I'm not in team - Thought Leader

The receptionist looks me up and down. I see her nose tilt up slightly. She’s taking an inventory: tattoos, asymmetrical haircut, body jewellery … she sits back, confident that her sums round off. I see the smug recession of her chins into a generous neck. She will come down from the mountain.

“Can I help you?”

I mumble that I have a meeting with her boss. A slight widening of the eyes, and she arrests it, trying to broadcast assurance. A swallow betrays her, larger women want us to believe they are delicate as birds.

“Take a seat.” She phones people, as if I am a child lost and inconsolable. They expect me. Her face is a clock. It strikes midnight in front of me. Several connections in her head fail. Loose copper sparks just behind her peepers.

I’m handed over to a personal assistant. We chat awkwardly; her son saw me on TV …

“Oh,” I say, “I’m sorry to hear that … ”

I don’t hate anyone — this is a game, games are proof of play.

Into a small cupboard used for meetings. We sit around a table and clear our throats as someone makes a ritual out of pouring bad coffee, the chunky one makes a joke comparing caffeine to hard drugs, others laugh knowingly — they don’t.

We’re waiting for the decision maker — busy with things we wouldn’t understand. American pop-culture office phrases bounce of the walls with the grace of hooves on tiling.

Somebody tries a desperate “professional” question: “Are you funny at home … ?”

“No, not really … ”

A magnificent failure to launch, dear God, it’s awkward. We all look up for divine intervention, a big ask from a sensibly-priced modular ceiling. A lead balloon sails across the room, — we watch it hang above the table.

Finally, the big cheese appears. We all exhale.

“Now, about the language … ”

I switch off, and drift away. I know about the language. I’ve been using it for 37 years. I know he’s nervous — he was raised to believe that people like me eat babies and take drugs and worship talking goats that don’t exist … seriously, folks.

This is the one you hope and dream your children will become, what your pride consists of, his ideas were cutting edge when they set women on fire for being quirky …

He furiously searches his management background to explain why he must give me a cheque, and I flip his world onto its head. I pull my jacket sleeve back as he talks, just letting my watch show at the cuff.

To explain, I was given a Rolex once by a very cool chick, maybe she liked my timing, who knows?

Anyhow, I’m not into the watch because of what it is — in fact, my watch runs fast, that’s how fancy it is — it doesn’t have time for people like me. I let Captain Middle Management take the watch in. I see confusion gush into his mind like a BP well letting itself go, like a Sandton woman finally letting nature run on ahead.

His body language becomes pretzel-like as he struggles to marry his preconceptions with the evidence before him. None of the dots connect — it is a beautiful performance …

Change management is a bitch.