“Hopefully, together, we will save the Earth before its ruin is complete.”
The words filled the prescreening office, riveting its occupants, most of whom had abandoned their workstations to crowd around Melody’s. They were not, however, wearing the expressions that an appearance of the Shmish usually elicited. Quite the contrary. With the exception of Grant, whose face showed no expression and who had stayed at his computer, their visible emotions ranged from pity to embarrassment to wincing remorse.
Nor were they behaving rationally, given that their boss was right there with them as, heedless of their duties, they watched the video for a second time.
But still they watched it, the sight of the Shmish so haggard and desolate rooting them in place. Besides which, they wanted to show support for their friend Melody, who'd become so upset after the first viewing that she'd called Jeffery down from the twenty-seventh floor.
He let the submission finish—a good sign, possibly—then turned to the staff member who had brought it to his attention.
“It is beyond belief,” he said to her, “that you would intrude on a convocation of department heads with something like this.
“Someone with half a brain,” he continued, ramping into a full nasal blare, “who worked here for five minutes, would know what to do with it. As for the rest of you . . ." He turned on them, but hesitated. "No, that’s not quite appropriate. As for the rest of you with one exception"—he nodded at Grant—“clearly my easygoing nature is doing this office no favors. I believe it is high time I took the different approach that my colleagues on senior staff are ceaselessly recommending.”
“But that’s not the point,” said Melody, shakily yet with determination. “I know what to do with this submission. I know perfectly well it’s a reject. That’s not why I called you. I just wanted to ask if, given the obvious condition of the submitter, maybe the company could—”
“What? What was that?” snapped Jeffery, bending down at her, one hand holding the list, the other cupped over an ear.
“I just wanted to ask if the company could, you know, find this person’s address and notify someone in his area. I mean, look at him. Doesn’t it look like he might do something to himself? But maybe we could prevent it by alerting some sort of mental health—”
Again Jeffery interrupted, waving and pointing the hand that had previously been ear-cupping. “Never mind all that. What did you say before?”
“That he might do something to himself? I’m not kidding.”
“No. Before that.”
Melody was confused. “That you could look up his street address?”
Jeffery was losing all patience with her. “No!”
Melody, flummoxed, said nothing. Jeffery, exasperated, also said nothing. For several moments, a tense silence filled the prescreening room.
“You said,” continued Jeffery at last, slowly enunciating every word, “that you knew this submission was a reject. And I’m asking why you said that.”
“Because . . . he’s trying to destroy the human race?” she ventured, struggling to find words for the obvious.
“Yes. And so?” said her manager.
“That wouldn’t be good thing?” she proposed.
“Are you an attorney?”
She said nothing.
“Tell me!” ordered Jeffery. “Are. You. An. Attorney?”
“No, but—”
“Employed by CorpInc.”
“Of course not, but—”
“Selected out of hundreds of applicants, each of them also an attorney, each highly skilled in anticipating every legally relevant eventuality.”
Again she said nothing. He began waving the list at her. “So tell me, Madame Attorney. What does it say here that would disallow that submission?”
“Nothing, I think. But—”
“That’s right, nothing. So what happens when this individual”—he pointed at the monitor where the Shmish remained frozen in the final dejected milliseconds of his video—“when this individual realizes that his submission has been refused on the basis of, as you say, nothing? Might he not take action? Might he not appeal to social media? We have freedom of speech in this country, you know. And if word gets out that a certain corporation doesn’t respect that, well I would not like to think about the consequences. We could attract the attention of armed vigilantes—don’t fool yourself, it could happen. They could pay us a visit. And why? I’ll tell you why. All because one person in the prescreening department thought she was some kind of crackerjack, know-it-all, hotshot attorney . . .”
Driven into a froth by his own words, Jeffery shoved past Melody and hammered her keyboard until the Shmish had been replaced on her monitor by the words, “Submission Accepted.” He then wheeled and walked—straight through the densest clump of his employees. Or rather, through where the densest clump had been, moments earlier. For the employees were now back at their stations, eyes forward, earphones on, just like Grant, making up for lost time.