ONE MINUTE GLADHANDS
All that seemed to change abruptly
when he arrived at Mr. Ooze's office. He was met by an overweight, middle-aged
man who appeared to be both agitated and bored at
once.
"Hello," said the young man, attempting to assert himself. "I'm…"
"Shut up and sit down," Ooze ordered.
"Yes, absolutely," agreed the young man nervously. He quickly took his place in the nearest uncomfortable chair, as Ooze seated himself and began flipping through the mounds of paper that covered his entire desktop.
While he did so, the young man glanced around the office. It was ordinary enough. Almost too ordinary. Then he noticed the walls. Or rather, noticed he couldn't notice the walls, for hundreds of framed certificates obscured them. Wall to wall. Floor to ceiling. Even a few on the ceiling. Certificates of every imaginable size, shape and appearance. All prominently displayed. Yet he couldn't make out what any of them were for.
"Obviously," thought the young man, "I'm in the presence of a very distinguished person."
"Well," said Ooze, looking up from his desk. "At least my Pretoria accounts are beyond scrutiny."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Later," said Ooze. "Here," and he handed the young man a sheaf of papers. "Those are over fifty sworn affidavits, mostly from people who don't exist, confirming my complete lack of knowledge on eight more Iranian arms shipments and several unreported loans."
"I'm afraid…"
"Don't be," reassured Ooze. "We can lick this thing, I'm sure of it. No need to panic."
"Mr. Ooze, I think you're making a serious mistake," explained the young man.
"That's my job, you idiot," snapped Ooze. "I've made hundreds of serious mistakes. Thousands, even. And I can continue to make them if people would just get off my back and let me get on with my duties. Weren't you briefed on this?"
"What I'm trying to tell you, is… "
"Don't try to tell me anything. Just try to tell them."
"But I don't know what you're talking about."
"Good. And neither will anyone else, if you do your job right."
"But you don't understand," the young man began…
"Now you're getting the picture."
"I am?"
"Of course. I'm not supposed to understand. That's the goddamn point," he sighed. "What kind of lawyer are you anyway?"
"But that's just it," said the young man. "I'm not a lawyer."
Ooze's complexion went from ruddy to ashen. "Aren't you on my staff?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Then who the hell are you?"
"I'm…"
"A reporter!" Ooze screamed. "You're a reporter!"
"Mr. Ooze…"
"No comment!"
"Mr. Ooze…"
"No comment!"
"Mr. Ooze. I'm not a reporter," explained the young man. "I'm just a bright, inquisitive young man in search of an effective President."
"What?"
"Really," he said. "I dropped by to ask you some questions about the One Minute President."
"The One Minute Who?"
"The President," said the young man.
"Well, I'm glad to hear that," said Ooze, settling into his chair. "Why don't you just relax? Stand if you want to. So you saw the old wrangler? Some hero, don't you think?"
"I suppose so," the young man responded.
"And he told you how he's a One Minute President, right?"
"Sure did. But it's just a lot of nonsense, isn't it?" The young man was hoping Ooze would contradict Money.
"Not at all. Half the time I'm checking the obituaries to find out if he's croaked, that's how often I see him."
"That's amazing."
"But don't get me wrong," he continued. "He's right there by my side the minute I'm about to dirty my hands with some new task or responsibility that I have absolutely no business taking on."
"You mean like One Minute Wishes?" pursued the young man.
"Kid's stuff," scoffed Ooze. "I'm speaking of One Minute Gladhands."
"One Minute Gladhands?"
"That's right," nodded Ooze. "One Minute Gladhands. They're the second pretense towards becoming a One Minute President."
"You mean a simple handshake is an important step on the road to becoming an effective leader?" The young man arched his eyebrows. "It sounds rather silly, if you don't mind my saying so."
"Well I do mind your saying so," remarked Ooze. "In truth, there's nothing simple or silly about One Minute Gladhands. The President has managed to turn it into a profound new art form and one, I might add, that is both contagious and chain-reactive.
"One Minute Gladhands," Ooze continued, "are much more than your usual, effusive, insincere and offensively familiar greetings. Any elected moron can go around giving the gladhand business. But the thing is, most don't know how to use it to their advantage."
"You mean like those tests that were performed to determine one person's dominant power over another by revealing his own, distinct and highly individualized form of touch-communication?" the young man asked, taking pride in having had the good sense to renew his subscription to Popular Psychology.
"Of course not," Ooze said.
"Well, maybe you could give me an example of what you're talking about," the young man suggested.
