So, about my special talent.
You see, I’m a serial meeting ditcher. A walkout artist. An underground pioneer of worker-bee liberty. And I’ve gotten so good at it that the very people running these meetings don’t even realize they’re getting ditched, even though I do what I do in broad daylight. I just get up and walk out—none of that exaggerated-tiptoeing bullshit. It’s that simple. But of course, just like so many things in life, it’s simple because I’ve spent years toiling away on the craft. In my journey, I’ve worked hard to master the tools of nuance and distraction, and I’ve spent a lot of time on my people-reading skills (knowing when meetings are most vulnerable to a successful ditch is just as important as knowing how to ditch them). Ultimately, all of it must come together, but when it does—when the right bozos call you into the wrong meeting, with the right conditions for a juicy little ditch—few things feel as good.
For me, it all started when I “met” Bob Watson.
In case you’re wondering, Bob had no idea who I was—and still doesn’t. And I didn’t really notice him, either. He was always the good-natured guy who’d make a few good comments in meetings, get good conversations going. He was such a great listener. He’d even get me cranked up, and soon I’d be blabbering on and on, and he’d lie back and let people dive into the heart of the matter. He’d let them have center stage—that’s the kind of guy he was.
Bob was middle-aged, and had his own scene going. He’d wear these worn-in loafers, khakis, and off-white and pastel linen shirts I’d imagine on a Latin-jazz-club owner. It was like he almost didn’t fit in, but did just enough. He had this relaxed way to him—not one of those too-cool-for-you attitudes, but just this inner calmness, this look that seemed nearly tickled but, again, not quite. His speech pattern was slow California native, his voice gravelly from smoking. He never took notes; in fact, he always seemed way too relaxed, just sitting there with this serene look on his face as everyone barked comments about “leveraging PLDs for the L-Docs.”
Of course, this was a long time ago, back when I was a twenty-one-year-old rookie at Robards International cutting my teeth on “bottom-tier data transformation.” And I’ll be totally honest: I really didn’t know what I was doing, and I surely had no idea how everyone else fit in. These two facts presented the perfect conditions for getting sucked into meetings that had nothing to do with me—if only I knew this is how corporate America works. And so there I’d be, stuck in these colorless conference rooms with mesh wallpaper, huddled around a long table with all these men in Dockers and women in shoulder pads, none of them showing any intention of cutting off these mind-numbing discussions about something called the Rothberg documentation process.
What did any of this have to do with me? Nothing, of course.
And so my mind would of course turn to sex. After that, I’d usually proceed to people watching. You know, the normal stuff, like When was the last time that guy ate flapjacks? and I wonder what’s the worst thing he’s ever done. And of course, When was the last time she vomited?
One day, Bob had gotten things started—“Let’s pause and really think about this stuff”—and now everyone was talking about the R-Tools and the FP&A docs. You had to give it to Bob; he really knew how to get the dialog going. Even so, I could handle only so much of this stuff. It wasn’t too long before I hit my max. Maybe Bob and the gang were loving it in here, but I hated it. The daydreaming wasn’t working, and soon my knee was bouncing involuntarily out of pure caged-animalism. Then my heart began to pound. I felt a light sweat cool my temples. My fists balled, over and over. Inside, I was screaming.
I just have to get out of here.
I wanted to collect my things and just leave. Just leave this room and never come back. But of course, I couldn’t—Bob and the others would notice. My throat tightened. And I realized, I hate being detained, jailed, held, trapped. I felt my body rise from my chair and pace the room. Surprisingly, Bob and the gang didn’t seem to care, and I realized everyone was too busy talking at each other. I stopped in front of the window, wondering how I could take control of my life short of retreating to a shack in the mountains, where I’d have to live off worms and bark. Which was when I gazed longingly out the window and spotted Bob Watson crossing the street with a new cup of coffee in his hand, the steam wafting into the sunshine, his gait slow and relaxed, his Ray-Bans riding low on his nose. Not a care in the world as he strolled back from that coffeehouse where those gorgeous art students worked the steamers.
Wait a minute.
I stood there, dumbstruck, as I watched Bob saunter toward the building and stop to admire a squirrel scampering up a white oak.
I thought Bob was here with us in this . . .
I turned back to the conference room, and, sure enough, there were Bob’s things—his notepad, his pen, his water bottle. Thirty minutes later, still no Bob—and no one seemed to care. I decided to stand up to stretch and pace the room. Soon I was pressing my face against the tiny porthole window of the conference room door, like a jailbird who’s heard interesting sounds just out of eyeshot. My eyes darted around the office until they settled on Bob at his desk.
He was working.
Getting things done.
Oh. Yeah. I needed to watch this guy. I needed to attend the same meetings he attended and just soak him up—learn his moves, see how he set it all up—because I could tell right then and there: This was a kindred spirit, a corporate soul mate who could lead me to another world. Hell, another dimension, the existence of which I hadn’t quite allowed myself to believe.
So I watched and studied Bob. A lot.
