Three hundred people meant thirty banquet rounds of ten settings each. Each table would have its own server, male and female alike in starched white shirts, each grouping of five tables supervised by a banquet captain in black coat and tie. Now, twenty-four minutes prior to door opening, those sixteen people were working furiously, darting between, and servicing the tables. The linens, plates, flatware, and glasses were all in place; the baskets of bread, pads of butter, and pre-set salads being dropped with clockwork efficiency.
Searching for a place for a private conversation, Mary and Eleanor had brought me here, and now the three of us sat in three consecutive chairs at one of these tables, the floral centerpiece posing too great a barrier for a conversation sitting opposite each other. Eleanor, dressed as if attending an opera, sat to my immediate left; Mary just beyond, each of us with our bodies turned in such a fashion to maintain eye contact with one another.
“Alan,” Eleanor began, patting my hand on the table like her star pupil. “I’m so glad we were able to find these few moments to connect on what has surely been a hectic and successful day.”
Eleanor’s eyes were smiling, but behind her permed hair I could see Mary’s eyes studying me, and there were no smiles there at all.
I had no idea how to play this. The tension in the air felt like Eleanor had a gun in her pocketbook. I smiled as sweetly as I could, returning Eleanor’s pat on the hand. “Me, too.”
Eleanor slowly drew her hand back. “I suppose I should start by thanking you.”
“Thanking me?”
“Yes. For the way you handled Mr. Rockhammer at lunch today. I trust you were able to find another session for him to attend?”
“Absolutely,” I lied easily, knowing the facts would not be checked, since this compliment was little more than a smokescreen. “He was very pleased with the re-accommodation.”
“I’m glad,” Eleanor said, her smile so genuine that for a moment I wondered if I had read her intentions correctly. “But there is another matter we must discuss.”
An uncomfortable silence settled down among the three of us, the constant sound of clinking glasses and dropped plates rising to prominence. I think Eleanor was waiting for me to speak first, to acknowledge the unfortunate incident, to admit my failure, to beg her forgiveness -- but I decided not to give her that satisfaction.
“Oh?”
Eleanor’s smile disappeared. “Yes,” she said. “I’m speaking of the embarrassment with Dr. Lancaster’s slides.”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said easily, adopting a tone as if we were blue bloods commiserating on the club lounge running out of our preferred brand of gin. “That was unfortunate. A simple mix-up, really. One that was easily corrected.”
I was trying to head a drubbing down off at the pass, but I could already see by the look on Eleanor’s face how unlikely that outcome was going to be.
“Alan,” Eleanor said seriously. “Dr. Lancaster was embarrassed in a lecture hall filled with his peers and admirers. Do you not understand the gravity of that situation?”
I took the smile off my face and matched Eleanor’s stern countenance. “Of course I do.”
“I’ve spoken to Mary and she tells me that the plenary session was your responsibility.”
Of course she did. I looked at Mary and she looked back impassively. She had either gone deaf or had bought a new poker face in the hotel gift shop. And this time I knew Eleanor wasn’t going to speak again until I did.
“Yes,” I admitted. “That’s true.”
“Then can you help me understand what happened? I’ve spoken to Dr. Lancaster and he is rightfully upset.”
At the mention of Dr. Lancaster’s name, I remembered the jovial and easy-going man I had dealt with in the speaker ready room. “I can talk to Dr. Lancaster if you like. Explain to him what happened and apologize.”
Eleanor started shaking her head as soon as I started talking. “No. I’ve already apologized on the organization’s behalf. So I think it would be best if I continue to be the one to deal with him. He wants an explanation. He’s entitled to one. But, Alan, I want to give him more than just an explanation. I want to give him evidence that such a thing will never happen to another speaker again.”
At that moment I was startled by a figure that had suddenly appeared at my elbow. It was a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting starched shirt and a bad toupee. He mumbled an apology and then started filling the water glasses on our table from a stainless steel pitcher, the ice clunking noisily into each goblet.
It gave me a second to reflect on what Eleanor had just said, and to realize how uncomfortable I was with her desire for evidence that such a thing would never happen again. What kind of evidence could she be looking for?
Eleanor’s hand was suddenly patting mine again.
“Alan, why don’t you just tell me how this embarrassing thing happened.”
She was speaking to me like she was my friend, and despite my inability to shake the suspicion that she was more like the cop asking the three-time loser to just confess or rat out his friends, I went ahead and told her, from my point of view, what happened. I told her about the discussion in the speaker ready room, about the creative solution we had come up with, and about Dr. Lancaster’s acceptance of it. None of it seemed to be what Eleanor was looking for.
“How did the slide get inverted?” she asked pointedly, before I had really finished my explanation, but after the banquet staff person had moved onto the next table, as if this was a line of inquiry that was not to be overheard.
I chose my words very carefully. “It was placed in the slide tray backwards.”
Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “Backwards? What do you mean backwards?”
I looked briefly at Mary. Does Eleanor really not understand how slide projection works? I tried to ask her with my eyes, but there was no response, nonverbal or otherwise.
“Opposite of the way it should have been,” I replied. “When the light shined through it to project an image, all the words appeared backwards. What was left should have been right and what was right should have been left.”
I was worried that my reply was too condescending, but Eleanor did not react negatively. She simply nodded with apparent understanding.
