Top Management knows that things have succeeded, or have 'come within a whisper of succeeding with a modest bit of help now'.
They may actually convince whoever the Money Supply is. Be that as it may, the more effort T.M. has to expend in 'proving' its success (irrelevant though that actuality may be), the more irritation will be sent in shuddering payback (not to be confused with 'back pay') internally within the system.
'We'll handle this discreetly'
The embarrassing chew-outs, dope-slaps, and unfair rages descend with avalanche-speed until 'someone takes the fall'.
The sloth and disengagement, the masturbatory power-gyrations at the top ultimately lead to one thing:
Following time-honored advice, a slow-down. Why not listen to parts of musical compositions instead of gourmandizing on a great table of it? Classical pieces, if begun to be understood, need careful attention.
One movement at a time. Either conversation between, like a palate-cleanser, or unpunctuatable snacks of street noise, television two rooms away, stratospheric airplanes growing more and more indistinct, wind that knocks an upright rake down.
The boy was the youngest child of the second wife of an old father. The only son, Darrell was. His father had been a baker by trade, and a trade unionist by inclination, burly, tough, but a good father to his six children. The first three were daughters of the first wife, a woman institutionalized for a kind of dementia.
Of the younger three, the eldest married a man scion to a wealthy, distant family from whom they both conspired to hide her religion.
Woman in the beige skirt folding merchandise. Small, chic retailer. Striking deep yellow scarf with red overdesign wraps around a jaw disfigurement that must be severe. This mystery: how terrifying? How wet?