The Littlest Cupid

Okay, you can't blame a guy for trying.

It wasn't like I went around trying to make all that happen.

I was just doing my job. Pure and simple.

It started simply enough. Boy meets girl. Same tired old story you've heard since the earth was in diapers. Couple of nice kids. I almost didn't have to do a thing, 'cause they would have figured it out for themselves eventually -- I just nudged a few things here, quietly shoved a few things there, got them in position, shot the proverbial arrow, and voila. Happy couple, off to the church, then to live happily ever after.

Well, seems the families weren't too impressed with my efforts. Now I take great pride in my work. If I figure two people should be together, it's because I'm a paid professional. I can't change the oil in my truck without getting it all over the driveway, but love? I can see that in a second. Still, the families objected. "You're too young!" "She's not good enough for you!" "His family is all crazy!" You get the idea. So I had some mop-up work to do.

Now, those are tough -- you really have to keep your eye on the ball to make those work, but I'm not one to turn down a challenge. I surveyed the landscape a little and found that his uncle would look real good with her cousin -- yeah, little age difference, but I can work with that: I'm an artist. Then her brother proved real compatible with his mother's cousin's daughter.

Now I'll admit: sometimes I get a little crazy. Must be the artist in me. I couldn't leave well enough alone: I had to keep pushing the creative envelope. I had those two families so intermixed that in the end they could hold the same family reunion. Some of my best work, bar none.

Well, until the various honeymoons were over and folks started looking at the situation a little harder. Now, his little brother is her grandfather, and her cousin Jeremy is his new step-mother. It kinda got a little ugly, I guess. Three murders (well, okay, two: the other one was just manslaughter), a suicide, and a couple of life-in-prison-without-paroles, and, well, I guess I did go a little overboard a bit.

I know, I know, call me wild, call me crazy. I've always been one for experimentation -- it makes things more interesting by a long shot. And I did manage to get the entire mess its own guest spot on Springer, so they shouldn't be complaining too much.

Still, the company put me on indefinite leave for a while. They've promised they'll let me back once all the furor dies down.

The Littlest CEO

Can I have everyone's attention, please?

Hello?

HELLO?? Whack!

Good. Thank you.

As some of you know, the company is going through a bit of restructuring. The Board of Directors has been dissolved, and the Chief Executive Officer and Chief Financial Officer have been taken up on money laundering charges. The President was finally apprehended only moments before he could escape to Mexico, and I'm pleased to announce that 4.5 billion of the company's 8.1 billion in assets have been recovered.

However, I must add this:

I am very, very disappointed.

And you know what happens when I'm disappointed, dont you?

Exactly.

In the past few weeks, it became obvious that someone in this company needed to step up to the plate and exhibit a little leadership. And yes, when I did so, there was a great deal of grumbling about how I was a mere secretary and who did I think I was anyway.

But I have managed to pull this company out of the fire and turn it around in a scant two weeks. Our stock price has tripled. Our quarterly returns promise to skyrocket. And it's certainly not in thanks for a group of men who hired twelve-year-old hookers from Guadalejuara.

This company needed one mother of a CEO.

And as you all know now, I am the mother of all mothers.

I didnt raise three kids just to see another bunch of overaged children run my place of employment into the ground. So I did what any good mother who believes in Tough Love would do.

I locked you out.

Remember? It was cold that day, wasnt it? But it taught you a lesson you were long overdue in learning.

Disobey, and you'll be punished.

Strongly.

You coming home late? You better have a good excuse. And God help you if you dont call.

If I find your fingers in the cookie jar, prepare to have them slapped so hard you'll be sucking your food through a straw for three months.

I dont want to hear a single word of backtalk, from any of you. Try it, and I'll introduce you to my very special bar of soap.

I expect to see all of you at the Directors meeting tomorrow, when I introduce my new staff. You'll recognize most of them, I'm sure -- many are your former secretaries. There's also Lenny from the mail room, and three members of the cleaning staff. They know this company far better than you, because they see it from the bottom up.

And as for all of you... well, I think the question we should be asking now is: Who do you think you are, anyway?

Thank you.

The Littlest Disco Dancer

He was a child of the 80s, and he loved to dance. In his youth, every Saturday night was at the local disco, and he could chew up the floor with the best of them. Travolta had nothing on him, not when it came to commanding attention under the mirror ball lights.

Then, suddenly, it wasnt the 80s anymore. He still went out on weekends to dance, but things had changed: the girls were younger, the music faster, the drinks weaker. But he went anyway, because he loved to dance. And during those moments on the dance floor, he was eighteen again, ready to take on the world. Not an office worker trapped in a nine-to-five cubicle, but -- even if in his own mind -- a star.

And then he wasnt a star at all, but a middle-aged man who, like the music he adored, had gone beyond "retro" and "classic" to "who put that crap on!?!" So he stopped going to the discos and remained more and more within the safe, if unsatisfying, confines of his cubicle...

... where he could dance.

