Free Thomas World by Richard Cox

mind is stuck in an old business model, so he expects the rest of the team’s to be stuck as well.
    â€œDidn’t we go over this once already?” he asks.
    â€œYes, we did. But even if you don’t want me to build a Facebook fan page, we could still leverage the site’s gigantic audience to place ads. It’s the same concept as Google except you can be even more targeted with your marketing.
    â€œI already told you this once, Thomas. I won’t say it again. I’m not paying you to play on Facebook. Don’t let me see you on there again. Got it?”
    â€œYes, I get it.”
    William looks at me as if I don’t get it at all.
    â€œSo,” he says, “I came to see you because I wanted to interface with you about the Google report. I know we talked about having it ready Friday, but I have a meeting with Kurt on Wednesday, and I’d like to include some talking points from your report in my PowerPoint deck. Do you have anything I can use?”
    I haven’t even begun the Google report yet. And Kurt Truman, you might remember, is our jackass vice-president of marketing.
    You should also know the Google report will probably consume ten single-spaced pages and require many hours of research just to compile the statistics and necessary background information. I will have to build charts and graphs. I feel like that moment in a dream where it’s the last day of my senior year, and I’ve forgotten to study for the final in the most important class in my major. How in the hell did I forget I was supposed to have that ready this week?
    William’s teeth are brownish and pointy like a dog’s. And judging by the look in his eyes, I think he knows I have absolutely nothing ready.
    You have probably already figured out I’m on thin ice with William. I haven’t exactly been on the ball as of late. But it’s difficult to impress a man so blindly earnest that he’ll do whatever is asked of him, whether it makes sense or not. He’ll stay at work hours after everyone has gone home, hoping his own boss will believe he’s burning the midnight oil, when really William spends hours in his office playing Hearts and Minesweeper on his computer. And when I get ready to leave—on time—he’ll come over and ask passive/aggressive questions about my work and my priorities and my career goals. You get the feeling he was a nerd in high school, and now he thinks he’s having the last laugh at everyone as he claws his way into middle management. And here I am, having forgotten to begin a basic (but important) project that he instructed me last week, very clearly, to make my number one priority.
    What I wouldn’t give to stand up and point my index finger at him and yell:
    â€œWhy don’t you stick your Google report up your ass, you pedantic ladder climber?”
    But last year I earned $65,536 sitting here in my cube, staring at these spreadsheets, generating these reports. If I quit before I can earn a living writing films, I would have to find another regular job anyway. And let’s be honest: Williams are everywhere. You can even find them in Hollywood, except there they are called studio executives.
    So I can’t quit. Not yet.
    Regarding the Google report, I say, “I’m not quite ready with any talking points. Can I get you something tomorrow?”
    William smiles thinly.
    â€œTomorrow should be fine,” he says, and vanishes as quickly as he appeared.
    After a time I look back down at my computer. I’ve got a new email, but it’s not from Dick but rather a woman named Rhonda. Rhonda is the coordinator for our online catalog. She wants me to bring statistics from another search engine ad campaign to our meeting at one o’clock.
    Shit. I forgot I had a meeting at one o’clock. The day’s work continues to build, minutes stretching into potential hours, even days. It seems like I will never get out