"I'll go one better than that," he said, "and give you an example of an example of what I'm talking about." Ooze got up and walked around to the front of his desk.
"When I first started working here," he began, "I did absolutely nothing for a good six months. During that time, I didn't see the President at all. Not once, mind you. I kept his photograph on my desk because I was beginning to forget what he looked like.
"Then, one day, without any warning, the President just walked right into my office without knocking, and caught me sprawled on the couch, fast asleep, in just my undershirt and shorts."
"My God!" exclaimed the young man. "You must have been humiliated!"
"No, just fast asleep."
"But, I mean, he must have really torn into you, right?"
"Wrong," corrected Ooze. "What he did was wake me up&emdash;gently, I might add&emdash;hand me a cigar and congratulate me."
"What?"
"As a matter of fact," continued Ooze, "he kept shaking my hand, slapping my back and smiling from ear to ear as he told me how proud he was to have me on his team."
"But…"
"Then he said something," Ooze recounted, "that actually helped make my job simpler, easier and more comfortable than ever before."
"And what was that?" the young man asked, notebook open and pencil poised.
"He simply said, 'Let's do it,'" Ooze remembered fondly.
"That's it?"
"That was plenty, believe me. The next day, I received a ridiculously fat raise, my own private jet and a box of candy." Ooze stuck his chest out so far that a button on his jacket popped off, narrowly missing the young man's eye. "I can proudly say," he said proudly, "that the whole episode changed my life dramatically."
The young man shook his head, visibly frustrated. "Let me get this straight," he said. "The President catches you asleep at your post, and he ends up showering you with gifts. I don't get it."
"You're not a very fast learner, are you?" questioned Ooze. "All you have to remember is that it's not whether you do something right or wrong that matters, but the fact that you are doing whatever it is you happen to be doing at any given time when these One Minute Gladhands occur.
"We have a very popular motto around here that serves to remind us of our own participation in One Minute Gladhands," Ooze said. "It goes like this:
"Hello," said the young man, attempting to assert himself. "I'm…"
"Shut up and sit down," Ooze ordered.
"Yes, absolutely," agreed the young man nervously. He quickly took his place in the nearest uncomfortable chair, as Ooze seated himself and began flipping through the mounds of paper that covered his entire desktop.
While he did so, the young man glanced around the office. It was ordinary enough. Almost too ordinary. Then he noticed the walls. Or rather, noticed he couldn't notice the walls, for hundreds of framed certificates obscured them. Wall to wall. Floor to ceiling. Even a few on the ceiling. Certificates of every imaginable size, shape and appearance. All prominently displayed. Yet he couldn't make out what any of them were for.
"Obviously," thought the young man, "I'm in the presence of a very distinguished person."
"Well," said Ooze, looking up from his desk. "At least my Pretoria accounts are beyond scrutiny."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Later," said Ooze. "Here," and he handed the young man a sheaf of papers. "Those are over fifty sworn affidavits, mostly from people who don't exist, confirming my complete lack of knowledge on eight more Iranian arms shipments and several unreported loans."
"I'm afraid…"
"Don't be," reassured Ooze. "We can lick this thing, I'm sure of it. No need to panic."
"Mr. Ooze, I think you're making a serious mistake," explained the young man.
"That's my job, you idiot," snapped Ooze. "I've made hundreds of serious mistakes. Thousands, even. And I can continue to make them if people would just get off my back and let me get on with my duties. Weren't you briefed on this?"
"What I'm trying to tell you, is… "
"Don't try to tell me anything. Just try to tell them."
"But I don't know what you're talking about."
"Good. And neither will anyone else, if you do your job right."
"But you don't understand," the young man began…
"Now you're getting the picture."
"I am?"
"Of course. I'm not supposed to understand. That's the goddamn point," he sighed. "What kind of lawyer are you anyway?"
"But that's just it," said the young man. "I'm not a lawyer."
Ooze's complexion went from ruddy to ashen. "Aren't you on my staff?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Then who the hell are you?"
"I'm…"
"A reporter!" Ooze screamed. "You're a reporter!"
"Mr. Ooze…"
"No comment!"
"Mr. Ooze…"
"No comment!"
"Mr. Ooze. I'm not a reporter," explained the young man. "I'm just a bright, inquisitive young man in search of an effective President."
"What?"
"Really," he said. "I dropped by to ask you some questions about the One Minute President."
"The One Minute Who?"
"The President," said the young man.
"Well, I'm glad to hear that," said Ooze, settling into his chair. "Why don't you just relax? Stand if you want to. So you saw the old wrangler? Some hero, don't you think?"