Every Friday night, after everyone else had left for the day and the cleaning ladies had finished their rounds, he turned up the stereo behind his desk and danced, to all of his friends, the Thompson Twins, George Michael, the Eurythmics. He danced till he couldnt dance anymore, then he would carefully turn out the lights and go home to his little apartment.

Then, one Friday night, he made a perfect Bus Stop turn and was shocked to see, in the building across the street, someone else dancing. A woman, near his age, as far as he could tell. But she too was dancing away in her cubicle, with her own music. She was doing a modified Hustle; he eased into the same steps. And she was watching him: she smiled and waved, and he waved back. They danced together for two hours, and he went home happier than he'd ever been.

The next Friday, the woman was there again, but now there were three more offices, on three different floors, with three more people dancing. All more or less his age, all putting their bodies through wild contortions -- the Electric Slide, the Boogie Down -- that not even age could deny in memory. The next week, he could see, in the reflections of the glass skyscraper, reflections of his own building, with now half a dozen more people, all dancing away, alone and yet together through the music.

And before too much longer, it seemed the entire block was one huge dance party: scores, if not hundreds, of middle-aged office workers, all getting down in the night. It didnt matter if they were playing the same song or a hundred different ones -- they just danced.

Then, just as quickly, they disappeared, one after another. And finally, one Friday night, he looked across the way: the woman's office was dark. He sat there waiting for two hours. She never showed.

The following Friday, at 5:00 promptly, he put his dance CDs in the trash and went home.

The Littlest Pill

The Woman with the Shaved Head stared at the television. "Do people really think that some little pill will do all that?"

"Do what?" the Listener asked.

"Make them happy. Give them great sex lives. Allow them to sleep all night and wake up congestion-free."

The Listener shrugged. "Perhaps."

The pink one wakes me up.

The yellow one keeps me awake.

The blue one focuses me so I can drive to work.

The red one keeps my cholesterol down.

The green one keeps my heart rate up.

The orange one adjusts my stomach acidity.

The taupe one allows me to swallow.

The cyan one gives me a day's equivalent of fourteen vitamins and minerals.

The umber one allows the fourteen vitamins and minerals to interact at poeak efficiency.

The lavender one supercharges my exercise routine.

The mint one cools down my exercise routine.

The cardinal one maintains my mental equilibrium.

The pale grey one sharpens my focus.

The tan one allows me to unfocus and see the big picture.

The black one adjusts my oxygen/nitrogen ratio.

The white one allows me to self-adjust my oxygen/nitrogen ratio.

The emerald one calms me down at the end of the day.

The rose one puts me to sleep.

The slate one makes sure I stay that way.

The lime one gives me fantastic dreams all night long.

The powder blue keeps the nightmares away.

And the silver one... well, please, everything looks better when set off by silver.

"But does she ever eat?" the Woman with the Shaved Head asked.

"Eat?" the Listener answered. "Why bother?"

"Why indeed."

The Littlest Trapeze Artist

I've been flying since I was six.

My uncle and aunt were the company stars when I started to learn this, and they taught me well: I was doing triple flips before I was ten, and there's not many in the business that can claim that.

And every night since I was six, maybe seven, I've been up here. At first, I was decoration: "Ooo! Look at the cute little kid!" Then my aunt pretty well shoved me into the spotlight with my first jump and catch. The audience went nuts. I was a star. And I loved it.

I've never been to school, y'know? I can read, a little, and write enough to cash my paycheques. But I dont know much else. Never needed to, really. It's not like you have to worry about political science when you're on the trapeze. All you need to know is how to get from here to there without breaking your neck. So that's what I do -- and I do it damn well.

Yeah, afterwards, when we're all just sitting around, I'll hear folks talking about this or that, and I wont have a clue what they're talking about. No big deal, actually. The world just keeps turning without my help, so I guess no one will notice if I dont understand why we're sending troops here or flying aid there.

But up here, when I'm in the tower, everyone notices. Everyone. So this is where I give them what they want: thrills, excitement, the defiance of death. All I have to do is reach out and grab that other bar, and I can hear them gasping in unison because they thought I might not make it, that I might miss and fall.

Sure, normally there's a net. Not tonight. Tonight I plan on giving them the thrill of their lives, something they'll tell their grandchildren about: a quadruple spin, without a net. It's kind of the Grail in our business, something everyone aspires to. My uncle tried. He didnt make it. Afterwards, my aunt left the business, and I carried on on my own, working it up till I got the sense of how the spin was supposed to work. And tonight...

Well, tonight, sure, I'll be like everyone else in the business. I'll try the quad without a net.

And I'll fail.

And people here watching, the folks who have their eyes on me, will talk about that for years.

That's entertainment.

The Littlest Opera Singer

Yes, I am Il Divino.

My voice is recognized internationally. It is insured by a company in London: should I ever fail to complete a performance for reasons outside my control, I am to be paid twenty-three million pounds Sterling. I am told this is a great deal of money. And of course. It would have to be. I am, after all, Il Divino.

How does a simple Tuscan peasant boy become Il Divino, you ask? Sit. I shall tell you.

