limit when it comes to show
his confidence now, when there’s no danger in being admonished for his poor
knowledge and skills, or even remonstrated and, why not, punished (or even
kicked out, eh?)
Only if he knew the deep secret I will carry with me in my
grave, and cannot share with him or his close ones. I wonder what he’d do if he
knew what I’m about to share with you, how would that change his behaviour, his
confidence, his “look at me, learn from me” victorious stance? Would that erase
the perpetual smile on his face? Would that change his affronting look, or his
gay strut? And here’s how the story goes. A couple of weeks before the date, Mr.
Popular confided in me that he had accepted the offer from a big company, running
on governmental funds, and he even offered me details how strings have been
pulled in his favour to skip a technical interview, to be met by his future
manager in a coffee shop and have a relaxed chat about life and universe, to
fool around with HR about his leadership skills (“what would you do if you
faced a cat fight?”), all these fancy stories being told with his carved up
angelic smile… And one or two days after he told me that, our boss called me in
his office to confide in me his thoughts (he’s been doing that many times,
lately), sharing with me his concerns about Mr. Popular and the decision he
came to: “I will let him go. I believe he’s a total f… up. Plus he has no
technical background. He fooled me all these years…” My boss was innerved with
rage, and when he’s in that particular mood he starts swearing. A while back he
used to apologize after bad mouthing people, but after I told him that swearing
is good, because it brings the human touch into the workplace, he stopped
justifying himself. Now he just swears. And I felt like Mr. Duplicity himself, because my
lips were sealed: I couldn’t tell him that Mr. Popular had already decided to
quit. In the same time I realized that the number of gods cheering for Mr.
Popular from their white, puffy thrones among cloudy columns in the blue
temples was quite high. It’s not only here on hard ground that the people work diligently
for Mr. Popular’s happiness, it is also high up in the skies where he has close
friends and trustful allies.
One week after that, my boss invited Mr. Popular to have
lunch with him into a sleek Italian restaurant, close to downtown. He treated
Mr. Popular with lobster on rice, and they chatted about vacation plans. Next
day Mr. Popular was my guest for lunch (I had to insist to have his pre-planned
lunch with the asshole managing the Ops Team moved to the following day.)
That’s how I found out about the lobster and vacation plans.
