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Boston Snapshots |
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The Meeting"Second quarter isn’t going as well as we’d hoped," said Pritchett. Carleton pursed his lips. That was an understatement. The company’s profits had taken a nose-dive after September 11th, and sales figures weren’t exactly stellar beforehand. They’d kept their fingers crossed that the Baghdad victory might bolster consumer confidence, but so far nothing. Seven people sat in the conference room. On the projection screen sat a chart with a line resembling a mountain range — one that peaked in the third quarter of 2001, and sank lower and lower the farther the eye traveled to the right. Carleton turned his head to peer between the slats of the half-closed blinds. Far below, the Boston harbor spread out in an orderly collection of piers and white hulls. Off in the distance, six round structures loomed like white balloons behind Logan Airport. Someone had told him that was the sewage treatment facility. People are always going to have to shit, he thought. I should apply for a job there. The way things were going at Moulton Enterprises, he knew it wouldn’t be long. Marketing was always the first department to feel the knife. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out which dark-complexioned head would be first on the chopping block. Sweetwater piped up with a question, and he turned back to the meeting, scrawled another note on his legal pad. "Target market," he’d written. Not even close, he thought. |
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