"I buy the first round of drinks, figuring that’s a bedrock leadership trait. A way to establish group camaraderie. I sip my beer – a vodka gimlet for Emma and gin and tonic for Geoffrey – and I decide a joke might be a way to begin, to break the ice. Good leaders use humor to their advantage. It wins people over. I propose the first toast: 'Here’s to making a success of a project that will never be built' I say, grinning." |
László Moholy-Nagy, Construction (1924)
I’m not good with people. I can’t exactly say why. I’m just not. I think I was a normal child. I don’t think anything happened to me when I was a kid. But my memories of childhood are hazy. Shards of memories. Shifting scenes like in a kaleidoscope. Sometimes I feel like I didn’t have a childhood at all, like I went from baby to adult and mostly skipped everything else in between.
To improve my people skills, I work on empathy with my co-workers. After all, I’m the lead operator for The Archway Project, even though Mr. Mallory, my boss, would never have bestowed that title on me. Mr. Mallory barely tolerates me. But Mr. Archway appears to favor me and chose me to lead. I have no idea why he did. Mr. Archway and I have not had lengthy conversations at all. My selection will always seem capricious, random.
But back to empathy, which I feel is a valuable skill in the workplace and I’m trying hard to improve that. Just the other day, I suggested that as a team working hard to promote a project that nonetheless won’t be built, we meet at the bar around the corner after work to get to know each other on a personal level. We’ve never done anything like that before. But only two people showed up, Emma Horowitz and Geoffrey Trimble.
I think the only reason Emma and Geoffrey showed up at all is because they are the only ones on the team junior to me in length of service. And probably because they are single without families to tend to. Seniority is a big deal in our department. The people on our team who are senior to me resent that I was named lead operator for Archway. They don’t believe they have to listen to me beyond office hours. I’m fine with that because I know I’m not much of a leader.
I buy the first round of drinks, figuring that’s a bedrock leadership trait. A way to establish group camaraderie. I sip my beer – a vodka gimlet for Emma and gin and tonic for Geoffrey – and I decide a joke might be a way to begin, to break the ice. Good leaders use humor to their advantage. It wins people over. I propose the first toast:
“Here’s to making a success of a project that will never be built” I say, grinning.
They clink their glasses against my mug, but tentatively and they aren’t smiling. But surely the alcohol will loosen them up some. I’m hopeful. Having hope must be an essential first step toward demonstrating empathy.
“Just why won’t Archway ever be built?” Emma says.
“That’s unclear to me as well,” Geoffrey says.
They’re both relatively new and so still acclimating themselves to the ins and outs of what we do at The Gloworm Group.
“Well,” I say and sip my beer to buy more time. “Archway won’t get built because Treadway didn’t get built and Stillwater before them didn’t either. I can go further back if you like.”
Emma and Geoffrey weren’t on board at The Gloworm Group during Treadway and Stillwater.
“You have that on good authority?” Geoffrey says frowning. “Has Mr. Archway indicated that?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Mr. Archway is very enthusiastic. The rich always are.”
“Then why won’t it get built, Rory?” Emma says.
I have a gulp of beer and ponder it for a moment. I think that good, effective empathy must first be obvious to someone. I must show that their fears resonate with me. That’s probably empathy 101.
“Don’t worry,” I say, my voice low and an attempt at reassurance. “There’s plenty for us to do. Archway looks like it can last even longer than Treadway did. I wouldn’t be surprised at all.”
Emma looks as though I’ve put two and two together and have come up with forty-seven.
“Just how long did Treadway last?” she says.
“Several years. It was quite the time. We worked hard on that one.”
“But accomplished nothing, really,” Emma says.
“Promoting it and building it are two very different things, Emma. We did a crackerjack job with the promotion. We even won some industry awards. It’s irrelevant that Mr. Treadway eventually dropped the project.”
“Why did he?” Geoffrey says.
I shrugged.
“Mr. Treadway is filthy rich – like Mr. Archway. And Mr. Stillwater. The rich get distracted. They move on. Who knows why. We’re paid to just do what we do until it’s no longer needed. And we’re paid well for it.”
I remember to smile broadly and appear relaxed – confident. Reassurance 101.
