It is common knowledge that mankind must be left alone on a Monday morning. Between the hours of 8 and 11 AM on that first and most daunting day of the week, nothing good can come of awakening the human brain too brusquely after two days of non-intellectual occupation. One should be left to stare out of one’s window or over one’s cubicle wall as the case may be, type aimlessly in an unsaved document, or slowly prepare one’s coffee to kick-start the mind. Breathe in that aroma. Aaaaah.
“Undercover, when can I expect that draft memo on my desk?” bellows Partner Number Two[1]. I secretly call him Partner Number Two because I know it would piss him off. He thinks he’s Partner Number One, but he’s not. Partner Number One may have less seniority, but he is much nicer to work for and he does not impose fake deadlines.
My brain is vaguely aware of the fact that it is being addressed through human speech, reluctantly raises its head, opens one eye, grunts lightly, and then happily goes back to sleep. I let the coffee answer this question.
“Yes, sir, the memo, I’m putting the final touches on it and will have it ready for you before noon.”
“Right. Hadn’t I said I wanted it on my desk first thing Monday morning?”
“I believe not sir, I distinctly remember you told me you wanted it by 2 PM.” 2 PM in Moscow, that is. Partner Number Two won’t notice the little white lie; with all the fake deadlines, how could he possibly keep track? It’ll just be sitting on his desk for another week.
“Alright then. Oh and, Undercover?”
“Yes, sir?”
“That’s no excuse to skip our Monday morning meeting.”
“Of course not, sir, wouldn’t dream of it.”
Not good. I may have to reshuffle my time zones and shoot for 2 PM in Anchorage. Or Honolulu. Monday morning meeting is a parade of partner egos and they usually have a lot to talk about. It may last for anywhere between thirty minutes and an hour and a half if they really get carried away. I’ll get a seat close to the door so that after a respectable period of time, I can point my thumb at my ear and my little finger at my mouth in the universal sign language for “phone call” before stealing away. [To be continued...]
Secretly yours,
The Undercover Writer.
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