“A language star,” Albrecht said, turning to face the class, no, not a class, he was in the boardroom, how embarrassing. What had happened? He breathed in through his nose and held what life he could. He slowed time. What had happened was that he believed himself to be still at university, still that brash and angular young writer and instructor, face always wearing an expression of wolfish enthusiasm, ideas akimbo. Decades had passed since then. He had published a slim book and then a fat one, made a little money, lost it, married, made a series of promises, kept them, and in what seemed like a blink had been loaded like cargo into his wife’s father’s company, ground floor, elevator going up, Executive VP Albrecht. Seven wealthy faces tipped up at him. Sweat mizzled in the space between his lower back and ass. How much time had passed? He needed to start talking. Sales were on the table, distribution too, development as well. Ground needed covering. Concision was everything. Mnemonic: laconic. Bring your spiel to heel. He breathed out though his nose and began to polish all seven faces with hokum.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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