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to saying exactly how we achieved that remarkable growth (we cut our fee after most of our clients demanded that we cut our fee, laid off 129 people, and imposed an across-the-board pay cut of five percent, all of which achieved remarkable growth).
A quick scan of the room suggests that someone appears to have dabbed a tiny, yet pungent speck of poo under their collective noses, if their expressions are any indication. Though, in casually turning to my left, I notice what may be the cause of their poo expressions. Dodge is sitting next to me, asleep. Martin has seen Dodge’s sleeping visage a fraction of a second before I have and now appears to be sending me a signal with his eyes, as he is widening them to an unnatural state, one that looks painful. He is sending me a signal, I am sure of it, and that signal is to wake Dodge because Martin—I know this from the agenda in front of me, in front of all of us—is about to introduce Dodge, who, after rambling about God only knows what, will then introduce me, and I will impress the ninth largest company in the world by showing them a reel of commercials about diapers and candy.
And then, with his eyes closed, Dodge says, “I was just thinking.”
It’s somewhat difficult to believe he was daydreaming and not sound asleep, as he’s curled his slight, boneless-breast-of-chicken body into a sideways ball in the chair.
“I often do that with my eyes closed,” he says, eyes open now, trying to find the focus, casually righting himself, as if he’s just awoken from a lazy afternoon doze.
He continues, sounding oddly like Mr. Rogers. “I was just thinking that it takes courage to make mistakes, doesn’t it?”
Everyone is confused now, but he has their attention, this wee, curiously dressed man. He leans forward, arms splayed out on the polished table, and looks around, the confidence of a Harvard Business School grad. This is Dodge’s genius. This is why he is a rich man.
Dodge says, “I was told not to mention the spill. But I’m going to mention the spill, because to ignore it is to ignore an ugly pimple on the tip of your nose. Everyone knows it’s there. And what you have is a big ugly pimple on your oily, oily nose.”
I’m excited because I can see that both Frank and Martin are terrified. I’m excited because Dodge is finally going to flame out, not be able to pull up from his bullshit nosedive. It is his Christmas bonus to me.
The reaction of the oily-nosed clients suggests profound confusion. In fact, it looks like one of them is on the cusp of saying something. But Dodge gets there first.
Dodge says, “You’re Babe Ruth. That’s right. I just said Babe Ruth. We all know he hit the most home runs”—Dodge is unfamiliar with Barry Bonds—“but do you want to know a little something else about the Babe? He also holds the record for most strike-outs. Now I’m not saying you’ve struck out or that you’re a portly, cigar-smoking, dead baseball player. I’m saying that you get up there every day and swing the bat, do amazing things, and sometimes miss. Let’s celebrate that. Let’s celebrate the courage of effort, the nobility of trying. Some fish died. They died in a noble cause. Some beaches were soiled. They were soiled in an effort—granted, a failed one—to bring the world energy. Think about that. To bring the world energy. To make it run. To make lives better. What’s wrong with that? Can someone please tell me what’s wrong with that?”
And just like that, as if someone threw a switch, Dodge loses his energy, sits back in his chair. The silence roars. It’s the moment at the end of the car chase where the car is hanging off the edge of a cliff. Will it fall?
One of the senior executives says, “I think that is a remarkable perspective.” And he smiles.
Frank is a giddy schoolgirl. “That’s why I love this man. If I weren’t happily married . . .”
Martin cuts him off. Then he reels it in.
“Television. Print. Social media. We can envision a sweeping campaign. A campaign about Petroleon’s courage.”
Look at their faces. You can see it all.
• • •
“What are you doing with your life, Mr. Dolan?” I hear the woman behind the American Airlines counter at JFK ask me.
“I beg your pardon?” I say.
“Where are we going today, Mr. Dolan?” the woman behind