The shareholder party got underway, an evening reception for 700 people. Waiters carried platters of salmon hors d'oeuvres on one palm, foreheads sweaty and shiny with high purpose. It was not their place to know anything else, only that they were hired to serve. Fluffing up pillows to put under the imminent shareholder's pleased posteriors. Obsequious to the party's smallest whim, each flitting impulse of comfort that took up like a cap full of wind in any blowing direction.

Truly a night to remember, one of clinking wine glasses and subdued conversation. As a joke, the chief executives were behind the bar in white aprons, mixing drinks and cleaning out the inside of shot glasses with a cloth. They put on their most charming face, the visage of crony capitalism when everything is warm, everything is prearranged, and most importantly-- everything is profitable. As patrons ordered their mixed drinks, the captains of Clamp Inc. nodded their heads forward with an air of behumbled camraderie. After half an hour, this display of grand democracy over, they handed it back to the hired help.

The spacious conference room was dotted with circular tables with white tablecloth, like mushrooms in a pond. It was all like a ballet, somehow. Twirling around from table to table, shaking hands with smiling investors, exchanging blandishments, then trapising to the next with seamless efficiency. The mood was genial, nothing less. The corporate machine was running smoothly, turning a tidy quarterly profit. All was graceful sailing on this esteemed ship.

Behind a rectangular table, off to the side, a man with long, mussy hair and a mustache-- in the style of a violin virtuoso from Old Europe-- popped open a green bottle of champagne, the foam brimming over his hands with relish.

It had the formality of an opera. . . . . there was even a nine year-old in a tuxedo, looking inattentive and bored, coat tails hanging over his little bottom, not listening to the adult's conversations of share prices and horse racing. Hands in pockets, having the habit of turning which way on his hips, an easy smile on his face. He was the son of someone important, no doubt.

"You having a good time sonny?" he asked, a broad smile on his face. It was a smile that clenched deals, issued stock, and directed the attention of shareholders onward, forever upward. The kid shrugged. Orson M. Scrushy never expected an answer anyway. Seeing this youth in front of him, it brought back visions of boyhood. Playing sandlot baseball, climbing trees. Why, anyone could begin with this shiftless innocence and grow up to become president of The United States!

Or at least chairman of the board. Getting his satisfaction from this incompetent interaction, Orson Scrushy moved on.

Just then, another chief officer took the podium, which rose on a carpeted plinth, and tapped his finger on the black cordless microphone. The padding sound, resounding through the room, was enough to get the party's attention.

"Testing, testing" was his cute overture as feedback shrieked through the speakers. Keenan Frame winced slightly. It gave the whole affair an air of cheapness, which was embarrassing for the likes of a Fortune 500 company. Aye, it was forgivable though. Shareholders were polite in person as opposed to the percentage-obsessed Mongols who trolled the listings of the "Data Bank" section in the Wall Street Journal and rumbled from below like Hussars. In person, attending this annual party thrown by the corporate brass, there was a veneer of civility, at least.

"Good evening". A hush fell over the room. Face stiffened, slightly uncomfortable, he welcomed everyone with an illusion of humbleness. Just then, a cute little number who was 25 or so happened to be issuing each person a portfolio of statistics, of corporate earnings-- with colored pie charts and bar graphs. Her high-heeled shoes gave her a mincing, vulnerable-looking step. Her sister co-workers, also in conservative skirts, smiled and did likewise throughout the silent room. Not meeting shareholder's eyes, but passing the folders with a quiet "thank you" and moving on.

The whole proceedings were meant to project an air of possibility, and it stirred the hearts of married middle-aged men, who mulled over whether it was an unexplored avenue that perhaps they could strike up a flirtatious conversation with these women by far their junior. Not that any one of them had the audacity to TRY ANYTHING, but it was a glowing delight just the same.

Yes-- profit, youth, and power. The right company, the right look, the right attitude.

Humbly enough, "Clamp Inc." started with plastic manufacturing. Through mergers and expansions, they acquired divisions in airlines, cola, cosmetics, media, and entertainment. Keenan Frame gave the electrifying "run-down' as each listed division elicited a polite round of applause.

Keenan Frame faltered at the end, and then pointed at the audience, a look of false admonishment on his face. "Hey, I paid you to clap". (Audience laughter). "But you see, folks," as he straightened his tie, "we keep growing every year, yet to have a single unprofitable quarter". It was all off the top of his head; no notes, no preparation. He knew his company well. "And now I would like to turn the microphone over to my boss, Orson M. Scrushy".

