Obsolescence -- flash fiction

image from forbes.com

“Ms. Phister, will you come into my office please?” He spoke to her through their new phone system.

“Yes, of course,” she said hitting the wrong button. “Just a minute,” she said hitting the same wrong button.

“Ms. Phister?”

She found the right button. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

She patted her hair. A bad hair day. What an appropriate term! Celebrities say it, and the woman meteorologist on channel 8. They were all wearing their hair long and swooshy. Not appropriate for a woman of my age. She gathered her steno pad and a pen and made the ten step trip to the boss’s office. Though I’m not all that old. Just past forty.

She rapped on the door. She looked at the back of her hand. Maybe a little past 50. Sunspots, not age spots. Mother told me to be more careful in the sun.

“Ms. Phister, thank you. Please come in and close the door.”

“Yes, sir.” Uh oh. Why close the door? There wasn’t anyone in reception and she really needed to be able to hear if someone came in.

“Ms. Phister, please sit down. As you know, our merger with Futures, Inc. has been approved and we’ll need to make some changes to accommodate their administrative staff.” He sat in his chair and looked at the mirror on the wall behind her.

This doesn’t sound good.

“They’re young and enthusiastic. They’ll make a big difference.”

This really doesn’t sound good.

“We’re also going to have to make changes in our tech support to improve information management. Our computer system is badly outdated.”

“Sir?” It and the coffee maker are the things I have no problem operating. He’s already gotten rid of the Xerox and fax machines.

“Obsolescence, Ms. Phister. That’s what we’ve got to get rid of.”

“Oh?” Fifty-seven’s not obsolete. Is it?

“Our new telephone system is designed to sync with the new computer system.”

“Sync?” My Nook is constantly trying to sync with something.

He turned around and gazed at the gold and red company logo hanging on the wall behind him. Global Prospects in clear Helvetica letters slanted a little to the right. A black arrow underlined it. 

Like a speeding train.

“What do you think of our logo? Of course it’ll have to change to include Futures.”

Old Mister’s barely gone. Less than two years. And Young Mister is wanting to change everything.

“But I like it,” she said. “It’s clear and recognizable. A brand the public is used to and trusts.”

“Hmmm.”

He looked at the steno pad she held in her left hand.

“Speaking of,” he nodded at the pad. “Wouldn’t you rather have one of those tablet things?”

“Tablet, sir?”

“You know. Those little gismos. You could use it to make notes. Google things. Use it as a GPS.”

“GPS?” She looked at the steno pad. She’d always used a steno pad. It felt right in her hand. She could doodle on it, if a meeting got boring. She could tear whole pages out and dispose of them. No record of what he’d said or done to be retrieved by some gee-whiz computer geek. Not that he’d ever done anything actually illegal. Sometimes he seemed to be just ruminating on it. His father would never have considered it. And she’d never have gone along with him anyway.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“A long time, sir,” she said.

“Pretty much since Dad opened shop, haven’t you?” He looked at the ceiling.

“Yes, sir.”

“You were with the firm when he bought this building, weren’t you?” He studied his hands.

“Yes, sir.” And, until this morning, I was planning to be here until retirement.

“The building’s old, but it’s solid and this is a good location. Uptown.” He picked something from his sleeve.

“Yes, sir.” I might be old, but I’m solid, too. He can’t even look at me.

“We need to update our look. You know, new furniture. Maybe a change in our color scheme. A total makeover. Obsolescence. We don’t want to be it. We don’t want to look like it.” He gazed out the window.

I’m out. He’s trading me in for a younger model. A member of the tech generation. Trade the old end-of-the-line Baby Boomer for a millennial.

“You got this place set up and running when Dad first moved in.”

“Yes, sir. I did what I could.” And I’ve been doing what I could ever since.

He put his palms flat on his desk and looked her in the eye.

“I need you to do it again.”

“Sir?”

“I need you to do this for me. You’ll have to work with this old building. I really don’t want to move."

“No.”

“No? You won’t do it? Do you want me to get someone in to help you?

“No. I mean, of course you don’t want to move.” She reached across the desk and touched his hand. “I don’t want to move either. Let me consider what we’ll need.”

She made a note on her steno pad and left the room.

She stepped back through the door and asked, “Would you like coffee?”