Going south for the meeting

BY DAVID J COEHRS

"Blah blah - blah blah blah."

My eyes are open, and I'm faking attentiveness as my mind goes south. The boss is in the midst of making an important point ("Blah blah, blah blah blah!") but I all I hear are lapping waves and a warm breeze sifting through palm fronds. In my head I am thousands of miles away, wearing alarmingly skimpy swimming trunks on a pristine beach and being fed guava and chunks of fresh coconut by my beloved.

Then I realize the boss is asking me, "What do you think?"

Reality's clammy hand slaps me, and I'm suddenly the focal point of a conference room full of people.

"What do I think?" I repeat sluggishly.

"Yes," the boss replies. "I'd be interested in your opinion."

I hate staff meetings. I hate trying to stay awake for an hour or more as we hash through a soporific agenda no one will remember next week. I hate looking at the three-page list of items with their sub-headings and A, B and C categories that will take forever to address. And I hate that a certain co-worker is going to question everything that's talked about as if she understands any of it, which, trust me, with that permanent deer-in-the-headlights expression of hers, she doesn't.

This routine starts at my desk, where I'll be acting businesslike and motivated but am actually playing "Head-Splattering Zombies 3" on the computer. Bud the Brown-Noser will poke his head through the door and gravely announce, "Staff meeting." Bud isn't sure just how far up the corporate ladder he's willing to slither; he only knows he's destined for better things, and the way to get there is to spy for management and treat every event at work like the fate of human existence depends on it. I hate him, too.

After splattering a couple more zombie heads I'll reluctantly head to the conference room downstairs and slouch in a chair. The gang will all be there: Jackie, with her orange eye shadow; Gus, wearing his usual khakis with the zipper half-way down; Chelsea, snapping her gum until you want to smack her; the Boz-Man, who'd be as cool as he imagines if he wasn't such a dillrod; Rita, who wears tight pants and is ready to dish; Bud, who's saving the "best" chair for the boss; and Kenny, who has wispy hair and smokes more than my cousin's Chevy Impala.

We'll all come to order as Jackie doles out copies of the latest torturous agenda, which will smell like her musky perfume and cause Gus to cough and mutter something about broads in the workplace. Then the boss will dive in and tackle every item with that dry, monotonous tone of his, and my eyes will roll back in my head until I find that tropical paradise I created with the colorful drinks and the deep blue water.

And so it goes week after week, and sometimes I can get in a pretty decent nap if I slouch low enough, but today my opinion has been requested. Since I wasn't paying attention I'll have to wing it, so I switch on my ponderous look and stroke my chin thoughtfully, and say, "I'd like to hear more." The Boz-Man smirks because he wasn't paying attention, either, and knows my response is an effort to both get the facts and cover my gluteus maximus.

"I believe I've covered everything sufficiently," says the boss, who, along with everyone else can tell I was daydreaming because I have drool running down my chin. "Based on what I've said, give me your projection."

I'm royally busted, but I won't go down without a fight.

"Well," I say to him, shaking m head, "it's quite a conundrum. Quite a conundrum." That always sounds fairly convincing when he says it, and later I'll go to the dictionary on Jackie's desk and look up the meaning.

"What's quite a conundrum is that you're still employed here. Now pay attention," he says.

Man, I hate staff meetings. And I'd say so out loud if I didn't hate updating my resume more.