Dead Guy: Part Two
Read Part One here.
My name is Henry Neville a.k.a Harry Neville a.k.a the Phantom Manager a.k.a Dead Guy. I've been dead for three years now, and a celebrity for two. My column is syndicated in a number of top-selling newspapers nation-wide and my book "Dead Head- 10 Top Tips for Management from Beyond the Grave" has spent 5 weeks at or around the top of the Amazon On-Line Mind-Body-Spirit Fastsellers index.
You know the stats. Of course you do. Your paper has them all on file. What you came here tonight to find out was: why me? Why have I, Harry Neville, been singled out for this kind of media attention? It's a good question. After all, I'm not the first member of corporate America to go on working after his mortal surcease and you can bet that I won't be the last. But hey- have you seen those other guys? I've spoken to a few (mostly in conjunction with my post-life seminars) and, despite what their publicists might say, these guys never feel at home in death. For one thing, they complain all the time- about the headaches, the insomnia, the whole maggot scenario. You'd think they'd be delighted to be given a second chance, but all you hear from them is nag, nag, nag. Food tastes different, I can't source medical insurance, why doesn't my wife find me attractive anymore? Put a guy like that in charge of a sensitive work portfolio, and watch the whole division become a flatliner. And it affects even the best of us. I've watched a recently deceased CEO of a Fortune 500 firm roll his eyes at the amount of clutter built up on his desk and mumble "What's the point?"
"What's the point?" I told him. "The point is this. In your working life, you've respected every single deadline- except one. As long as you keep hitting all the others, chances are you can continue to default on this."
But even as I said it I knew we had lost him. Within six weeks he had driven his company into the ground. Two months later, he followed it. His second funeral was much the same as his first one, with one fundamental difference- no-one came.
You know what I call these guys? I call them "Wormfood Wannabes". They've pushed and thrusted all their life and now they feel they've earned downtime for all eternity. They hanker for the quiet of the grave. Whereas for me, events ran counter-wise. Before my death, I was the lousiest salesman you could meet. I gave bad handshake. I swore throughout my pitch. I was too fatigued to step up for the clinch. But now that I am gone before, my days are animated with strange energies. Hell, I even clip my heels. I really do! You know that movie where Gene Kelly launches himself off on that old umbrella and slams those hoofs together in the air? Well, that's what I do fifty times a day!
Look at the room we're sitting in right now. Back when I was a gentleman's clothing salesman with Lawless and Gombrich, I'd spend all night in this kind of a room tearing myself apart. Doing sit-ups with my toes curled under the hotel bed. Watching the mosaic channel with the sound turned down, eyes darting round the twenty tiny windows, alert for shows of flesh or violence. Repeatedly flicking onto the in-house pornography, nonchalantly, as if by accident, until my minute's free viewing had expired. Working my melancholy way through the entire minibar, starting with the speciality beer. Reaching for the Gideon at one fifteen am and skim-reading Revelations and the Song of Solomon. Composing rambling messages on the Dictaphone to my estranged wife and kids. Give my love to little. Click. Suzie. Click. She must be three by now. Lying on the bedspread in tomorrow's suit, with motivational tapes playing on the stereo walkman. Listening hard to the elevator machinery at work behind the wall, because for a moment I thought I heard a child, crying.
But look at us today! No drink, no anomie, no dark silences- just two men in a hotel room enjoying a civil chat. And note my burry, modulated tones, the gestures of dispersal and gathering I'm making with my hands, the smiles that bloom and fade throughout the seasons of my speech. You know what all this means? It means I'm in charge of the conversation. Now that my life is done with, I'm finally imposing my control. At times like this I feel too… big for death. At times like this, I'm so excited, so in charge, I want to dip my head into the sea and suck it dry! Yes sir! All in one gulp! And you know what I'd do next? I'd tear down the sky! I'd jump up and rip the sky away in cold blue strips, the way you'd rip away old wallpaper. Then, when I'd finished, I'd reach into that blank space where the sky had been, and, very gently, lift down the sun- and I'd fuck it! That's right! I'd have sex with the sun! And you know something else? The sun would like it!
But I guess I'm going off message on you, kid. I know what you came here to talk about. You wanted the low down on tonight's seminar. You wanted to hear it from the source. Well, I won't say it's a disaster. You want to know what I think? I think it was for the most part a light-hearted and productive session, marred only towards the close by a string of bizarre and tragic accidents. If you need help, I can break the evening down into its pleasant and- let's say- disappointing elements.
tbc
My name is Henry Neville a.k.a Harry Neville a.k.a the Phantom Manager a.k.a Dead Guy. I've been dead for three years now, and a celebrity for two. My column is syndicated in a number of top-selling newspapers nation-wide and my book "Dead Head- 10 Top Tips for Management from Beyond the Grave" has spent 5 weeks at or around the top of the Amazon On-Line Mind-Body-Spirit Fastsellers index.