The older man had a bulbous nose, a broad-open Irish smile, and hair slicked back like a 1920's banker. Taking a bow, mounting the stage, he took the microphone from Keenan Frame, who bowed deferentially.

The eyes of Orson Scrushy traveled over the audience, turning from one side of the hall to the other, meeting the audience's directly. Each person had the impression, for a brief second, that the CEO was addressing them personally. Whether each shareholder was smiling, frowning, or held a neutral expression, Orson Scrushy didn't change his beaming countenance. He just passed on. The nine year-old in the audience looked up at the "nice man" as he told stories to the crowd, as if over cocktails. In his young heart, he felt allegiance to this nice man, an adult who paid attention to him. A shiver of excitement ran through the kid's spine when the nice man's eyes met his. Was that an added crinkle of a smile he perceived? It could have just been his imagination. . . . . .

"And in conclusion, folks, I look forward to a very profitable year".

The secretaries stood up on chairs and took down the hanging confetti, as Orson M. Scrushy strode through the large office of gray cubicles, an entourage of "yes men" at his heels. Over his shoulder, a timid, clipped, bald-headed advisor was reassuring him about profit percentages and market forecasts. Orson Scrushy's hands were clasped before him. Huddled over somewhat, he nodded at the employees who rose up in deference on either side. He then flashed his teeth again in a winning smile.

His executive vice presidents were waiting, reclined back in their chairs. It was a gathering of his close associates, the others left behind outside. There was also Donald O' Herily, the chief shareholder who owned a controlling stake in the company and who possessed an honorary seat on the board.

"John", the old man said, addressing Orson Scrushy by his nickname. His voice was sonorous, oak-solid, faintly British. Visually, one had the impression of a mammoth golden key cruising through star-laced space, to lock in an agreement with momentous potential. An elegant, mighty process-- the upheaval of stock changing hands, like rocks pushing themselves up from the earth with a rumble. It was the solid basis of integrity that undergirded the principles of, as they say in noble terms, "business". Mortal men carrying brief cases were merely agents of that big abstract, scurrying under its momentous shadow.

He operated as Orson Scrushy's erstwhile conscience within reason. Neither a flowery liberal, nor a sullen conservative, but operating in that nebulous region of idealism and realism. He was fond of gentle metaphor, a delicate point between "A" and "B" like putting a golf ball. Simple. With an adage of wisdom from the Far East. even. It was still the '80s. Japan was an economic tiger, quaint in it's way of nonconfrontation and saving face, the "great unspoken" leading things with a silent nod, kneeling around the dinner matt, with chopsticks. Unlock the secrets of the oriental mind, and win over their business forever!

The rest of the cadre was in the "old boy" network, a smug expression on their clean-shaven faces. Here, at eight AM on a Thursday morning, you could rest assured that they'd catch up on the weekend golf links as conformity dictated. Patting their hands on the conference table and looking ineffably contented. They had demonstrated their reliability over and over again-- company men who had stayed the course. Frankly, business was their business. The sacrifices were great, but that's what it took.

Some men rose through the ranks, while others remained in the limbo of lowly accountants, middle managers, and sales coordinators. Those who did not play "the game" simply sank. You showed due respect to your superiors. You didn't hold a vociferous opinion on much of anything, except a quiet belief in the correctness of the company-- majestic, subtle, and just.

The union grumbled. Fearful about their jobs, afraid that management would send their factories overseas (-- which it has), they were demonstratably angry. They had been promised, supposedly in good faith, that if they didn't appoint a fiery, table-pounding leader to represent them, keeping costs down, then Clamp Inc. would not consider closing down the factories.

"If those promises were made", Emily Rosborough said in front of a press conference, "they were not legally binding on the company". Her voice was sharp, whiny, and defiant like a shrew's.

Management chose Rosborough to deliver the "hard news", a feminine face that would perhaps disarm the public uproar of hard hats and crashing lunch pails thrown at the stage. Privately, on his corporate jet far from here, Orson Scrushy slapped the knee of his top business partner, doubtlessly joking that she was a "real ball-crusher".

After fielding the reporters' questions, some hostile, she took the side exit, the "clip-clop" of her high heels resounding across the carpet with a veneer of respectability. Flashbulbs went off, reporters hounded her in the area below the podium-- what she privately called "the snake pit".

