The Pedestal Read Free

while; hope you’re up to the challenge.”
    That last statement wasn’t exactly phrased as a question, but I can definitely sense one in there, buried in Keith’s careless inflection—as if I suddenly get a vote in my workload and can just say, No, I’m a little tired this morning; just ignore me for a while so I can go watch cartoons, would you? For a moment I think he’s hinting that we have a new contract coming down the pipe. I cringe at the very thought, reflecting back over the countless weekends and late nights I’ve sacrificed to the god of career advancement as new contracts are broken in by Innovative Design Systems—my renowned employer and, in times like this, my Alcatraz. We’re already sacrificing our Saturdays just to keep up with the workload—for once, I think we can afford to say no to a client or two. But then, as Keith busily miscalculates my reaction in another swell of awkward silence, I realize what he’s actually getting at.
    Arthur’s not likely to return—time to face facts—and that means someone here needs to take on his immense workload until more permanent arrangements can be made. Unless I’ve misinterpreted Keith’s shoddy imitations, that someone is going to be me.
    >>Silly Wilson ... you’re so kissable, but did you mean to say ‘Keith’s shoddy intimations ’?
    Whatever, Marilyn— intimations . If you weren’t so smokin’ hot—
    Anyway, the point is: yikes!
    I work nine or ten hours a day, and I’m a zombie by day’s end; Arthur’s been putting in a minimum of twelve a day since before I was born, juggling a million hats to keep our projects on target. He’s sort of a jack-of-all-trades around IDS. He’s as much a fixture here as any of the equipment we rely on every day—moreso, when you think about it: he’s been around a heck of a lot longer.
    More to the point, he’s a department of one. If he dies—when he dies—the rest of us will only be able to speculate about what he did all day long.
    Sure enough, when I walk into my office, I find one of Arthur’s project drives on my desk. I sip my coffee with a scowl. Don’t get me wrong: I’m a team player. I’ve always been willing to go the extra mile in my professional life, and I don’t intend for this situation to be an exception. But I’m irritated. It’s not necessarily the extra work—which is pretty significant, by the way—it’s that I’m neither equipped nor trained to handle the tasks that have been tossed so casually into my lap. It’s a recipe for failure, and I don’t relish the likelihood of coming up short. Ironically, the one person with the necessary skill set around here to train me was never given time or priority to impart his wisdom when it counted.
    So now, when it’s too late, I’m supposed to perform a miracle with my hands tied.
    This isn’t the first time Keith has pulled something like this, either. He often tries to play like I should know what the heck Arthur does all day long, since we happen to be buddies. It doesn’t appear to matter how many times I explain to Keith that I am not Arthur by proxy. Actually—and my boss is fully aware of this, even if he likes to feign ignorance—my work at IDS has almost no overlap with Arthur’s. It hardly seems appropriate for me—or anyone else in my tiny department—to absorb that level of accountability. Arthur and I work in two completely insulated worlds. My department writes procedures for the nexus; Arthur secures them.
    Sip, scowl.
    Case in point: for several months now, I’ve been working on a proprietary add-on named IntelliQ, whose title is a pretty lame convergence of intelligent and queuing . Don’t blame me—my opinion on the matter died a horrible death the moment the marketing department got their CamelCase-addicted hands on it. Anyway, unlike our usual projects—which are generally proposed and commissioned by our clients—this one is of my own design and volition. If it makes it into the