You know the stats. Of course you do. Your paper has them all on file. What you came here tonight to find out was: why me? Why have I, Harry Neville, been singled out for this kind of media attention? It's a good question. After all, I'm not the first member of corporate America to go on working after his mortal surcease and you can bet that I won't be the last. But hey- have you seen those other guys? I've spoken to a few (mostly in conjunction with my post-life seminars) and, despite what their publicists might say, these guys never feel at home in death. For one thing, they complain all the time- about the headaches, the insomnia, the whole maggot scenario. You'd think they'd be delighted to be given a second chance, but all you hear from them is nag, nag, nag. Food tastes different, I can't source medical insurance, why doesn't my wife find me attractive anymore? Put a guy like that in charge of a sensitive work portfolio, and watch the whole division become a flatliner. And it affects even the best of us. I've watched a recently deceased CEO of a Fortune 500 firm roll his eyes at the amount of clutter built up on his desk and mumble "What's the point?"
"What's the point?" I told him. "The point is this. In your working life, you've respected every single deadline- except one. As long as you keep hitting all the others, chances are you can continue to default on this."
But even as I said it I knew we had lost him. Within six weeks he had driven his company into the ground. Two months later, he followed it. His second funeral was much the same as his first one, with one fundamental difference- no-one came.
You know what I call these guys? I call them "Wormfood Wannabes". They've pushed and thrusted all their life and now they feel they've earned downtime for all eternity. They hanker for the quiet of the grave. Whereas for me, events ran counter-wise. Before my death, I was the lousiest salesman you could meet. I gave bad handshake. I swore throughout my pitch. I was too fatigued to step up for the clinch. But now that I am gone before, my days are animated with strange energies. Hell, I even clip my heels. I really do! You know that movie where Gene Kelly launches himself off on that old umbrella and slams those hoofs together in the air? Well, that's what I do fifty times a day!
Look at the room we're sitting in right now. Back when I was a gentleman's clothing salesman with Lawless and Gombrich, I'd spend all night in this kind of a room tearing myself apart. Doing sit-ups with my toes curled under the hotel bed. Watching the mosaic channel with the sound turned down, eyes darting round the twenty tiny windows, alert for shows of flesh or violence. Repeatedly flicking onto the in-house pornography, nonchalantly, as if by accident, until my minute's free viewing had expired. Working my melancholy way through the entire minibar, starting with the speciality beer. Reaching for the Gideon at one fifteen am and skim-reading Revelations and the Song of Solomon. Composing rambling messages on the Dictaphone to my estranged wife and kids. Give my love to little. Click. Suzie. Click. She must be three by now. Lying on the bedspread in tomorrow's suit, with motivational tapes playing on the stereo walkman. Listening hard to the elevator machinery at work behind the wall, because for a moment I thought I heard a child, crying.
But look at us today! No drink, no anomie, no dark silences- just two men in a hotel room enjoying a civil chat. And note my burry, modulated tones, the gestures of dispersal and gathering I'm making with my hands, the smiles that bloom and fade throughout the seasons of my speech. You know what all this means? It means I'm in charge of the conversation. Now that my life is done with, I'm finally imposing my control. At times like this I feel too… big for death. At times like this, I'm so excited, so in charge, I want to dip my head into the sea and suck it dry! Yes sir! All in one gulp! And you know what I'd do next? I'd tear down the sky! I'd jump up and rip the sky away in cold blue strips, the way you'd rip away old wallpaper. Then, when I'd finished, I'd reach into that blank space where the sky had been, and, very gently, lift down the sun- and I'd fuck it! That's right! I'd have sex with the sun! And you know something else? The sun would like it!
But I guess I'm going off message on you, kid. I know what you came here to talk about. You wanted the low down on tonight's seminar. You wanted to hear it from the source. Well, I won't say it's a disaster. You want to know what I think? I think it was for the most part a light-hearted and productive session, marred only towards the close by a string of bizarre and tragic accidents. If you need help, I can break the evening down into its pleasant and- let's say- disappointing elements.
tbc
posted by Ben Good at 2:44 pm
2 Comments:
Really enjoying your site. More 'Dead Guy'!
Thanks, Patrick! Cool that you like Dead Guy. When I was originally writing it, I kinda got tired about here, and the bit afterwards is painfully sloppy; but as soon as I do a re-write I'll put it up here.
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