Survival of the Skittish

May 11th, 1996 Posted in Cubicle Blues

As I’ve explained before, my job at Staff Co. is to write proposals. That’s what I do for work. I edit and paste these big-ass documents together and I send them to clients — answering their questions about our company, running down our prices, explaining why my company rules while all others, sadly, drool.

One of the components of the proposal-writing process is graphics. I use CorelDraw and Photoshop to make hierarchical charts, procedural breakdowns, the process for reporting a problem to superiors, ecetera.

Sometimes the graphics aren’t even that complex — they’re just there to look pretty and break up a huge block of text. I’ve got CDs full of business pictures for this purpose — people running with briefcases, or in heated debate at a quarterly meeting, or looking anxiously at their watches, or sealing big-money deals outside some glass monstrosity of a building. Everyone in the graphics is very young, very exuberant, very sympatico with sprinting up flights of steps in nice suits while they shriek exuberantly into cell phones.

All of these graphics are also very very PC, making them that much more comical. All of our older proposals have nothing but pictures of old white guys — laughing together while one puts his arm on the other’s shoulder, joyfully shaking hands over some silent deal, trading quips as they leisurely walk up some steps, sharing a joke, probably about a minority.

These proposals, now sorted and unread in my filing cabinet, showcase a much simpler time. The people in my modern pictures represent a greater cross-section of the populace, sure. But they don’t look happy. They’re furious, and they’re in a hurry. Even in the requisite photo with the one arm on another’s shoulder, sharing some inside business-related joke, their eyes project a fiery, humorless intensity that belies the easy-going atmosphere. These ethnic yuppies mean business, and you’re either with them or in their way.

Conversely, the white guys in my old pictures seemed so happy and carefree. Eager to make a deal, sure, but not at the sacrifice of an unhurried walk around a fountain, or a whispered joke about a secretary’s tits. In their faces I see the mark of a bygone era, a naïve ignorance towards the young ethnic professionals of the world, who were no doubt sneaking up on poor John and Peter Whitebread even as they posed for these photos, ready to take over and recast the future.

As romantic as I am for these old pictures, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little inspired by the new ones. Here at GeneriCorp, the whole minority spectrum is working together to strike up a little business. Large black women, crippled Native Americans and cadres of the well-dressed Asian business elite are somehow banding together to drive imaginary Fortune 500 companies to prosperity, all entirely without the help of white guys. It’s a brave new world, and apparently everyone’s in a big rush to be angry at someone.

If you look closely at the picture of the young Korean woman grappling her cell phone, grimly serious as she sprints down a street with briefcase in tow, you can almost make out the white guys from the old photos in the background — feeding the pigeons, talking about the old days, whispering jokes about a nurse’s tits.

I just looked through my latest proposal. I’ve chosen pictures containing actions that match what I’m writing about. Coincidentally, though, all my pictures have the same minority in them over and over again. The proposal makes it look like my organization is run exclusively by twenty-something Korean women with a thing for doing windsprints in business suits. Alan Chong tells me that this might not be such a bad thing, depending on the audience.

Fingers crossed that the members of the Arizona District School Board have an Asian fetish.