"I suppose so," the young man responded.
"And he told you how he's a One Minute President, right?"
"Sure did. But it's just a lot of nonsense, isn't it?" The young man was hoping Ooze would contradict Money.
"Not at all. Half the time I'm checking the obituaries to find out if he's croaked, that's how often I see him."
"That's amazing."
"But don't get me wrong," he continued. "He's right there by my side the minute I'm about to dirty my hands with some new task or responsibility that I have absolutely no business taking on."
"You mean like One Minute Wishes?" pursued the young man.
"Kid's stuff," scoffed Ooze. "I'm speaking of One Minute Gladhands."
"One Minute Gladhands?"
"That's right," nodded Ooze. "One Minute Gladhands. They're the second pretense towards becoming a One Minute President."
"You mean a simple handshake is an important step on the road to becoming an effective leader?" The young man arched his eyebrows. "It sounds rather silly, if you don't mind my saying so."
"Well I do mind your saying so," remarked Ooze. "In truth, there's nothing simple or silly about One Minute Gladhands. The President has managed to turn it into a profound new art form and one, I might add, that is both contagious and chain-reactive.
"One Minute Gladhands," Ooze continued, "are much more than your usual, effusive, insincere and offensively familiar greetings. Any elected moron can go around giving the gladhand business. But the thing is, most don't know how to use it to their advantage."
"You mean like those tests that were performed to determine one person's dominant power over another by revealing his own, distinct and highly individualized form of touch-communication?" the young man asked, taking pride in having had the good sense to renew his subscription to Popular Psychology.
"Of course not," Ooze said.
"Well, maybe you could give me an example of what you're talking about," the young man suggested.
"I'll go one better than that," he said, "and give you an example of an example of what I'm talking about." Ooze got up and walked around to the front of his desk.
"When I first started working here," he began, "I did absolutely nothing for a good six months. During that time, I didn't see the President at all. Not once, mind you. I kept his photograph on my desk because I was beginning to forget what he looked like.
"Then, one day, without any warning, the President just walked right into my office without knocking, and caught me sprawled on the couch, fast asleep, in just my undershirt and shorts."
"My God!" exclaimed the young man. "You must have been humiliated!"
"No, just fast asleep."
"But, I mean, he must have really torn into you, right?"
"Wrong," corrected Ooze. "What he did was wake me up&emdash;gently, I might add&emdash;hand me a cigar and congratulate me."
"What?"
"As a matter of fact," continued Ooze, "he kept shaking my hand, slapping my back and smiling from ear to ear as he told me how proud he was to have me on his team."
"But…"
"Then he said something," Ooze recounted, "that actually helped make my job simpler, easier and more comfortable than ever before."
"And what was that?" the young man asked, notebook open and pencil poised.
"He simply said, 'Let's do it,'" Ooze remembered fondly.
"That's it?"
"That was plenty, believe me. The next day, I received a ridiculously fat raise, my own private jet and a box of candy." Ooze stuck his chest out so far that a button on his jacket popped off, narrowly missing the young man's eye. "I can proudly say," he said proudly, "that the whole episode changed my life dramatically."
The young man shook his head, visibly frustrated. "Let me get this straight," he said. "The President catches you asleep at your post, and he ends up showering you with gifts. I don't get it."
"You're not a very fast learner, are you?" questioned Ooze. "All you have to remember is that it's not whether you do something right or wrong that matters, but the fact that you are doing whatever it is you happen to be doing at any given time when these One Minute Gladhands occur.
"We have a very popular motto around here that serves to remind us of our own participation in One Minute Gladhands," Ooze said. "It goes like this:
"And don't forget," Ooze continued, "One Minute Gladhands, when properly administered, have a giddy effect on people. Once the momentum is underway, the chain reaction is virtually unstoppable."
"So," offered the young man, "a person's job performance, or nonperformance, has no bearing on the administration or receipt of the One Minute Gladhands."
"Precisely," said Ooze.
"But don't you think people want the truth?"
"If they did," Ooze countered, "they wouldn't eat out."
The young man made note of this in his book.
"The thing to keep in mind," Ooze said, as he walked back behind his desk and sat down, "is that the One Minute President never responds to who or what or where I am. That would be a complete waste of time. After all, it only takes a minute to set someone up."
"And that's why it's called a One Minute Gladhand," said the young man, visibly proud that he was able to figure that one out all by himself. He proceeded to jot down all that he was learning. After careful deliberation, he concluded that:
Posted: Mon - March 9, 1987 at 09:01 PM
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