One of my bosses found out that I’m a struggling writer, and has decided I should tell the story about Vorando – the company that owns the store we work for.
This was on Friday the Thirteenth.
The world is filled with dreamers, people who want something but do not know how to get it.
His tale would follow the exploits of one mans rise from the bottom to the top.
I suspect that he is the executive he wants highlighted, his half grown moustache and all.
He’s young, and smart, but struggles with the idea that he isn’t very important.
He’s technically Charlie’s boss (Charlie is technically mine) and he handles Charlie like as puppeteer, knowing when to get angry at him, and push, and when to schmooze him, slapping Charlie on the back to tell him what a good job he’s done.
Yet something important is missing, some special ingredient that makes a man like him rise to the top.
Even he feels the strangeness, a sense of being trapped, not like we are trapped in this sweat equity job, but in a suit and tie, which allows him to feel somewhat superior, but not anywhere near as superior as he would like.
He wants notoriety, some sense of fame, wants to be known for having done something and yet can’t figure out what.
He is deathly afraid of time, and I see him looking at people like Charlie who have spent decades here, others who started out like he did, but could not get the momentum to escape this pathetic orbit most of us are stuck in.
His kind have always existed, sea explorers stuck in some tame place, when he aches for some grand discovery he knows he will never make.
Perhaps he’s scared to give up what he has in order to make a leap to some other orbit, thinking like those ancient sailors thought that if they wandered too far from known sea lands he might fall off the edge of the world and end up with nothing.
I feel sorry for him, knowing that he may never leave here, may get to be store manager someday maybe, or will watch the whole thing close down on him, like a sinking ship with no life boat left for him to escape with.
I don’t know what he thinks I can do for him; since the life he wants me to write about really isn’t his, but one he wishes he could live.