From my earliest days, I loved to sing. I would sing in the forest, in the meadows, to the birds, to the cattle, to the gently babbling stream. They were the perfect audience: quiet, attentive, appreciative.

One day, a man in a long black autocar stopped. "Young man," he called out, "I am entranced by the loveliness of your voice. You are without a doubt Il Divino." And so of course I was. "You will come with me to La Scala, where I will make you a star." He was wrong, of course: Il Divino is not a star. Il Divino is the star.

I sang only once during my audition. "More," they asked, but I would not. If you want more, I said, you must sign Il Divino. And of course they did.

I made my La Scala debut as Tamino. I was astounding. "Il Divino!" the women would cry out beneath my hotel room at night. 'Come to the window!" But of course I would not. Then they would shoot themselves in unrequited anguish. In the morning, I would find the steps littered with the bodies of women who had shot themselves for Il Divino.

The Paris Opera called. "Il Divino, you must sing for us!" And of course I did. I was Pinkerton. I was brilliant. No one could weep on command as touchingly as Il Divino. I was Calaf. I was flawless. The audience cried with joy for Il Divino as he swept Turandot into his arms for an impassioned kiss.

Others came and threw themselves at Il Divino’s feet: the London, the Metropolitan, the Arena de Verona. At every turn, I was incredible.

Then one day a man appeared at my dressing room door. "You are Il Divino?" Of course I was, I said. "I would ask you to sing for my company, but I don't know that you can."

"My schedule is quite full," I replied.

"I know that," he said. "It's more a question of whether or not you can sing. Can you?"

I was taken aback. I am, after all, Il Divino. Of course I can sing. Who does this little man think he is? So I sang. Tamino’s opening aria, when he is given the locket of Pamina. Unaccompanied. Beautifully. My maid wept when I was finished.

But the little man, he shook his head. "No, it's not quite right. The melodic lines are uneven, and you missed the high D by a quarter step. I'm sorry. You won't do." And then he left.

I spent the entire night and the entire day following singing the aria. Suddenly it was not as beautiful. To my horror, I discovered I had missed the high D by a quarter step. Even more shocking, the melodic lines were uneven. I was devastated. But now I am determined. Now, no matter what role I play, at some point in the performance, I always sing Tamino’s opening aria. It is expressly written in my contracts. My agent thinks me mad, the directors and conductors loathe me, but I am Il Divino. My name alone brings in attentive audiences. But they no longer matter. After all, the little man may be in the audience, and I want him to know that Il Divino can indeed sing.....

The Littlest Fashion Designer

I work for Lockheed, as an engineer. For years, I designed the inner workings of planes of all sorts, mostly bombers, lots of defence related stuff. Good money, lots of work. Good days.

Then for a while the bottom dropped out of the defence industry. Outsourcing ran rampant. That sort of thing. Oh sure, the company put on the happy face and told everyone things were just fine, but we all knew we were in trouble -- the Lock had outsourced the construction of a whole fleet of 787s to some little company in India. The union raised a huge stink, but the corporate brass stood their ground. They couldnt take the overhead any more, and we were part of it. I guess it didnt become obvious until the day we got the note...

Our division was being taken off defence related stuff. The Lock needed to diversify, it said, and we were gonna be the guinea pigs in a whole new era of... well, we werent too sure, but something. Along with the memo tho was a list of internet links we were told to study: at first I thought this was just some corporate prank (the guys upstairs love to pull that kind of stuff) -- I mean, I deal with aeronautical specifications, right? So why was I looking at sites for Versace and Montana?

Because the company said so, that's why. So overnight we went from air flow resistance factors to understanding the drape of a good piece of French linen. Turns out it was the boss's wife's idea -- she saw those fifty thousand dollar dresses on Fashion TV and told her hubby there was the stuff that was gonna save the Lock's butt. He wanted some tail that night, I guess, because he agreed

Sure, some of the guys were a little resistant. We got kidded pretty mercilessly in the division meetings. But then we saw it as a challenge. After all, it's just engineering, right? Build something so it doesnt fall down -- or, in this case, off. Our first releases -- okay, not so good. We were still learning, after all, and I guess it takes a while to understand that rivets dont work on cloth and skin the same way they do on metal. But we persevered...

... and now, five years later, we're the toast of Milan. I have my own collection premiering this month in Paris, and I'm really excited. The theme is "The Art of the Mobile Land-Based Interceptor : a Theoretical and Stylistic Analysis". Wasnt my first choice for a title, but you know how Corporate can be -- always have to keep up the image.

Yeah, the Lock's doing fine with the defence contracts, but they've let us remain. Good for PR, they say. A chance to show the "human side of the technologically advance defence industry". Me, I just like to take that six yards of triple-dyed black Chinese silk and make it into something that will make America proud!! Take THAT, Bei-jing!!

Gotta go. The guys at Northrup are showing their spring collection in about thirty minutes, and I want a good seat. They got into this late, and it shows: silly fools dont even know the difference between gabadine and codouroy. What a bunch of amateurs -- this should be a riot.