The Execution and the Bee

I’m dying. As we speak, in fact. And this is not the first time, either.

Not literally, of course. Don’t be silly.

I mean on the inside, where true feelings get bottled up and stored away for use later when you get home, and your wife is too tired to tell you to how much she doesn’t care. That slow, agonizing type of death that’s worse than real death. At least, that’s what I presume. I’ve never actually died a real death. But I think I know what it might feel like.

This death occurs every week at the same place, same time, with the same lingering scent of industrial-strength disinfectant that will remain even after this building has crumbled to the ground in a century or two. My executioner sits at the head of the executive conference table, oblong with a mirror sheen that reflects the rows of far-too-bright fluorescent lights.

I wonder… how does the janitorial staff feels about having to buff out the eraser marks from where my paper doodles ceased to entertain and I resort to long, slow spirals with my eraser on the table? Any other table and no one would notice. This table, though? This is CompanyTech’s pride and joy. The Boardroom Table.

Did you know that a former president once sat at this table? No? Don’t worry, my executioner and CompanyTech’s Executive Vice President, El Asesino – that’s Spanish for The Killer, I just looked it up – will make sure you don’t forget it. He brings it up every week. I’ve spent more time staring at that group photo with Mr. President hung above Asesino’s head than listening to the myriad of check-ins, updates, and progress reports that Asesino’s accomplices regurgitate at this meeting. I’m in that picture too, you know.

I've never understood why we have these things anyway. Couldn't this all be handled by emails? Maybe, but Asesino insists that these are necessary. I still don't understand why.

Things kick off with Bob from accounting. Does every company have a Bob who works in accounting? He makes it to the minute number four of the meeting before Asesino interrupts with a repeat of the same question he asks every week. Bob fingers through papers that jut out of his portfolio with no rhyme or reason, randomly angled so that the corners that stick out inevitably get crumpled and bent. You’d think after four years he would have that thing organized. I add the first of what will surely be many notes to my fresh sheet of yellow lined paper: Get it together, BOB. That’s dumb, so I erase it. Bob will never get it together.

The clock tells me that we’re on minute 11 of this marathon when Pamela from Human Resources kicks off her session with the same giggle she also punctuates nearly every sentence with. She introduces some new guy. Harry, his name is. I look over at him. He’s staring at me. I look away before he realizes I’ve made eye contact. Can’t have him thinking we made a connection on his first day. He’d never leave me alone.

Pamela’s voice reminds me of that one lady from that movie American Pie, the one whose voice always goes higher at the end of every sentence. It feels like I’m riding a sonic wave… a sound wave. I might be on to something, maybe I’ll call her Soundwave from now on. She might not like that, though, and she’s the HR lady. Best not to offend her. Scratch that idea.

By the 20th minute, I’ve already traced over the indents on my first note so much that I can no longer erase the words. Well, Bob’s just going to have to get it together. It’s pretty much set in stone, forever etched on the page. For Bob’s sake, I try to erase the note one last time. When that fails, I try scribbling over the words. The poor guy has no hope. To rescue him, I tear out the page. Unfortunately for Bob, I pressed so hard the underlying page still reads Get it together, BOB. Well, I tried at least.

In an ironic twist, I realize that we’re both behind schedule at the 24th minute – Pamela is still going on about Security forms when Ron the Tech Guy should be telling us yet again how we need to upgrade our systems – while I’m having my earliest “what am I doing here” thought in recorded history. I do record these things; they’re written down as notes on sheets of paper that get canned when I leave the conference room each Thursday. But I recorded them, so it counts.

The “what am I doing here” thoughts are recurring, that’s normal; I will inevitably wonder how I got to this point in my life every week. I’m usually able to fend those thoughts off until at least the 33rd minute, though. My personal best was 38 minutes back in 2018, back when I was still young and full of unfounded optimism. But 24 minutes? It’s the earliest that this has hit me since the Great Resignation Close Call of late 2019. That email is still in my draft folder, I think. I can’t dwell on that right now, though. Too tempting.

We make it to the 30th minute; the halfway point. Cresting the hill, where it now becomes all downhill. Supposedly.

It’s never the halfway point, though. These people enjoy dragging things out. I’d much prefer a swift execution, a guillotine or a skilled axeman. Instead, I get the waterboarding treatment… I get to enjoy that dying sensation, but they keep me alive long enough to bring me back for more every week.

Ron finally gets his time to shine, and I can already see he's wasted it. A large, obvious coffee stain mars his sky-blue shirt, making it look more like a noon sky with a random raincloud flying across. The water marks around the stain shows that he tried to get it out. Didn't work, Ron. We all see it, and we can't unsee it. I haven't heard a word he's said. I try to tune in, he's talking about systems security training. This could've been an email. These meetings could all be emails though.