“And The Stillwater Project?” Geoffrey says. “How’d that one go?”
“Oh, about the same as Treadway.”
They sip their drinks and ease back in their chairs. A server comes by our table. I order another round. I think I might be doing okay so far with empathy.
“You mean we just expect failure?” Emma says. “That’s our job?”
“We don’t think about that. We work hard until that day arrives.”
“Even though our work will be for nothing?” Geoffrey says.
“But it’s not for nothing, Geoffrey.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Gloworm makes money. Lots of it. And we get to keep our jobs.”
“And that’s success, Rory?” he says.
“Well, it’s a form of success, yes.”
“To be clear, promoting failure is what we do?” Emma says.
“Well, we wouldn’t put that on a company brochure, that’s for sure. And we’re not promoting failure. We’re promoting a real project until it’s no longer real.”
We get our next round of drinks and Emma and Geoffrey clearly look like they need them. I sense their confusion. I was once new at Gloworm. And I remember that empathy requires patience. I sip my beer and maintain eye contact.
“But why do we bother at all, if Archway is destined to just go belly up?” Emma says.
“We bother because Archway pays us to bother. We have nothing to do with whether he comes through on the project or not. That’s irrelevant.”
Geoffrey’s eyebrows arch.
“That’s some impressive level of compartmentalization you’ve got going there, Rory.”
“You’ll get the hang of it yourself, Geoffrey. And soon, I predict.”
After a long moment, Emma says, “So, we just accept we’ll work hard as if the project is real. That’s what you’re telling us?”
“Oh, it’s real alright. Real enough. The money from Mr. Archway is real. Our paychecks are real. As long as he’s paying, it’s all real.”
“Until he stops paying,” Geoffrey deadpans.
“You’re catching on.”
“What if we just stopped doing anything at all on Archway?” he says.
“Oh, no, Geoffrey – that would be dishonest.”
“I see. And what do you call taking money to brag about something we know isn’t going to happen?”
“Our job.”
After they left, and somewhat abruptly, I thought, I drank another beer and reflected on our meeting. Overall, I felt good about how it went with Emma and Geoffrey. We’ll have to do this more often. Empathy, I suspect, is a lot like working at Gloworm. If you believe you have it, then you do, and that’s really all that matters.
To improve my people skills, I work on empathy with my co-workers. After all, I’m the lead operator for The Archway Project, even though Mr. Mallory, my boss, would never have bestowed that title on me. Mr. Mallory barely tolerates me. But Mr. Archway appears to favor me and chose me to lead. I have no idea why he did. Mr. Archway and I have not had lengthy conversations at all. My selection will always seem capricious, random.
But back to empathy, which I feel is a valuable skill in the workplace and I’m trying hard to improve that. Just the other day, I suggested that as a team working hard to promote a project that nonetheless won’t be built, we meet at the bar around the corner after work to get to know each other on a personal level. We’ve never done anything like that before. But only two people showed up, Emma Horowitz and Geoffrey Trimble.
I think the only reason Emma and Geoffrey showed up at all is because they are the only ones on the team junior to me in length of service. And probably because they are single without families to tend to. Seniority is a big deal in our department. The people on our team who are senior to me resent that I was named lead operator for Archway. They don’t believe they have to listen to me beyond office hours. I’m fine with that because I know I’m not much of a leader.
I buy the first round of drinks, figuring that’s a bedrock leadership trait. A way to establish group camaraderie. I sip my beer – a vodka gimlet for Emma and gin and tonic for Geoffrey – and I decide a joke might be a way to begin, to break the ice. Good leaders use humor to their advantage. It wins people over. I propose the first toast:
“Here’s to making a success of a project that will never be built” I say, grinning.
They clink their glasses against my mug, but tentatively and they aren’t smiling. But surely the alcohol will loosen them up some. I’m hopeful. Having hope must be an essential first step toward demonstrating empathy.
“Just why won’t Archway ever be built?” Emma says.
“That’s unclear to me as well,” Geoffrey says.
They’re both relatively new and so still acclimating themselves to the ins and outs of what we do at The Gloworm Group.
“Well,” I say and sip my beer to buy more time. “Archway won’t get built because Treadway didn’t get built and Stillwater before them didn’t either. I can go further back if you like.”
