The Creative Myth

In the beginning, there were lots of people standing around a basement looking at their phones, mindlessly scrolling with two fingers. Some, with their other hands, were scratching themselves in obvious places that required slightly less scrolling. There was lots of fidgeting and more than a few employees made loud reference to the distinct possibility of toxic mold. The room was damp, danker than usual. And they were waiting for the Boss to tell them what to do. 

“Why are we in the basement again?”

“I feel safer down here, closer to the earth, farther from Him.” 

“Who?”

“The Client. Now take those files one by one, no, two by two, and begin shredding. I know this is tedious work, but by keeping bad ideas floating around, we’re risking a karmic rub off.”

The Boss was trying to convince them to destroy as many documents as possible, under the guise of “intellectual property.” It didn’t seem to matter that the agency’s best ideas were stolen ones. 

“It’s raining now. That means The Client is angry again.”

“We should try to find shelter. Higher ground.”

The Boss was not inclined to agree. As a boy in rural Oregon he came to loathe tree houses. Anything more than a few feet from the ground was breathtakingly arrogant. Was it any surprise that he was having trouble breathing with all the mold? And how could a person hope to stay grounded so far from the earth?

Too bad the deluge wouldn’t let up. Bill in accounting was a fine swimmer, erstwhile captain of his college swim team, the backstroke extraordinaire of the group (Syracuse Scungille Class of ’82).

“It’s pouring and don't look now, but it’s coming into the basement.”

This was a disaster. The Boss pretended to look horrified at the soaked banker boxes and waterlogged computers. He gave them a perfunctory frown. But this was a boon for The Boss. In those boxes was evidence of his crimes. Flooding was far more efficient than shredding. Fraud, money laundering, blackmail, and outright theft. He watched as the ink ran away, viewing the whole soak as some sort of divine miracle. 

 

All the bad ideas were gone, but so were the good ones. There were some things worth saving, thought The Boss. The Client, too vengeful, lacked the aim of a dispassionate deity, letting his emotions get the best of him.  

“It’s The Client.”

“What does He want?”

“He says you’re fired, chief."

You didn’t think The Client was going to forget the purpose of the flood in the first place. No chance. That's why he saved the worst idea for last.

It had been a long day and the Boss needed a cleanse, ideally juice-related. The rain would have to suffice instead.