“I see,” she said. “And who was it that put this slide in backwards?”
The italics were clear in her tone, not like she was speaking ironically, but like she was speaking a foreign word she had just learned. I tried not to let it distract me, because I saw the trap she was about to spring on me. Tell the truth, say that Dr. Lancaster had put in his own slides, indeed, that he wouldn’t let anyone else touch them, and I would be besmirching the reputation and competence of her mentor and friend. That, I knew, would offend Eleanor’s sense of propriety. Giants like Douglas Lancaster did not make mistakes like this. Not, at least, when he had sycophants like Eleanor Rumford protecting his reputation.
I looked at Mary again, willing to take whatever guidance she might offer, and was surprised to see that she had something for me. The poker face was gone. Now her head was tilted and she was glaring at me, her directive as clear as the fire in her eyes.
Fall on your sword.
Yes. Of course. Because if Mary had ever tried to teach me anything, it was this. When your leader embarrasses themselves, you take the blame. That was more than just the secret to our success. It was practically our business model.
I considered it. And while considering it I realized the easiest thing to do would be simply to blame it on Ray. It was the AV tech, Eleanor. He loaded Dr. Lancaster’s slides and he must’ve made the mistake with that one. With Mary’s and now Eleanor’s eyes drilling into me, throwing Ray under the bus seemed not just like the easiest thing to do. It seemed like the right thing to do.
“Dr. Lancaster must have,” I said. “He gave us his carousel with his slides already loaded into it.”
The silence that followed these words was even deeper than the one we had experienced earlier. I purposely avoided looking at Mary, but I could not avoid Eleanor’s eyes. I could have been mistaken. My heart was beating so wildly in my chest that I would not surprise me if it blurred my vision. But it appeared to me that the tiniest little twinkle of a tear beaded up in the corner of her eye.
“Did you not check them?” she asked me eventually.
“No,” I said. “There wasn’t time. He gave them to us just minutes before the session started. I’m awfully sorry, Eleanor.”
And I was, the feeling of regret as real as any I had ever felt.
Eleanor only nodded knowingly. “How did you discover the error?”
“I was told there was something wrong in the session room. As soon as I stepped inside, I saw what the problem was, and fixed it as quickly as I could.”
“Stepped inside?” Mary suddenly asked, speaking for the first time.
“Yes,” I said, a little startled. “I was out in the foyer.”
“What were you doing in the foyer when the plenary session you were responsible for was going on in the ballroom?”
And there it was. I had danced around several of them in the course of this conversation, but there, finally, was the trap I was fated to fall into. No. Not fated. Conspired. No matter what I did, Eleanor and Mary were determined to catch me in one of their snares.
“I was making a phone call,” I said.
“A phone call? To who?”
“To my wife.”
“To your wife!” Eleanor exclaimed, her hand shooting out to cover mine again. “Is everything all right? Isn’t she expecting your second?”
At that point, I don’t know what surprised me more. The fact that Eleanor Rumford knew Jenny was pregnant, or the fact that they were going to use even that against me. Because here was another out, another chance to lie, to smooth things over. Actually, no, Eleanor. Jenny’s been struggling with preeclampsia and today her blood pressure went through the roof. She’s been hospitalized, and the baby isn’t far enough along to survive outside the womb. That excuses me, doesn’t it? Excuses me from this otherwise unforgivable sin? I’m sorry that I stepped out on the sacred responsibility of protecting Dr. Lancaster’s reputation and your ego, but I think my wife and my unborn baby might be dying.
No. Probably not.
“She is,” I said to Eleanor. “And thank you for your concern, but no, so far everything is going fine.”
“Then why were you calling her?” Mary asked.
I shrugged, deciding to continue addressing the boss, not her attack dog. “I was just checking in. The days here are so busy, I didn’t know when else I would get the chance. Everything with the session seemed to be going so well. I didn’t think--”
“No,” Mary interrupted viciously. “No, I guess you weren’t thinking, Alan. Eleanor,” she said, greatly softening her tone, “I’m very sorry about this. I’ll be sure to review our procedures with Alan, and from this day forward, we will have someone on our staff double check every slide before it is projected up on one of our screens.”
Eleanor raised her hand midway through Mary’s bootlicking. “Mary, please. I know that you will take the appropriate measures in this unfortunate situation. Alan committed a simple error in judgment. It happens. He is still growing in his position.”
Her voice was sweet, but it was laced with poison. She was clearly neither complimenting me or excusing my behavior. Indeed, especially with her next words, I could see that she was signalling to Mary that she would be perfectly justified in getting rid of me.
“Alan, I know I told you earlier that we would no longer speak of your oversight on the conference program, but now I can’t help but feel that a pattern may be developing. Your hard work on our organization’s behalf is very much appreciated, but too many more slips like this may convince me that you lack the attention to detail that is necessary for a person in your position.”
“Oversight on the conference program?” Mary asked pointedly. “What oversight on the conference program is this?”
Before responding, Eleanor rose to her feet, compelling Mary and me to do the same.
“For now, Mary,” Eleanor said without taking her eyes off of me, “that is between Alan and me. Isn’t it Alan?”
Yes, you bitch. Between you and me and Lily Rasmussen’s gargoyles.
“Yes. Thank you, Eleanor.”
“Thank you, Alan.”
+ + +
“Dragons” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For more information, go here.
This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.
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