Yolanda, Asesino's personal assistant, steps in at the 45-minute mark, roughly 6 minutes and 35 seconds after her usual time. We're crawling today, and Yolanda realizes it. Her speech, already blazingly fast and hard to follow, is so rapid that she's struggling to form the words she wants to say. She keeps looking at me every time she flubs a word. I raise my eyebrows and look around as if to say, "yes?" but she doesn't catch the hint. I think it made her more nervous somehow. I wonder what she thought I meant.

She finishes in record time, 3 minutes and 23 seconds of machine-gun, rapid-fire information that no one catches. Asesino is moving to the next person, but my eyes drift again to the clock. I have to say, of everything in the conference room, I think my best friends are the three hands on the clock. I find myself staring at them more than anything else. I think there’s a metaphor in there somewhere. Going around and around but always ending back in the same spot. Nope, I lost it. Seems like it would have been profound, too.

As I stare at the second hand of the clock, wondering how it knows to move at exactly one second and whether it was possible to speed it up by a fraction of a second, something flies by the window next to me. A bee, one of those fuzzy looking green and black ones. A carpenter bee, my phone tells me. It flies around just outside the window, inspecting today’s selection of fresh flowers. Geraniums, marigolds, and roses decorate the area just outside the executive conference window. I only know this because it was part of one last month's slow, torturous executions. Mark from Building Management was all too proud to tell us about this year's flower arrangements. It was a welcome break from his usual remarks about scuff marks on the floor, proper ways to open the front door, and how to badge in.

I glance back from the window to see Mark has taken up the mantle in this meeting. He takes us past the one-hour mark during a riveting session about paper towels and toilet flushing. Enough of that; I look back to find the bee now perched on a rose. I ponder the life of a bee, wonder if it ever has to sit in weekly meetings. Does the queen require weekly check-ins from her subjects? Nah, their lives are too short for that, they’d happen daily. Do bees have the words paradigm or efficiencies in their vocabulary? These are the complexities I ponder as Wrinkle-Shirt Wilson meekly declines to speak when Asesino calls on him. I silently praise his timidness. Are there timid bees too?

The bee outside the window lifts off from a marigold flower, hovers for a second, then takes off. I never see it again. I envy the little guy and all his freedom.

The draft email comes to mind. I could take my phone out again and send it within 15 seconds. No, not now; it’s bad form to resign in the middle of a meeting. I resolve to quit after this meeting. As soon as it’s over. I just can’t take this any longer.

“Mr. Willoughby, anything you want to add?”

Damn, I have no idea what they were talking about. They’re all looking at me. Think fast.

“No, ladies and gentlemen, I have nothing to add. Thank you all for the updates, and uh, thank you all for the great work you’re doing for the company. I won’t keep you all any lo-”

“Sir, we were discussing the YoloTech acquisition. We need your approval before we can proceed.”

Guessed wrong. Damnit, how embarrassing. They’re all watching me, judging me. Except Wrinkle-Shirt Wilson. He’s still staring at his feet. No time to think about what he’s seeing down there that keeps him staring so much. Think fast, Jim!

The only thing that comes to mind: what the heck is a YoloTech? No good, I’ll have to dazzle them with a bit of my world-famous acting. First, start out with a hearty laugh, really loosen ‘em up. Then, pull the rug out from under them.

“Got you all! You didn’t think we were done with this meeting with such an important topic to discuss, did you?”

Alright, escaped that disaster. What now, though? I’m at a loss. Then it comes to me…

What would that carpenter bee do?

That’s the answer. It’s genius!

“We need to look at this acquisition like a bee looks at a flower garden. There are a number of bright, colorful flowers available, but we can’t look at them as if they’re all the same. Some are better than others, some smell better, taste better. Would the Queen be satisfied if we came to her daily meetings rocking subpar honey? No, my underlings, this is the time to strive for the best honey, the stickiest, yummiest in the flowerbed. Don’t settle for geraniums when you can have roses!”

By the looks in their eyes, I can see I’ve given them something to think about. The gears are turning, their brows are all furrowed as they work to contemplate the complexity of my conceptualization of acquisitions. I just hope it’s bought me enough time. What would that bee do?

I stand. Everyone is still staring at me; they seem unsure of what to do. Pamela from HR giggles and stands with me. I shake my head; she gets the hint and sits down. I walk around the room, no particular direction. A second later, I make my move.

I sprint out of the room, never to be seen again.

Until next week. I can’t quit, don’t be silly. This is my company after all.

I wonder if bees are able to quit.