TICK TOCK TICK

Unaware she was 15 minutes late, Flo breezed in like a zephyr kissed by am angel. She greeted me with a pout. ‘Mel, why do you do this to me every time? I am always prompt and you are always agonizingly early.‘ Her softly painted pink/rose lips puckered. She showed me her watch. I showed her mine and the large clock over my President’s chair at the long oval Board table. John Handley, one of my directors, rolled Flo’s suede leather swivel chair out for her and then slid her into place. Our monthly meeting began.

Reports, reports, long, boring and necessary took two hours of debate. Flo’s attention wavered several times as she opened her purse, re-freshed her sexy lips. From her large smart looking carpenter’s bag she neatly laid out samples of fabrics, colors, just about ready for production for our fall winter furniture sales. Neither snow falling or our December cold, deterred her positive outlook, fantastic sense of color. On the one test sofa in the room, she displayed her magic, her touch. Chocolate Moussse, Rosey Latte, Pine Forest, breathed life into it. She merely nodded, gathered her samples and sat down to await the reactions. Flo was tops, negatives were not on the table.

As the meeting was about to end, she rose, pointed to her watch and slyly announced she was in a hurry as she is never late. ‘Good bye, Gentlemen.’ I rapped my gavel to her empty chair. While all the directors were talking things over, having coffee, bagels, cream cheese and chocolate covered donuts, the Board Room door rammed open, hit the glass wall. Flo stumbled in. She was disheveled. Her right hand held her left arm that was clearly hurting. She refused to sit down. I was the first to reach her and stupidly asked, ‘Are you alright, Flo?’ Christ, I could see she wasn’t. ‘What happened?’ ‘Look at me,’ she bawled. ‘Do I usually come to meetings without shoes, with street dirt on my skirt?’ No answers. ‘No, I don’t. I was standing near the curb outside of our building, trying to hail a cab, when a big bearded guy dressed neatly in business clothes, pushed me. I fell into the gutter. In a second my sample bag of fabrics, colors was gone. My purse was still on my arm. All he wanted he took. What do we do now? He had to be working for Rossman or Blackthorn. My samples are useless. One of those thieving bastards will get my work out before us, probably August. We’ll know then but it will be too late. Suing won’t help.’

I tried to calm her and the other directors but it was a lost cause. We were in trouble. As CEO it fell on me to fix things or be out of business. All week I watched employees going in and out of those factories. I asked questions, offered bribes, had a few successes.They cost me. I needed lawyers to break contracts, write new ones. I needed fresh talent and tried My Face, Twitter, Ace Job Hunters. My employees pitched in, worked over-time (for extra pay), gave up vacations. Flo was our guiding light, our Savior. 14 hour days, sleepless nights, 8 lbs. lost from her divine body. She took old patterns, altered them slightly, gave them new names and got the weaving machines going full time. We were ready!

Aug. 30 our catalogue was in the mail. Sept. 1 full page color ads were in major cities, NY, Philly, Boston. We were suing Rossman. Somehow we not only muddled thru but our figures outdid last year.

I personally bought Flo a dainty diamond studded Rolex. She was surprised and thrilled, hugged me, kissed me with her pink/rose lips

and never had to re-set her cheapo watch again.