To the side, Shane McClure clasped his hands before him. Twenty-four years old, junior cub employee at Clamp Inc. His eyebrows arched comically, as he watched the reporters pack up their note pads and tote bags. He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, raising himself up on his heels, glad that it wasn't him who had to go up there and face the brunt of public opinion. Steeped in free market philosophy, he shrugged at the plight of the unions. It was a dog-eat-dog world out there, after all.

While earning his MBA at Washington University in St. Louis, he was drawn to business much how exceptional college students were enthusiastic for poetry or philosophy. Maybe Shane wasn't particularly exceptional, in the grist of the business-minded, but what gave him the hiring edge at this prestigious corporation was oozing his way to becoming a winning contestant at the "Orson M. Scrushy Foundation for Teaching Entrepreneurship".

Yes, that honorable institution where a titan of industry gave back to the community. . . . . in what better way, than by the very principles that underpinned his stratospheric rise?! It was Orson M. Scrushy himself that awarded Shane the guilded placard of excellence.

Submitting a business plan to the committee, then actually putting it into commission with money lent from the foundation. In Shane's case, he bought up a heap of cell phones and started his own on-campus business. Yes, with advertising, budgets, marketing, and moxie. (-- Clamp Inc., which owned all the cell phones, gave him the goods at a reduced whole-sale price. Loss, theft, damage, or otherwise acts of god would be presented to him as a bill. If the participant took the goods and ran, a foolishly misguided choice, Orson M. Scrushy-- or at least one of his underlings-- would make sure he never worked in Wall Street, "by god").

It was he, Shane, who best exemplified the principles set forth by the mission, but some found him to be somewhat slick and obnoxious. He always seemed overly sure of himself, in his green collegiate sweaters ($$$), and always sailed through exams by the seat of his pants, studying at the last minute and pulling all-nighters. Some speculated that he cheated.

At the banquet of honors, he got to sit across from Orson M. Scrushy. ("Call me John", he said, as Shane stuttered his name time after time). Talk was small, general, and gracious. The CEO had the habit of looking down at his plate, and earnestly cutting away at the steak-- a high-pitched sound of the knife and fork chafing against the cutlery.

Shane marveled at the power at this man's fingertips. Why, his mentor could fuel up the corporate jet and fly anywhere in the country at a moment's notice! Not just the continental United States, but the business centers of Europe or the Far East! And the stewardesses, dressed in the blond pigtails of the Swiss milk maids, an apron, and a white kerchief over their heads. Or a Japanese geisha, black hair tied up in a bun, the style impaled by a stick, white face paint with a large red spot on either cheek. Shane imagined sitting several rows behind the CEO in first class, Mr. Scrushy turning around in his seat and flashing a winning grin, before returning to an important business summary in his hands.

Profit, youth and power. Shane McClure fully intended to have all three before he turned thirty. And Clamp Inc. offered him an entry-level position. He worked in the main office in New York City, on the upper floors of a futuristic skyscraper, down the hall from Orson M. Scrushy's formidable chambers. On his first day, as the CEO strode through the sea of cubicles, he would have trailed him to that inner sanctum of verve and personality, to cover him with groveling adulation, if not for John H. Patterson who stood in the way.

This floor manager was blond, tall, and no-nonsense. He called Shane into his corner office, and stood over the desk, leaning on his palms threateningly. He was to inspire fear into the raw employee, and Shane's eyes widened like glassy marbles as he nodded at every demand made by this brutal point-by-point speech.

Unbeknownst to Shane, Orson Scrushy instructed John H. Patterson to be especially rough and predatory to emphasize that generosity only went so far at this company. Shane found himself longing for the charm and spacious platitudes of the "big cheese", but it was unsaid that the two would have no further interaction.

The tour got underway, presentable young women in conservative skirts and pearls leading the tourists through the lower floors of Clamp headquarters. A modern office building, which boasted marble floors and skylights, meant to impress the public as much as Japanese investors. Corporate warriors in suits-- carrying brief cases-- looked very official as they stalked toward the elevators, lending to the tone of invincibility. Yes, this corporation was the avatar of free markets world wide. Who had need for government?

