By Bernie Sanderson
Education is what remains after you’ve forgotten the facts. Anonymous
GRUNTING, Bobby Beaut tugged at his belt, trying to squeeze more of his bulging belly out of sight. He hated how his neckties and shirt buttons jutted outward. A middle-age spread had ambushed him.
Rustling papers and students clearing their throats forced his thoughts back into the classroom.
“Where were we?” Bobby glanced toward the rows of tables and chairs (fully occupied today) before checking what he had jotted on the blackboard.
“Skills Needed by Good Managers,” proclaimed a heading in Bobby’s familiar scrawl. Right! Was middle-age making him absent-minded too? Life seemed too cruel!
An independent consultant, 51-year-old Bobby had spent 25 years teaching management techniques to promising executives from Ontario’s top companies. Once, the students had considered him a young biz-whiz. No longer, he feared. Now he looked more like an aging guru.
When staring at his bathroom mirror each morning, Bobby always cringed at the sight of grey hair and wrinkles. A former semi-pro baseball pitcher, he no longer exuded athletic vitality. His shorter-than-average body had shifted from sturdy to round.
More audience paper-shuffling prompted Bobby to resume his lecture. “The nature of work has changed,” he said, casually tossing and catching a piece of chalk. “Lusting for success and yelling at workers don’t count for much anymore. In this age of hi-tech and labor unions, mangers who crack the whip of authority generate mostly frustration and resentment. Neither people, nor computers react well to impatient bullies. Too much aggression by bosses causes office revolts, not higher profits.”
Bobby caught the chalk and scribbled on the board. “I’ll list the vital abilities,” he said. As the corporate climbers watched, he wrote:
1. Confront problems squarely
2. Maximize use of technology
3. Lead by listening
4. Encourage emotional balance
5. Adapt
6. Mediate information
7. Juggle resources
8. Insist on ethical practices
9. Welcome diversity
10. Think like a visionary
Turning to the students, Bobby saw nodding heads. “Any questions?”
From the front row, an intense young woman spoke. A nametag on her stylish, blue jacket identified her as Lydia McGuigan. “What do you mean by emotional balance?” she asked, swinging her black hair. “Most offices breed stress. Everyone rides high or sinks low. There’s never balance.”
“Good question,” Bobby said. “I’d call stress an ugly brute. Stressed people perform badly because they worry constantly.”
“Isn’t stress unavoidable?” Lydia said.
“That’s negative thinking,” Bobby responded. “Transform your thought patterns. You can’t prevent stressful situations. Instead, control your reactions. Let troubles roll off your shoulders like water off a duck’s back. Focus on the big picture, and stressful details can’t overwhelm you.”
Amid the class, a hand waved. “Mr Beaut, what about point six?” asked Mark Comley, a stringy-haired geek. “With the Internet, newspapers and customer specifications, everyone has too much information.”
“True,” Bobby said. “No one has the time or brainpower to read and remember everything.”
“What should we do?” chirped Lydia.
“Two words,” Bobby said. “Evaluate and categorize. Evaluate the documents crossing your desk. Focus on the urgent few. Stash the rest.”
“A strategy forged from necessity,” Mark said.
“From common sense too.” Then Bobby noticed something infuriating. At the back, a bald man had dozed off, his head bobbing above an open notebook. A stout woman moved to nudge him awake, but stopped as Bobby raised a finger in warning.
“Some people think they know enough about good management,” Bobby said in an exaggerated whisper. “Who is this?’
“Victor Nodigan from Trade Time Resources,” said the woman. Victor’s noggin dipped lower, nearly bumping the notebook.
“Let’s revive Mr Nodigan.” Bobby hefted his chalk, did a baseball pitcher’s windup and let fly. The chalk struck Nodigan’s scalp, bounced and shattered on the floor.
The man jolted awake, gripping his chair. “What the hell?’ he muttered.
“Strike one,” Bobby said. “Welcome back to reality, Mr Nodigan. Please pay closer attention.”
“What’s it to you?” demanded Victor, unsure what had hit him, but disliking the instructor’s tone.
The two men traded glares. “Is this an example of cultivating emotional balance?” asked Lydia from the front row. “No stress. Water off a duck’s back.”
