Sunday Scribblings: Ghost
I guess you could call this transgressive.
The Ghosts of Corporate Future
Everyone thought it strange that strange that Mickelson would actually admit to having an imaginary friend.
“It’s a spirit guide,” he’d explain, as calm as a Catholic priest on Sunday morning.
Mickelson, you see, is in his-30s. And he was our manager.
It was unnerving to be in a strategy meeting, when he’d turn and confirm something with someone - something - over his right shoulder. You’d stop talking. He’d stop talking. And there’d be this awkward, uncomfortable silence until he thrust out both hands and said, “Go on.”
Then he’d nod, and you could never really tell if he was nodding at you, or Casper, his imaginary, friendly ghost.
Thing about it is, the guy’s always right on the pulse of what the company needs. Fucking charmed. He just made VP of development.
And he’s on his way to being offered a partnership. The brownstone uptown. A driver. Tailored clothing, model girlfriend, no waiting weeks for a reservation at Masa.
I had to ask.
Mickelson and I interned at the same time, got hired at the same time. Spent time playing squash and bitching about the managers that came before us. Him.
I’m stuck in sales, with unreasonable numbers, an impossibly small flat, no girlfriend and a sinking resignation that I’d have to return to West Virginia and live with my parents.
“Say look man, how did you come to find yourself with a ‘spirit guide' anyway?”
He smiled, hefted his Zero Halliburton attaché in gunmetal gray onto his desk. He popped it open and took out a thick, red-leather-covered contract, uncapped his Montblanc Starwalker Doue’ fountain pen and placed it on the leather cover.
“Tell me, Rayburn, have you ever considered doing a real value assessment of your soul?”
The Ghosts of Corporate Future
Everyone thought it strange that strange that Mickelson would actually admit to having an imaginary friend.
“It’s a spirit guide,” he’d explain, as calm as a Catholic priest on Sunday morning.
Mickelson, you see, is in his-30s. And he was our manager.
It was unnerving to be in a strategy meeting, when he’d turn and confirm something with someone - something - over his right shoulder. You’d stop talking. He’d stop talking. And there’d be this awkward, uncomfortable silence until he thrust out both hands and said, “Go on.”
Then he’d nod, and you could never really tell if he was nodding at you, or Casper, his imaginary, friendly ghost.
Thing about it is, the guy’s always right on the pulse of what the company needs. Fucking charmed. He just made VP of development.
And he’s on his way to being offered a partnership. The brownstone uptown. A driver. Tailored clothing, model girlfriend, no waiting weeks for a reservation at Masa.
I had to ask.
Mickelson and I interned at the same time, got hired at the same time. Spent time playing squash and bitching about the managers that came before us. Him.
I’m stuck in sales, with unreasonable numbers, an impossibly small flat, no girlfriend and a sinking resignation that I’d have to return to West Virginia and live with my parents.
“Say look man, how did you come to find yourself with a ‘spirit guide' anyway?”
He smiled, hefted his Zero Halliburton attaché in gunmetal gray onto his desk. He popped it open and took out a thick, red-leather-covered contract, uncapped his Montblanc Starwalker Doue’ fountain pen and placed it on the leather cover.
“Tell me, Rayburn, have you ever considered doing a real value assessment of your soul?”
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