The Man Who Ate the 747 - By Ben Sherwood Page 0,6

a technique from a weekend management course he had endured. Put yourself on the side of your employee. Imagine wearing his shoes, even if you would never go near rubber soles.

“Nothing’s wrong,” J.J. said into the brutal silence. “What about the world’s fastest snail? You sent me to the World Snail Racing Championships in England. Remember little Archie? Set the record on the 13-inch track in 2 minutes and 20 seconds.”

Peasley glowered. “Do you watch television, Smith? Have you seen The World’s Most Amazing Videos? Last night, a man on an American aircraft carrier was sucked into the engine of an A-6 fighter jet. He vanished right into the turbine but managed to survive. Just a few bumps and bruises and a broken collarbone.”

Peasley wagged a long finger at J.J. “That’s our competition. Big stunts. Crowd pleasers. When animals attack. When inmates escape. When Girl Scouts go bad. Do you really expect us to dominate the new millennium with the world’s fastest snail?”

Contempt gurgled in Peasley’s windpipe. He failed to suppress a sneer. “You think you know everything. Well, here’s a little surprise for your database. The home office wants to bring me back. Downsize this branch to two field operatives with laptops. Eliminate redundancies.”

“What are you saying?”

“Lumpkin and Norwack are putting you to shame. They bring in great records. They hunt for the Big One, while you … you split hairs and chase snails.”

Peasley could smell J.J.’s discomfort. The little bugger knew he had been coasting on his old stellar performance reviews. Who bloody well cared if the drip had memorized all 20,000 records by heart and could recall every staff member’s birthday?

“Great ones don’t come along every day,” J.J. said. “I’ve got ideas, though.”

Peasley looked over the tops of his reading glasses, straightened himself in his chair. He picked lint from his sleeve. “Bring me back a record that will make the public take notice. Must I say ‘or else’?”

“No, you’ve been clear.”

J.J.’s chair scraped the floor loudly as he stood to his feet. “Anything else?”

Peasley flicked his wrist. He had already opened the next file. “Get along, then. Do whatever it takes. As you Yanks say, make it happen, and make it happen fast.”

The Book was born of a bet.

On a grand safari in Africa, two gentlemen debated whether the giraffe’s 18-inch tongue was the longest in the animal kingdom. With no immediate way to resolve their argument, the travelers realized that a book settling the score on this and other factual matters would be a surefire best-seller around the world.4 When they returned home, The Book came to life and over the years was published in 90 countries with 30 foreign-language editions.

Imagine the headquarters of The Book, and you might conjure a venerable institution, an imposing granite building, like a courthouse, with wide steps and brass handrails, and at the great front doors, a long line of people juggling bowling balls and swallowing swords, waiting for an audience with the record keepers. Inside you may well conceive a whirring place with hundreds of researchers poring over submissions from the world’s 190 nations. In short, here would be a haven of miracle and wonder, where brilliant men and women with advanced degrees and eons of experience vet and crown the world’s greatest feats.

Pull back the wizard’s curtain, though, and you would discover reality. American headquarters occupied an anonymous hunk of a building, consisting of a modest suite of offices, like any drab insurance agency, its walls unadorned, cubicles spare, lacking even illuminated display cases for memorabilia. Above the receptionist’s desk, a lonely and rather swollen head of garlic languished on a shelf, the world record holder, weighing 2 pounds 10 ounces.

Enclosed in his work space, wedged behind a gray steel desk, foot tapping the wastebasket, J.J. waited for the fear to pass. Would headquarters truly reduce the U.S. operation to a laptop office? Sacrilege! What would become of him? Fourteen years as a record verificationist prepared him for exactly nothing. There was no life beyond The Book.

He lifted his eyes to the wall across from his desk and the photo of a beaming young woman, Allison Culler, winner of the biggest Twister game of all time. Next to her stood an optimistic young man in a blue blazer with a gilded crest, surrounded by 4,160 players. How many years had it been? Five? Ten? Where had the exhilaration gone, the rush of witnessing greatness, chronicling moments for all time? Whoa, those thoughts led only to a dead