Laughter filled the room. Even Bobby smiled. He turned away from Nodigan to address everyone. “This proves my point,” he said. “Do as I say -- not necessarily as I do.”
ANOTHER day, another few dollars earned, mused Bobby, descending by elevator from his eighth-floor classroom. At ground level, he emerged onto Toronto’s Eglinton Avenue.
A glance at his watch showed 6:05 p.m., too early to head home to live-in girlfriend Lancy and her dubious cooking. Bobby’s mood called for a beer at the nearest tavern so he went to the Friendly Foxhole. Half the tables had occupants as he pushed open the wooden door. Mack Evans, the jovial, white-haired proprietor manned the beer pumps near a mural depicting English fox-hunting. The tavern owner waved as Bobby chose a table.
“Molson Canadian,” Bobby told a waitress. The tall, dark bottle soon arrived. “Thanks.” Bobby surrendered a five-dollar bill and accepted change. He studied the Molson’s logo before taking a swig.
I had potential once, Bobby mused, again staring at the bottle. What happened? Time had marched on, and his goals eluded him. He had no wife, no children and sure as hell no million-dollar fortune!
One beer became two. Then three, four, five and six.
“Oh no,” Bobby groaned, remembering that passing time had short-term implications too. His watch looked blurred. Nearly 10 o’clock?
Staggering slightly, Bobby rose, moving toward the door. Then he noticed a beautiful brunette seated alone. She had long hair, attractive features and pleasing dimensions.
Swaying, Bobby paused to compose himself, straining to suck in his gut. The woman peered across the room. Following her gaze, Bobby noticed a burly young man approaching. That must be someone else ready to make a play! Hastily, Bobby slid into an empty chair at her table.
“H-hi,” he said. “I’m Bobby, the man you’ve needed all your life.”
The woman jumped in surprise. “What a moronic pickup line,” she hissed.
That wasn’t the reaction Bobby expected, but he pressed ahead. Confront problems squarely, he recalled. Treat stress like water falling off a duck’s back! “W-w-what’s your name?”
The woman glared.
A strong hand clamped Bobby’s shoulder. The burly man loomed. “Bugger off, mister,” Bobby jeered. “I got here first.”
“Vern, this guy appeared uninvited,” the woman said.
“I saw him, Rita,” the man said. “A guy can’t go to the washroom without an old coot trying to hit on his girlfriend.”
How dare the bulky brute call me an old coot? Bobby seethed, but he swallowed any retort. Vern resembled a football linebacker, and his bushy mustache twitched in annoyance.
“You win, man,” Bobby shrugged. “I stopped to say ‘hi’. Now, I gotta run.”
Bobby turned to Rita. “No hard feelings, eh?” He reached to touch her arm in farewell. But with his vision and movements impaired by beer, he instead patted her left breast.
The woman squealed in surprise. What a soft, fleshy arm she has! Bobby thought before realizing his mistake. Oh shit!
“That’s it!” Vern roared. He released Bobby’s shoulder and threw a punch.
The blow hit Bobby’s ear. He swayed on the chair, tried to rise and took a clout to the nose. More punches propelled him backward. He lost balance and then consciousness.
AT 11:45 a battered Bobby emerged from a subway station. He’d regained his senses on the Friendly Foxhole’s tile floor. Then Mack had helped him up and guided him to a saggy back-office couch to rest.
“Years ago, I’d have pounded that bully into next week,” Bobby muttered.
“Sure, you would,” the barman agreed.
Bobby and Lancy lived a two-minute walk from the station. Despite his dubious condition, Bobby covered the distance rapidly. Should he offer an edited version of the truth? Concentrating hard, he inserted a key in the apartment door, took a deep breath and entered.
Lancy, a heavy-set, redheaded florist, filled half the living-room couch. She looked up from a romance novel. Bobby’s rough appearance caused a flicker of concern before her anger surged. “Where were you?” she screamed.
She looked flaming furious! Tension twisted at Bobby’s gut.
“You must have had a hell of a day?” Lancy’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“A r-r-regular day, d-d-darling!” Bobby stuttered.
“What happened? Why so late?” she demanded.
Bobby paused. His knees trembled. “It’s a long story. Would you believe....?”
Education means understanding the rules. Experience means understanding the exceptions. Farmer’s Almanac
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