It seemed like he could do just about anything he wanted, with no consequences. To watch him pull off his ditches was kind of a life experience; it helped me realize that maybe I, too, had the power to control my life, even at work, even though the suits wanted me to think otherwise. And does it get more empowering than that? I guess that’s why I studied Bob so closely. This was a master who’d perfected his secret craft—my job was to observe and document, and to avoid tainting anything. I was patient and persistent not only in my observation and documentation, but also in my subsequent practice.
But I couldn’t stop. After I’d learned how to pull a Bob Watson, I taught myself variations that I named in his honor. And I have many. There’s the Bob Watson Classic (a straight meeting ditch), the Reverse Bob Watson (you leave, only to return five minutes later, to build trust for a future ditch), the FU Watson (self-explanatory), the Watson Solo (you ditch a one-on-one; yes, that’s right: a one-on-one), and the Extreme Watson (multiple ditches, with multiple returns, each absence lasting a little longer than the previous, until you’re gone and never coming back).
At some point, Bob left the company. I’m not sure exactly when he left.
* * *
All these years later, I am super passionate about this stuff. More than ever, I really, truly do not like it when people waste my time. So if you drag me to your unnecessary meeting and I am forced to sit there and wait for my Bob Watson moment, I will pornolize you (sorry). That is, I will imagine you in the middle of some kind of depraved porno—an orgy, maybe, or a gang bang, or a glory-hole marathon. And I will imagine everything.
But today is different. I’m on a mission.
Janice asks, “Any comments?”
I snap to attention, because here’s my chance. My chance to validate, which is a critical element of the Bob Watson. You see, if you want to be like Bob, a serial meeting ditcher who never got fired, you must validate the meeting organizers and, if possible, the attendees. You must make that emotional imprint, making them feel you’re engaged—and most important, that they are okay—so that when you are long gone, all they’ll remember are your passionate comments, your supportive nods, your earnest gazes.
I raise my hand, and Janice nods. I give her my thoughtful look, raising a brow. “I just wanted to let you know that the company needs this,” I say, pitching my voice high at the end, for resonance. “The J-23 Incubation Initiative is perhaps one of the most important things we can do this year.” I pause, like I’m thinking about it, and scoot to the edge of my seat, my back arched, like I want to jump into the air. “But the question is, how do we drive this point through to the regions?”
Janice beams, babbles about “leveraging the verticals.”
I keep the eye contact, thinking of the calls I need to make.
Janice announces that the J-23 Incubation Process is designed for adaptation in the PWC and that . . . blah . . . blah . . . blah . . . blah. She’s using words like align and cascade and value capture, and then the acronyms tumble out. I try to say something, but she raises a finger, as if to say, No way. I sit and listen, and decide that Janice from Finance is even more of a control freak than I previously thought. But who am I fooling? It’s not just Janice. This office is packed with control freaks. Hell, the whole world is oozing control freaks. Everyone is trying to control each other.
Do what I do.
Value what I value.
Live life my way.
Do as I say.
Change to make me happy.
Listen to me.
Attend my meeting.
Generally speaking, I tend to say, Nah.
Other folks take another path. Just look at my poor sister and her husband: happy subjects of a kingdom of control. Control freaks who don’t even realize that they themselves are being controlled—controlled by each other, controlled by trends, controlled by the hyperactive, ultracompetitive, overachiever subculture that dictates nearly everything they do. At this point, my sister has changed so fundamentally that I can barely see the person who grew up alongside me.
This malady they have, I’ve given it a name—Overachiever Fever, the symptoms of which are enough to turn a staunch teetotaler into a raging drunk. That’s because with Overachiever Fever, nothing in life—and I mean nothing—is ever quite good enough. This means folks are always stressing out. It means competition is nuts. It means that life mapping—a term I never wanted to learn—is absolutely essential. And it means that looking over your shoulder is a must.
It’s no way to live.
The poor bastards.
If only they could chill out a bit.
If only they knew the way of Bob.
Sitting there thinking of Audrey’s assignment, I decide that teaching the Bob Watson to Collin makes all kinds of sense. I realize that in the coming years, it will be way important for my little dude to stay strong in the face of the oppressors—the overachievers, the control freaks, the stress ballers, the elitists, the aspiring masters of the universe.
He needs to learn how to fight the power, Bob Watson style.
It reminds me of this time I asked Audrey out for a drink. She just smiled and said, “Hold that thought, Rick Blanco. Because I want to tell you about your nephew’s extracurricular activities.”
I thought this was an odd response, but I dig her quirkiness. “Shoot, baby.”
“I mean, listen to this: There’s the Mandarin-immersion program at school, the software-coding tutor at home, the personal trainer for lacrosse at the health club, the oral forensics coach, who visits after dinner on Tuesdays, the body-language coach on Wednesdays, the cello instructor on Saturdays, the personal shaman/spiritual adviser on Sunday nights, and the publicist who is on retainer.”
I focused on Audrey’s lips.
“He’s eight years old, Rick Blanco.”
I admired her hairline. “He also wants his nanny to have drinks with cool dudes.”
Audrey shook her head and sighed. “Rick Blanco.”
I still can’t figure that one out.