No point starting anything. Not now. Any second a rectangle would appear on his screen and demand attention. Require confirmation. A rectangle that existed solely to announce that an interruption, more severe than itself, was imminent. Ten minutes. Level four board room. The rectangle would tell him these things. The count down to and place of his impending disturbance. He was actually waiting for it. Waiting for the pre-interruption rectangle.
He hadn’t prepared. He never prepared for them anymore. Mostly he would just glance over the attendee list to arrive at some estimate of bullshit potential. He worried that his preparation had stopped because he had become fluent in bullshit too. This thought terrified him.
Could it be true? After all, he assumed it was the sort of skill that crept up on you. A habit formed gradually by being asked for serious answers to ridiculous questions. One that began isolated but over time grew to infest your very core. Like a cancer. “I’m sorry sir, soon bullshit will spread all over your body. I suggest we cut out your ethics and move you into Project Management”. He smiled at his own wit.
What alternative did you have when logic was unacceptable? After all, you needed to eat. “The justifications of an insignificant man” he thought to himself as he dismissed the pre-interruption rectangle that had now appeared. Dismissed it so quickly that it served no purpose other than to exercise his mouse hand. He often thought about the cumulative effect of this type of action. How many hours of his life had he spent mousing over pre-interruption rectangles?
Since his desk was on level four he had the privilege of being able to watch the parade. The attendees had commenced walking past his desk like glorified contestants in some sick reality show. Some moving slowly under the burden of balancing an overfull cup of tea. He liked to think that these people could still be reached. That them needing tea to get through the event somehow represented a subconscious understanding that bullshit required something to wash it down. Some were more purposeful in their gate. A notebook tucked under their arm, marching towards the front. Ready for combat. These poor souls were too far gone he thought. Too well versed in the ways of war to ever really assimilate back into honesty again.
Soon it would be his turn. He would take a detour by the kitchenette to make a cup of tea. Perhaps less symbolic now that he had attached an ethical weight to the beverage. But delicious all the same.