Babylon Sisters, Shake It

Our CEO, Gavin McGuinness, is a man of wealth and taste.

Coincidentally, his artistic sensibilities run pretty close to my own. As an Art History major in the days of yore, I can extemporize intelligently about all manner and media of art; as the third largest income producer in the whole of Multi National Mega Global, he can afford all manner and media of art. So from time to time, in passing, we amiably share items of mutual aesthetic interest.

Currently, our local Museum of Modern Art is exhibiting works by Morisot, Cassatt, Gonzales and Bracquemond, who are considered the Big Four of estrogen driven Impressionism. Our MoMA has a large annex space that it uses for installations that aren't strictly modern, but will draw the crowds. Them curators ain't dumb.

A week ago Tuesday, when Gavin passes my desk, I mention this show to him, thinking he might be interested. My suggestion's not completely out of left field because he has a framed Mary Cassatt print, The Boating Party, in his office. (Which, iconographically is an odd choice, I think, but color-wise, a fine one. The vivid hues provide an excellent counterpoint to the rampant office taupe.)

"Women Impressionists? “ says Gavin, still walking toward his office. "Sounds like a good show!" At this exact moment, Jared, Enthusiastic Corporate Ladder Climber and Brown-Noser Extraordinaire, appears in my lobby just too late to join the conversation, but certainly in time to hear it.

"Oh, hey! This guy likes a good show!" he says, pointing at himself with both thumbs. Surprised, I respond, "Really? Well it's at MoMA for another couple of months. You should go check it out."

I hadn't thought about that exchange until yesterday.

Always eager to engage in conversation with Gavin, Jared catches him in my lobby, "So, I went to Mama's on Friday, but there was no show. Are they still performing?" Now, whereas we’re all adults and generally accepting of other folks, this is not a subject I would have ever expected Jared to bring up with the CEO at the workplace.

Mama’s is a gay bar.

Gavin looks perplexedly at me and I look at him, and as expected, Jared blunders on. "The female impersonators show! You were talking about it last week!" He's so caught up in this newfound overlapping interest, that he doesn't notice Gavin's eyebrows raise ever so slightly. It's everything I can do to not burst out laughing, and, in retrospect, I'm not sure I was entirely successful. After a small awkward pause, I say "Um, it was an art exhibition, Jared. At MoMA, M-O-M-A, the Museum of Modern Art."

He thinks for a second. "They do that there?"

"No, Jared, women Impressionists, not impersonators. Painters. You know, artwork? On walls?”

-
Breaking the excruciating silence, my console rings. I answer it gratefully, praying Jared will take this moment to find a dark corner suitable for the fetal position.

Gavin, clearly in possession of far more grace and tact than I, says to a rapidly reddening Jared, "Listen, I've got a meeting right now, but come by my office later, and I'll show you what we're talking about." As he walks out, Gavin gives me a little smile, proving that he's just dying on the inside, like me.

I guess that's why he's in charge.

You're Welcome

She is the niece of one of our top salespeople.

Two years ago, Brytnie the Intern sat here at my desk while I explored a few other departments to determine my interest level in potentially pursuing a different position within the company. (Upshot: interest level = zero.) The feedback we received on her seven-week reception coverage mainly centered on her apparent age: "She just sounded really young" said one. "She seems confused at the front desk. Is this her first job?" asked another. A third customer had the gall to say she was rotten and actually complained to Sam, but then again, this particular customer is an unequivocal asshole.

Truthfully, though, she does sound terribly inexperienced.

The trouble is that I'm very good at what I do, which comes mainly from being in the same line of work far longer than anyone not on Xanax ought to be. She, in comparison, was in her fourth year on the six-year plan at the time, at a college out of state with lots of sun and sand and football players, a sorority girl getting her first taste of the workaday world. But now as of last week, Brytnie from Kappa Kappa Gamma is back, ink not yet dry on her shiny new diploma, and she's ready to work!!!1!

Which means her unfortunate communication style is back, too.

It's as though she perpetually speaks around a large wad of bubble gum and never really closes her mouth. The words bounce around only a small forward portion of her hard palate, which doesn't allow her voice to find any gravitas. She's squeaky. Also, as is stereotypical for the sophomoric, each sentence, regardless of intent, ends as if it's a question. To top it off, she employs lazy pronunciation.

Most noticeably, the phrase "Thank you."

"Thank you" is an extremely common thing to say here at Multi National. I say it at least once per call, sometimes twice, and at an average of 20 calls an hour that's a hell of a lot of thanking. Brytnie, though, manages to swallow the vowels in such a way that it comes out sounding like "Think yow", rhyming “yow” with "cow". It's sing-songy and, combined with her head bob, lends to an unfortunate air of vapidity. So when she offers something even remotely intelligent, it's quite the surprise.

After lunch yesterday, she is passing through the lobby on the way to her shiny new desk, when out of nowhere, we find ourselves talking about the price of gasoline. It's going up everywhere, and it's a hot topic with commuters in my neck of the woods. In response to a kvetch on my part, she busts out with, "Yeah, so, like, Ahmejadadin's theory that oil prices are artificially high is probably right on target. I mean, he's finally saying something worth listening to, you know, like, on a global scale."

The butchering of the current Iranian president’s name notwithstanding, I could hardly believe my ears.

It was like experiencing a thirty-second adaptation of Flowers for Algernon. Multi-syllabic words! Sentence structure! Independent critical thinking! And then just as quickly, the eyes glaze over, the hair twirling begins afresh and she starts down the hallway. Silently vowing to read more of the front page and less of the comics, I lamely offer "Oh, um, I guess I missed that article. Good point."

"Think yow." she sing-songs, as she walks.

No, Brytnie. Think yow.