If office work was like playing hockey

A version of this was originally published in the Montreal Gazette.

David Sherman

All this carping about violence on the rink. Let me tell you, up here on the

15th floor the competition is even tougher. We're all trying to get to the

16th floor. From there, the sky's the limit. This is the big leagues.

Athletes think they got it rough? In this business, each proposal, every

contract, your job is on the line. So all's fair when it comes to the game

of building and selling microwidgets.

Take yesterday. Jean from sales got to the photocopy machine first. He's

just up from the branch office in Flin Flon. He's hungry and he's got a lot

to prove, so he was hustling to get his report in before us guys in

marketing.

Being one of the veterans on the floor, it was up to me to set the kid

straight. He was so proud of himself, knocking off those copies, impressed

with how clients would eat up his sales figures. But he made a typical

rookie mistake. He dropped his head. The first rule of office politics

in the big city is, if you're going to walk around with your head down, wear

a full mask. So what choice did I have? I elbowed him in the mouth, busting

a few teeth and fracturing his jaw - all part of the microwidget management

game.

But I had to admire him. The kid was quick. He tried to take out my knees

with a two-hand backhand briefcase chop, but I was quicker. I slammed the

photocopy lid on his hand, putting it through the glass, busting a few knuckles. He was down, but smarter for it. Now he knows if you're going to make good-looking copies,

you're going to have to pay.

Maintenance wiped up Jean's blood and the office manager helped him down to

the clinic where he spent the next few hours. But Jean's a gamer. He was

back for an afternoon strategy session. His face was purple and he drooled a

bit through his busted teeth but you could hardly see the stitches. He was wearing a glove to cover the cast on his broken hand. And you could hardly tell his jaw was wired. The guy's a real pro: he knew how to work through the pain and the lidocaine.

At the monthly meeting, we draw up quotas, award bonuses, judge performance.

The branch offices send their best people and retailers and wholesalers from

all over attend, looking to see what improvements are coming with the next

shipment of microwidgets. This is where we really strut our stuff. And our

classiest suits and ties. Reputations, promotions, entire careers are made right

here.

Jean was beside me at the conference table when all of a sudden he asked how

my wife was. It was an outrageous provocation. I picked up my Mont Blanc and

stabbed him in the eye a couple of times. But, he hardly blinked. Boy, these

farm kids are tough. So I grabbed his Hermes tie and tightened it until he

started to choke. Then I began pummeling his face with a barrage of right

hooks. But the boy was good. He grabbed an MacBook Air off the table and hit me

over the head with it.

It was a good clean shot and, I got to tell you, he rang my bell. That'll

teach me not to wear a helmet to monthly meetings. It loosened my grip on

his tie and he got his nails into my Armani and tried to pull it over my

head, giving me a few rights to the face. The boss and the veepees and associates and assistants were standing around, holding on to each other to keep them from mixing it up with us. The guests from the regional office and the retailers and wholesalers and jobbers were cheering, splashing their lattes and throwing pieces of almond croissants.

I was getting tired - I had been up half the night with a trio of microwidget maidens I had met in the bar across the street - and I still had a 3 o'clock budget meeting to go to. So I head-butted him across the top of his nose, knocking him cold. Business is business and, besides, he was creasing my suit.

A gurney scooped up Jean - it had been a tough few weeks in the big leagues

for him - and maintenance came and scrubbed the blood and the computer glass

out of the boardroom broadloom. The boss sent me to the men's room for

five-minutes to chill, but not before patting me on the ass for a job well done. I got a standing O from the sales team and our clients. If I hadn't been spitting out bits of dental

work and gristle, I could probably taste the 16th floor.

Microwidget management is a hell of a game.