Shareholders’ Fishbowl
by Phillip Pettit
Max Barnes observed blurred figures scurry to and fro about his office. Each carrying papers and files on one important errand or another.
Max did not care. He watched sedately from within his anti-stress tank tucked in the corner of the office like an outlandish decoration. A human lava lamp stuck in one position.
He floated in thick orange liquid, naked except for a mask worn over his face to facilitate breathing.
Chemicals contained in the liquid leached through his skin then travelled through his body before working magic on his brain, leaving his mind calm but aware. The tank had become the only way Max could relax and think clearly.
He tried not to overuse the tank. Paralysis, neurosis, delusions and complete insanity were among the side effects the doctors had warned him about.
An assistant stopped briefly and glanced up at the transparent tank, at Max’s naked body floating in this strange substance. What a sight I must make? Max thought with a wry smile. There was no room for discomfort or shame in Max’s chemically altered mind. He was primed for calm and objective thought on the problem ahead, the shareholders’ meeting.
Max knew instinctively that the rumours of impropriety and inflammatory memos had been crafted by the podgy and greedy hands of board member Clarence Angler. Max felt no malice. He was unable to, in his current state, but he knew that when he left the tank a wave of anger would overtake him.
Clarence Angler had been after Max’s position for years. Max had seen him coming, gathering support. Time after time Max had been held off, through means legitimate and otherwise.
Clarence had a remarkably difficult personal life. Tragic events struck him with cruel monotony. He lived in one of the safest areas of the city but had been mugged and beaten several times. He had come home one night to find his house burnt down. His wife had long ago left him after being visited by a woman who claimed to be Clarence’s mistress. Police raided his house several times after spurious tip-offs.
In the tank, with hot emotion removed from his mind, Max could see his own character flaws. He could acknowledge that he had overstepped the boundaries in his attempts to unhinge his rival.
The doctors were wrong, Max ruminated, inside the tank I am completely sane. It is outside that madness threatens.
Max’s mind returned to the shareholders. Clarence would force a vote at tomorrow’s general meeting and he needed to be prepared. He must answer the accusations, those that were true and those that were false. Clarence was clever, Max recognised the tactic. Prove a few minor accusations and everyone would believe the wildly false ones.
Max inwardly practiced speech after speech, appealing to imagined characters in his mind, testing his chosen words for effectiveness.
Tiredness impinged. I must not fall asleep in here, Max warned himself, but he needed more time. Success was crucial. He plowed on, and after a time his mind wandered. He imagined shareholders sitting in their chairs, from retirees to hard-nosed investors, faces laughing in unison. Max fell into deep sleep.
He imagined blurred figures circling the tank, ever closer and ever quicker, till the figures blurred into one dark mass.
He awoke to a void. All was dark. Could the tank cause blindness? Max had not heard of that. He remained calm. He moved his arms to find the latch at the top of the tank. It took a moment to realise that his arms weren’t in fact moving at all. Paralysis. Max was calm. He waited in the dark without fear or remorse.
Darkness melted away in an instant as the black sheet covering the tank was removed. Bright light streamed in, illuminating the orange liquid and stinging his eyes. It took a moment for his pupils to adjust. The lights were stage lights hanging high above. A tiny imprint of shock made itself felt in his mind before it was cleared away.
Max was not in his office, he was in the auditorium and this was the shareholders meeting. And there they were, just like he imagined, hundreds of shareholders seated in a semi-circle around the stage.
Clarence was the centre of attention, holding a microphone in one hand and pointing an accusing finger with the other. Speaking to the crowd and stabbing his finger again and again toward the tank and at Max floating naked in the orange substance.
Max felt like a dead goldfish floating in a bowl with no future other than the unceremonious flush that would inevitably follow.
Max couldn’t hear, but he could imagine the words. Here is the man who runs the company. Floating in some crazy contraption in which he makes decisions, decisions on your future, on my future, on our future. How long can we let this continue? I say end it now.
The faces were a blur. Max couldn’t tell if they were shocked, laughing or disgusted. Oh what torment awaits me when I leave this tank, Max thought calmly.
The spectacle continued for a time. And then one by one the shareholders began raising their hands. A vote. On the front of the stage Clarence goaded them on with his own hand raised in example. Max was staring at a unanimous decision.
He watched passively until the meeting was over and all had left, all except Clarence who approached and leered through the glass tank. His round face distorted. Do not fish me out of this thing, Max thought calmly. A flood of emotion is waiting outside, I feel it pressing in even now, and when it washes away what will be left?
Copyright © 2006 by Phillip Pettit
