I often wonder about “the manager”, I mean, when my case isn’t important enough to yield an actual introduction. What does it look like? Is it a leper? Is it naked? Is it a potato?
Of course sometimes “the manager” is tucked away behind a wall, close enough to catch mumbled bits of conversation. Such cases rule out potatoes and other vegetables, and perhaps narrow the sex to one or two possibilities.
What is “the manager” doing, anyway? Is it stapling a document, or sending an email? Is it listening to NPR? Or can it? Is “the manager” just a disembodied spirit, called into action only after rubbing the crystal ball communicator?
Makes you wonder.
The longer the lackey is gone, the more time to wonder. Where is “the manager”, exactly? Is it in a panic room at the end of a dusty passageway? Is it in the bathroom? Under the bed? On the other end of the phone?
I wonder what “the manager” does when it isn’t managing. Does it play sports, write plays, read books? Is it involved in the community? Does it throw lifestyle parties for other managers and their partners? Does it prefer absinthe or beer? Is it a top or a bottom?
How many times a day is “the manager” called upon for its wisdom? Does the answer to this have implications on the stability of the organization, or the prudence of maintaining “the manager’s” employ? Does “the manager” have a management quota?
How does one go about being “the manager” of a leasing company in Nevada? Does it require schooling? Did it grow up wishing for nothing else than to be a faceless figure of authority for a leasing company in Nevada? Are its parents proud? Does it live on the grounds? Where? If I knocked on its door, would it answer?
What time is it?