"Running Commentary"

Emily And Dimple

Editor’s Note: Michael is taking a break this week to enjoy his family, who have come to Concordia to celebrate his mother’s 100th birthday. More about that event another time. Today, a blast from the past, an old favorite previously published in the Salina Journal in 2012 …

    Emily poked her head into Mr. Dimple’s office and asked if he would like another cup of coffee.  
    “Absolutely,” replied the president and CEO of American Widget, Ltd. He smiled and gave Emily an exaggerated and knowing wink.
    As Mr. Dimple’s executive assistant, Emily had grown accustomed to anticipating her boss’s every need. She walked around Mr. Dimple’s desk and carefully set the cup down next to his telephone, careful not to spill one drop on the antique Persian rug. Mr. Dimple gave her three affectionate pats on the bottom and said, “Thanks, Sweetie Pie.”
    Stone-faced, Emily took a seat in the leather arm chair opposite her boss’s large hand-carved Mahogany desk. Henry took a long sip of coffee and squinted at Emily with eyes that confirmed he appreciated his assistant’s long legs and striking good looks.
Dressed with elegance and style, Emily befitted a woman who had used her intelligence and calm demeanor under pressure to rise from lowly “Mail Girl” to, arguably, the second most powerful position at American Widget.
“Emily,” said Mr. Dimple, between sips, “I wish you would reconsider St. Thomas. It’s an important conference and I’ll need you. Besides,” he said with a wink, “Alice is away on a cruise to Greece and nobody would know we shared a suite. What do you say? Will you come with me?”
“Mr. Dimple,” said Emily, “Does it seem fair that I’m basically running this company, yet you have a new Lexus and I’m driving a seven-year-old Ford with a broken tail-light?”
Mr. Dimple choked on his coffee. “I beg your PARDON? Emily! What’s this about? Listen up, Toots! If you aren’t happy at American Widget, there are a dozen file clerks here who wouldn’t mind a free Caribbean vacation.”
His anger rising, Dimple paused to catch his breath.
“Let me be frank, young lady – don’t EVER talk to me like that again.” Mr. Dimple smiled menacingly, his face flush from impassioned indignation.
“Trust me, Sweetie Pie,” he snarled.
After a short pause for effect, Sweetie Pie leaned forward and said, “Let ME be frank, Henry. For the last three years I have put up with your disgusting harassment, pats and pinches. I told you repeatedly I didn’t like it. Now it’s going to stop. You are an incompetent boob. Everyone in the company knows it.
“And by the way … I put enough poison in your coffee to kill a two-ton rhinoceros.”
Mr. Dimple blinked. He let out a nervous snicker. “You aren’t serious …”
Emily didn’t blink and quickly retorted, “I’m DEAD serious.” She then smiled a smile that was both coy and mischievous. “Trust me, Sweetie Pie.”
Mr. Dimple looked at his empty coffee cup, arose from his chair and walked over to the large picture window behind his desk. Emily was not one to joke around.
“I don’t get it, Emily. I adore you. I hired you … I promoted you … AND THIS IS THE THANKS I GET? You won’t get away with it. My wife will crucify you.”
“On the contrary,” said Emily calmly. “Alice and I have already agreed to split your estate 50/50. I always kept her informed of your tawdry little affairs.”
Emily leaned forward. “Henry – are you listening? I’m taking over the company. We need to diversify and reorganize management. I’m getting rid of all your butt-kissing lackeys. You’re history. You aren’t needed any more. Alice has agreed to assume the presidency and I will be appointed CEO.”
Henry turned ashen and sat down, in disbelief, as reality began to sink in … “There will be an investigation … an autopsy.”
“The coroner provided the poison,” said Emily. “He gets one million up front. Death will be attributed to a heart attack. Do you happen to recall where you put the key to the safe deposit? Alice couldn’t find it anywhere.”
“Bottom drawer, said Henry absent-mindedly. “Well, of all the … isn’t THIS … I mean, INCREDIBLE?!! ! I always expected to die from my heart condition … I have a weak heart … but not … this.” His voice trailed off meekly.
“Do you have any requests?” asked Emily, somewhat wickedly. “I mean, Alice and I were undecided about whether you should be buried with your masculinity – or whether we should frame them as a relic of our company’s founding father. You had balls when you were younger, Henry … it’s too bad you stopped using them.”
Mr. Dimple recoiled and looked at Emily with disbelieving, horrified eyes. “NOOO!! … Not that! … you wouldn’t dare … PLEEEASE!! … not …”
Dreadfully pale, Mr. Dimple arose slowly from his desk, gasped and clutched at his breast. He grimaced and attempted unsuccessfully to grab the curtains behind his desk.
As his eyes rolled heavenward, Henry Dimple spun around twice and fell over backwards, just missing the antique Mahogany credenza.
His wife Alice immediately entered the office.
“I have to hand it to you,” said Emily. “You were right … hook, line and sinker.
“We won’t need the poison.”
    
Moral of the story: if you don’t respect the women in your office, make your own damn coffee. Michael welcomes reader comments at: Rmykl@yahoo.com