The public sector, that gray morass of ennui-- yes, that bloated carcass of hide-bound regulation, whose sluggish ways and inefficiency without incentive verily stifled initiative. What drove public employees, other than soulless routine, an abiding adherence to paperwork, and the secret thrill of meddling in private affairs?!

Those were the arguments put forth in Orson M. Scrushy's autobiography, "Straight from the Gut", available at the gift shop for $27.95. A charming piece of salesmanship which sold the man as much as the company. Everyone at headquarters received a gift-wrapped copy on their desks in time for Christmas.

Some privately wondered how this revered corporate statesman found the time to write this 450-page tome of wise-old sayings, beguiling reminisces, Greco-Roman metaphors, optimistic forecasting, and smug, unadulterated glory.

"And in conclusion, I shall always endeavor to meet challenges wherever they may be found, to roll up my sleeves and assess the problem, to look out my office window-- contemplating the future, partaking in blue-sky thinking for the benefit of myself and this great nation. The theme is freedom, and it is all any man can do. Have a nice day, and may all your days be wholesome and bright."

Others wondered how much different, being a link in the corporate chain, their lives were from the government-minded ennui Mr. Scrushy derailed. But no one said this out-loud.

Least of all the tour guides, perky and naive, as they clip-clopped through the lower levels. Their scripts were well-rehearsed, flowing with gusto and portents of the mighty future. Smiling mechanically, their hired purpose circumscribed no further than what was expected of a tour guide (-- though the presentation itself was meant to suggest something of the limitless). Yes, even you could be eligible to join this corporate ship's complement!

Just then, Shane McClure walked by, eyebrows arched as usual. The kids wondered what big, important things this lanky junior cub employee did. They had yet to conceive of the commitment and personal risk that was sacrificed to the sometimes volatile and vulnerable world of business. They had yet to meet the roadblocks put up by the likes of John H. Patterson.

Or to know that these pretty young ladies were window-dressing, who would never climb up the corporate ladder like Emily Rosborough. It was a lowly task perforated with odd jobs-- public relations involved everything from tours to impromptu baby-sitting. It was not unconceivable that they would chase after a toddler in their high-heeled shoes, while high-stakes clients were entertained in the upper offices. All decisions were out of their hands. They could be as helpful as possible, and conciliatory if a kid asked for a job, but beyond the tiny budget apportioned to their department there was nothing available.

Sitting at his cubicle, Shane loosened his collar. It was Friday, two days before Christmas, and the routine was brutal, like a heavy concrete sledge. He couldn't wait to go home. The office was planning a holiday party-- complete with a punch-bowl of eggnog. There was nothing quite like the shrill laughter of secretaries, as people unwound with the season. It was rumored that Orson Scrushy HIMSELF might make an appearance and give a toast. The hour was fast approaching 4 o' clock.

Just then, John Patterson stuck his head over the wall and "harrumphed". He circled around wolfishly and dropped a heavy file on the desk. It resounded with pathos, next to "Straight from the Gut".

"Listen, McClure. I want you to crunch these numbers over the holiday weekend. Bring me a print-out with bar graphs and percentages. No excuses". With that, the boss swaggered away.

Shane was exhausted. Over his brief tenure, he had to bring home work before. He accepted that. But over Christmas weekend?! He knew that his boss was riding him hard, not just because he was inexperienced, but that he didn't come from an Ivy League university. The professional head hunters only wanted the best in the field, the most infallibly dependable, those who made perfect grades through compulsive and meticulous work habits. Only because Shane caught Orson M. Scrushy's attention through the so-named "Foundation for Teaching Entrepreneurship" was he able to get a foot in the door.

But Ivy League credentials weren't everything. As the back cover of "Straight from the Gut" humbly advertised, Orson Scrushy was the son of a longshoreman raised in New York City and bussed tables through college. The future magnate of business, in a vest and jacket he had to pay for himself, waiting bars. He graduated with a major in marketing and took to the road as a traveling salesman. His old '49 Studebaker practically had holes in the floor-boards and one could just about see the moving pavement as he drove.

So Orson M. Scrushy had respect for the underdog, and those who soared with INITIATIVE. If the truth be known, Shane came from an upper middle-class household. He had drive, he had ambition, but it was something sly and devious-- narrow enough to forsake the beauty of art and literature for the spec sheets of endless numbers and ledgers. It was meaninglessness enforced for eight hours a day, and sometimes extended after work and on weekends. But for Shane, it was the sacrifice he made for profit and power.

