A friend works on the middle floor of a downtown building behind a heavy wooden desk. He sits in a gold-carpeted room lined with three rows of identical desks. Call him Junior Executive, call his employer Corporeta Bank.
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Junior removed his blue suit coat, draped it on the back of a chair, lit a cigarette, and began describing his current frame of mind. He usually discusses his frame of mind. He’s generally rather fatigued. He’s working on several big deals and hopes to close them in an upcoming coast-to-coast trip. There’s much to do first, including the headache of converting a two-foot stack of legal documents to 12 pages.
Sitting quietly with shoulders erect, Junior placed both arms on the table, revealing the monogrammed cuffs on his starched white shirts. He’d been offered a job in New York but his wife isn’t keen on the idea–a move would be hard on the kids. A job change would have a negligible effect on Junior. Life in suburban New York would be just like his life now: commuting downtown on the train each day, getting home just in time for dinner on the table. He visits with his kids, and can’t help thinking of the steep college tuition bills they’ll be generating someday. Making more money is this methodical man’s goal in life. Pleasure for him involves rising each morning at 4:30 and enjoying the predawn quiet by reading the Bible and the Wall Street Journal.
After lunch, while complaining a second time about feeling overweight, he pulled his date book from a vest pocket and divulged his personal plans for trimming the fat. He pointed to the spot where he’d printed “203 pounds; 165 pounds on 12/31/92.” Like a bank memo or presidential speech calling for new beginnings, Junior’s note to himself sure sounded tough.