Emma and Geoffrey weren’t on board at The Gloworm Group during Treadway and Stillwater.
“You have that on good authority?” Geoffrey says frowning. “Has Mr. Archway indicated that?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Mr. Archway is very enthusiastic. The rich always are.”
“Then why won’t it get built, Rory?” Emma says.
I have a gulp of beer and ponder it for a moment. I think that good, effective empathy must first be obvious to someone. I must show that their fears resonate with me. That’s probably empathy 101.
“Don’t worry,” I say, my voice low and an attempt at reassurance. “There’s plenty for us to do. Archway looks like it can last even longer than Treadway did. I wouldn’t be surprised at all.”
Emma looks as though I’ve put two and two together and have come up with forty-seven.
“Just how long did Treadway last?” she says.
“Several years. It was quite the time. We worked hard on that one.”
“But accomplished nothing, really,” Emma says.
“Promoting it and building it are two very different things, Emma. We did a crackerjack job with the promotion. We even won some industry awards. It’s irrelevant that Mr. Treadway eventually dropped the project.”
“Why did he?” Geoffrey says.
I shrugged.
“Mr. Treadway is filthy rich – like Mr. Archway. And Mr. Stillwater. The rich get distracted. They move on. Who knows why. We’re paid to just do what we do until it’s no longer needed. And we’re paid well for it.”
I remember to smile broadly and appear relaxed – confident. Reassurance 101.
“And The Stillwater Project?” Geoffrey says. “How’d that one go?”
“Oh, about the same as Treadway.”
They sip their drinks and ease back in their chairs. A server comes by our table. I order another round. I think I might be doing okay so far with empathy.
“You mean we just expect failure?” Emma says. “That’s our job?”
“We don’t think about that. We work hard until that day arrives.”
“Even though our work will be for nothing?” Geoffrey says.
“But it’s not for nothing, Geoffrey.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Gloworm makes money. Lots of it. And we get to keep our jobs.”
“And that’s success, Rory?” he says.
“Well, it’s a form of success, yes.”
“To be clear, promoting failure is what we do?” Emma says.
“Well, we wouldn’t put that on a company brochure, that’s for sure. And we’re not promoting failure. We’re promoting a real project until it’s no longer real.”
We get our next round of drinks and Emma and Geoffrey clearly look like they need them. I sense their confusion. I was once new at Gloworm. And I remember that empathy requires patience. I sip my beer and maintain eye contact.
“But why do we bother at all, if Archway is destined to just go belly up?” Emma says.
“We bother because Archway pays us to bother. We have nothing to do with whether he comes through on the project or not. That’s irrelevant.”
Geoffrey’s eyebrows arch.
“That’s some impressive level of compartmentalization you’ve got going there, Rory.”
“You’ll get the hang of it yourself, Geoffrey. And soon, I predict.”
After a long moment, Emma says, “So, we just accept we’ll work hard as if the project is real. That’s what you’re telling us?”
“Oh, it’s real alright. Real enough. The money from Mr. Archway is real. Our paychecks are real. As long as he’s paying, it’s all real.”
“Until he stops paying,” Geoffrey deadpans.
“You’re catching on.”
“What if we just stopped doing anything at all on Archway?” he says.
“Oh, no, Geoffrey – that would be dishonest.”
“I see. And what do you call taking money to brag about something we know isn’t going to happen?”
“Our job.”
After they left, and somewhat abruptly, I thought, I drank another beer and reflected on our meeting. Overall, I felt good about how it went with Emma and Geoffrey. We’ll have to do this more often. Empathy, I suspect, is a lot like working at Gloworm. If you believe you have it, then you do, and that’s really all that matters.
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Michael Loyd Gray is the author of eight published books of fiction (novels/novellas) and sixty published short stories. Scheduled for a March 2026 release by Between the Lines Publishing -- The Writer in Residence, a novel. Gray earned a MFA from Western Michigan University and a bachelor's degree from the University of Illinois. He is a winner of the Alligator Juniper Fiction Prize, a Sol Books Prose Series Prize, a Writers Place Award for Fiction, and a support grant from the Elizabeth George Foundation. He lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan, with three cats and a lot of electric guitars.
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