Yes, he would clack on his IBM computer and slog through the boss's book over Christmas. It didn't hurt to memorize a quote, or a particularly stirring passage because it might come into use someday. No, he wasn't going home for the holidays. He was busy enough, and couldn't get distracted from his dream. Did he feel remorse? Not really. His eyebrows arched at this thought. It was the price of doing business. He was wedded to this corporation, and would put in extra hours to get his hands on material wealth. The smell of green, stack those dollars high. Gold and silver and stock certificates and platinum credit cards. He wanted it all.

Just then, a secretary passed out a conical party hat. Shane put the rubber string beneath his chin and stood up.

"Psssstssspt".

Returning from the washroom in the hallway, Shane's eyes widened with surprise as he turned around. It was a vice president, he knew that much. The man, with slicked-back sandy hair and a small mouth like a manta ray, had eyes like a gecko lizard. He had the buzzing, yet stationary energy of a con man, but Shane was too unworldly to perceive this.

"Have a light?"

Shane fumbled in his pocket for a fluid lighter. He kept a pack of cigarettes on him always, a habit he acquired back at the Washington University dorms. It helped him relax after a test, having squeezed off a frenetic cramming session beforehand. (-- The lighter was green, of course. It fit with his materialistic philosophy!).

"Thanks". The man bent over his cigarette slowly, and lit the slender white stalk. There was the pause of unhealthy foreboding, as the smoke rose in wisps. Shane blinked. He scarcely believed that anyone working for Clamp Inc. could spare the time to stop for a smoke. But here this man was, lighting up like it was lunch break. Rank had its privileges, as Shane correctly guessed.

As for the holiday party, it lasted twenty minutes before the corporate behemoth of John H. Patterson ordered them back to work. Last minute preparations, mostly, for the three-day weekend. No loose ends left untied, you know.

"You're the kid who won the 'Orson M. Scrushy Foundation for Teaching Entrepreneurship' award", the stranger stated, clenching the words through his teeth, not looking up.

"That's me", Shane answered with moxie.

"Right", the vice president said, affirming the answer with coolness.

Shane didn't know what to say. At least someone remembered. His co-workers gave him icy treatment, as if he scarcely existed. Was it the work load? Yet, his fellow office staff apparently found their own pace, like marathoners loping dysfunctional adjustedness through the hours, months, years, and decades even. Shane wasn't the most sensitive of sorts, but the fact that they neglected his accomplishment made him wince.

"I used to be like you. I won the award myself back in '76". He held out the cigarette betwixt his two fingers, and pointed at Shane with a smooth motion. "You know, you could be going places. Rise up high in this company. Real potential. Oh, Figaro Thunders". He held out his hand.

It was a brisk, dry handshake.

"Shane McClure".

"How are you managing here?". Shane arched his eyebrows at the question.

"Fine, I guess. No problems at all".

"I take it you received a copy of the old man's book?"

"Well, yeah".

"Don't bother reading it", Figaro Thunders curdling his voice. "It's mostly hot air, you know". Shane pulled back his head with a start. It was heresy, but strangely reasonable. "Well," his confidant said-- continuing on this clandestine conversation-- "what can you expect?". As he breathed this, he raised the timbre of his voice as if talking on high across the clouds, waving his hand sarcastically and deviously. Then his voice lowered slowly and ominously. "You won't get ahead following the boss around like a stooge. Don't be stupid".

Figaro Thunders let his words sink in. He looked away and took another drag on his cigarette. Shane was speechless. This was certainly beyond the reaches of text books or 1950's black & white propaganda flickering on the projection screen back in school.

"How is it being the junior cub employee, the golden underdog? I'll bet that John H. Patterson is making you take work home over Christmas. That sounds like something he'd do". He didn't even wait for Shane to reply. "Well, I can tell you it's a prank. They send you a big, thick file to go through and solve but Orson and John know that the essential papers are missing. They laugh when they think of how the new guy is sweating. Then they ask him about it the following Monday, waiting all vacation to see his expression and the frenzied excuses he makes on sight. The cub would never find public fault with anything boss gave him. Now you're in on it".

Shane felt privileged and grateful.

"Know what you want to do? Come in tomorrow and get the files that you need. I'll help you. Orson and John will really be impressed that you figured it out so quick, no last minute squeezes for you".

(Back to "The List")