Fast forward one day later. I dressed up again because it's too much fun to walk around the place with a snazzy outfit and a swagger to match it. Draft is in need of gutting and sharp-dressed young blood makes elderly hack creatives (not saying all elderly creatives are hacks, just the ones who lost the drive to push their work beyond the creatively neutered safety zone) cringe in their padded cubicles. Literally cringe and give you the stink eye as you walk by.
So, I returned to the titan's floor and descended the stair case with three people this time. Nobu, Urgo, and I donned our best power stride and swung past Michale's cubicle.
"Hi Michael." I had practiced all morning and my tone was spot on. Pretentious and saving face, the boss giving heed to his minions. This time Michael was less spastic and more overwhelmed with confusion, the brows were furrowed more than last time.
"Hi." Michael fired back a monosyllabic greeting alongside an intentful stare. His gaze was purposeful with a dash of desperation. I quickly rounded the corner and began the corporate filler talk. "So I tell Rob all about how I shot a 38 last weekend and he still doesn't believe . . ." it was beautiful.
Best part, Nobu staggered his descent by a few steps and followed up the joined in with a "Heeeyyyy Mikey!" He delivered in a tone of faked familiarity. The tone of the boss who assumes you're best friends since he makes more than you and has a better office.
Within ninety seconds, our day was made and Michael's was ruined as he was left to ponder how all of these young executives know who he is and he knows none of them. Poor, poor Michael.
Michael 0, Greenhouse 2.