The Deadline

Dec 24, 2007 - 11:00 AM PST

“Quickly, Dobbs, rifle through those boxes over there in the corner and find me something important to look at. I’ve got to start banging something out on this calculator, and I’ve got to do it now!”
“Yes, sir! I’ll dig you out a doozy!”
“Sweet virgin placenta, Dobbs—the deadline is almost here and I have no tape in the infernal machine! Heave me a roll fast as Hercules or I’ll be drawn and quartered if the boss comes in.!”
The boss comes in.
“Matthews, you vile cur! You might as well kick your feet up and mix yourself a foofy little cosmo. Don’t you know we have a deadline?”
“Yes sir, I was—
“Can it, Matthews! Just because I, too, wear a thin moustache doesn’t mean you’re working for your wife. Just look at you two—tell me, what’s the good of hammering away at that fancy elec-tro-abacus of yours if there’s no giant tangles of paper to stuff into these giant trash bags? How long have you been with us, Matthews?”
“Six years, sir. Six of the best—
“Six years, mark of the beast, and you still can’t put a fire under your ass when the clock is ticking. Why, if we didn’t have a deadline to answer for, you’d be emptying out your desk! And you, Dobbs, cowering back in that supply cabinet like my secretary does when my wife comes to visit—Get to work! Why aren’t you finding all the important looking papers and getting them to Matthews? Sweet stigmata, you jackals, these bags won’t fill themselves!”
The boss goes out.
“That was a close one, Dobbs. Now, toss me a reel of paper!”
“One Nolan Ryan fastball coming up, sir!”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s a Robin Yount, just fire it in here!
“Fire one, sir!”
“Right over the plate, Dobbs! Good work. Now, dive into those boxes and get busy!”
“Diving, sir!”
“Get this baby locked and loaded and we’re in business—Dobbs! What kind of way is that to dig into those files? You’ve got to breast stroke like you’re fighting for your last breath!”
“Yes, sir! Nearly asphyxiating, sir!
“Dobbs! That whipkick’s a half-stroke behind your arms; you won’t get down to the good ones that way!”
“It’s coordinated now, sir!”
“That’s better. What have you got for me, Dobbs?”
“It’s a real treasure, sir! I can’t even say what language it’s in.”
“Not surprising, Dobbs, with your general lack of culture. Just tell me whether it reads up and down, or left to right.”
“Actually, sir, I think it reads diagonal.”
“Bulls-eye, Dobbs, hand it over. A few more like this one and we might just make this thing!
“I’ll do my best, sir!”
“Your best?! Why, I think you’d better stick with my best if you want to get ahead. Get a good look, Dobbs: the reel in my calculator is almost run dry! I think you’d better rocket me over another a few more.
“Incoming, sir!”
“Ugggh! Mother Theresa, Dobbs, you nearly embedded one of those in my kidney! If I keeled over and fell off this stool and hit my head, and then started to convulse, who would there be to review the important looking papers and crank out these receipts? If I die, we’ll never meet the deadline.
“Bouncing, baby Jesus, look at the time! Have you found me any more gems with those fat Mongoloid mitts of yours?”
“Just these two, sir. The rest I had no trouble making heads or tails of.”
“Wheat from the chaff, Dobbs, that’s why you’re here! Now, shred up our dead weight and we’ll use it to fatten up these sacks.”
“Great idea, sir!”
“We’re all here for the reason God put us here, Dobbs. Some of us get lucky, and some people like you just have to hang in there and hope for a better hand. Dammit, Dobbs— I thought I told you to start shredding that crap!”
“The shredder's been jammed for several seconds now, sir.”
“You know the drill, Dobbs. Time’s a-wasting! Get off your duff and soak the whole mess in Worchester sauce, and go fork it to that badger we keep caged in the stock room!”
“Well the last time we had to do that he got a few of my fingers, sir.”
“Fingers, ehh? Let me see those Cro-Magnon dung-flingers of yours. Well, now. You’ve still got both thumbs; you’re no less a man! Get to it, and remember to use that cattle prod on his chest if that fat little guy starts to choke.”
“Okay, sir.”
“Dobbs, hold it together! We’re going to make this thing, or I’ll die trying.”
The secretary comes in.
“Mr. Matthews, I need to speak with you.”
“Yes, yes, out with it, woman!”
“It’s the boss, he had an aneurysm in the break room while he was doing a four-star Sudoku, and collapsed. “911 has been notified.”
“Forget about that, you harlot! What about the bloody deadline?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Matthews; I am confused. Without the boss, I don’t believe there is a deadline.”
“What?! Can that be? Well, what are we supposed to do now, sit around and scratch our heads all day?”
“The rest of us are trying to sort that out in the break room, sir. We are considering a séance.”
Matthews nods vacantly and the secretary goes out. The crackling jolts of the cattle prod normally make him wince, but he just sits at his desk, stupefied. He starts to like this feeling and breathes a little easier. He slouches just slightly in his chair. He almost grins. Then, he starts to wonder about things. The first thing he happens to think is that maybe his real calling in life is photography, which strikes him as a marvelous idea—he does have an eye for looking at things.
Matthews vows to resign just as soon as he can find a new boss to speak to about the matter, and this makes him feel more powerful than ever, but then he wonders, what if he is named the new boss? It wouldn’t be unthinkable based on his sterling qualifications, and like Matthews knows as well as anybody, he is one of the lucky ones.