I recently had a meeting with Stanley, a client I’ve known for almost a decade. Stanley is an exceptionally nice guy but very much a professional. We’ve talked on a personal level from time to time – about our kids and our mutual business acquaintances – but the tone of our conversation is invariably businesslike and respectful. This, as you know, is not the way I speak in my “normal” life, but I have fun role-playing as a polite, gracious businessman on occasion.
At our most recent meeting, Stanley and I sat across a conference table from one another. His company was preparing to launch a new product and he’d asked me to help him craft the appropriate level of bullshit to make it sound awesome. He provided some source documentation and we discussed it feature by feature. I asked questions. Stanley answered them. Pretty standard meeting behavior.
When we got to item six, which seemed to be rather complex, Stanley said, “That’s where I think you can help us the most. We need a writer who can turn all this gobbledy-gook into plain English.” As he spoke the last part of the sentence, he smiled at me.
Then he winked.
At least I think he did. Do you ever have those moments where your eyes play tricks on you? Like when you see a huge pair of bare breasts in your peripheral vision only to discover when you turn your head that it’s just a poster for two eggs sunnyside-up at Denny’s? Happens to me all the time, and that’s why I was able to convince myself that Stanley’s wink wasn’t really a wink.
Until he did it again.
I felt a strange kind of rage about it. I can’t recall ever having been winked at, even by one of the many, many sassy little coeds who flirted with me in college. I’m sure winking at people was quite a persuasive instrument back in the day, but in my interpretation throwing a wink at someone nowadays is a good way to get your underwear rammed down your throat – WHILE YOUR WEARING THEM!
Stanley kept talking. “…so this has to reflect our commitment to sma—“
I interrupt. “Did you just wink at me?”
“What?”
“You winked at me, Stanley. You were paying me a complement and you winked at me.”
“I did?”
“Yeah. You did. And I’m a happily married man so I’d appreciate if you’d stop trying to hit on me.”
“Pffft!” Stanley says. “Don’t flatter yourself, pal. No one’s trying to hit on you.”
“So you claim!” I shout. “What other purpose could a wink possibly serve when you’re throwing it across a conference table to another man?”
“Perhaps I was trying to show you that I respect your capabilities as a writer!”
“In that case a handshake would have sufficed,” I say. “And don’t make the mistake of thinking my ‘capabilities as a writer’ mirror my ‘capabilities as a powerbottom.’”
Stanley appears flummoxed. Irate. Practically homicidal really. I presume this means the meeting is over. I pick up my papers and head for the door. But as I reach for the handle, I turn and look at Stanley.
“I’ll have a first draft to you next week,” I say.
And then I winked at him.
[This entry also posted at Dad Gone Mad, just for fun.]