The Promotion

Week 35: Written August 27, 2016

When Walter got word of his promotion, he didn’t want to celebrate. He wanted to get to work right away, to prove that he deserved it. He knew that, when he walked into the office on Monday morning, there’d be people in the shadows talking about the real reason Milton Finance Corp. promoted Walter Scott to their Board of Directors.

And it wouldn’t be because of his ten years of exemplary service.

No, Walter told himself. I’ve made it this far because I’m good at what I do, not because of my skin color.

It felt like only yesterday he was interviewing for jobs out of college — and getting “the look,” the one where the hiring director can’t possibly believe that this talented resume belongs to a black man.

“We’ll let you know,” they’d always say, which was privileged talk for “We’re looking for a lighter shade.”

Eventually, a manager at Milton took a chance on him. But that phrase didn’t sit well with him, either.

“Took a chance.” As if hiring a person of color was a huge gamble.

If Walter had made it to the Board of Directors back then, he would’ve done the impossible. Now, though, every company had a diversity program and a team of minorities on the roster. It was a requirement, a necessity, and when any of them rose up the ranks, it was far too often seen as some sort of “minority privilege.” Companies allotted senior positions to people of color now, and some people found that practice unfair, as if minority executives were simply handed their positions in the pursuit of corporate diversity.

Walter was determined to show everyone that he was no token executive. They didn’t hand this to him. He worked hard and earned it for himself.

On Monday morning, his inbox was filled with congratulatory notes from co-workers and friends alike. He had to hold himself back from trying to read between the lines, suddenly suspicious of all those close to him.

“Relax,” he told himself, fastening his jacket and straightening his tie. Institutional racism hadn’t stopped him from getting this far, so he wasn’t going to let his own paranoia trip him up, not now, not as he was finally reacing the top floor.

“Welcome Walter,” Sandra said with a smile, from her fancy new 52nd floor secretary’s desk. It was even nicer than the desk he’d spent the last five years using, 30 floors down. From here on out, he’d have an office, with a view and his name on the door.

Before he could even enjoy the moment, Sandra stopped him.

“There’s a board meeting happening in five minutes,” she said, pointing at the giant mahogany doors at the end of the hall. The company emblem hung from both doors, etched in gold, with the words “BOARD ROOM” written underneath.

It was the only room in the building Walter hadn’t yet set foot in, where every important decision in the company’s history had been made. They didn’t hold trivial meetings in that room, only game-changing boom-or-bust meetings. There were years where only one or two meetings were held in the 52nd floor Board Room. There were even years where the room wasn’t used at all, not once.

After the magnitude of that hit him, he felt nervous. Why hadn’t he been told there was a meeting so early Monday morning? What if he’d been late and missed it?

“Do you know what it’s about?”

Sandra shrugged.

Walter made his way down the hall, trying to keep calm. On the one hand, he feared that he’d been deliberately left off the important board meeting invite. On the other hand, it didn’t really matter now. That point was moot. He was here, on time, and that meant that this monumental meeting was going to be his first opportunity to make a difference.

He could devote his energy to worrying or working. He chose the latter.

Walter swung open the great wooden doors and looked inside, stunned.

Almost all of the other board members were already there, seated around an old wooden table with markings chiseled into it. Walter didn’t recognize a few of the symbols, but most of them were letters or single-digit numbers. Resting on top of the table was what appeared to be another much smaller table. It was tear-shaped, with a glass window on top.

Walter was confused until he pictured the entire room from above.

It was a giant ouija board.

“Shut the door!” Ben Winchum hissed at him, waving his arm.

“Sorry,” Walter said, closing both doors behind him. “What is all this?”

“The chairman had a dream last night,” Scott Frampton said, casually. “It can happen at anytime, without warning. And the dream said we need to meet today, first thing.”

“A dream? I don’t understand.”

“That’s right, you’re new.” Scott shook his head.

Martin Banks stood up and walked over. He was the manager who first brought Walter to Milton, and mentored him all the way to the 52nd floor.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, putting a hand on Walter’s shoulder. “What you’re about to be a part of is the reason why Milton and pretty much every other financial firm on the planet is able to make a dime: the Gods of Wealth.”

Walter didn’t know what to say. He just looked forward, hoping his jaw hadn’t involuntarily dropped and hit the floor.

“When the Gods have a message for us, the chairman has a dream. Then we meet as soon as possible, as soon as all the board members can get together, to consult with the Gods on what to do next.”

“You mean to tell me the future of the company is decided by…mythical creatures?”

Martin shook his head vigorously.

“There’s nothing mythical about it!”

The doors opened and the last two board members ran in.

“Quickly! Grab a seat near the planchette! This only works if we’re all on board.” Martin ran back to his seat as the other board members reached out to touch the smaller table.

This can’t be, Walter thought. Success isn’t supernatural, is it?

He found a seat near the middle of the table and rested his palms on the planchette, just like the others. Then everybody closed their eyes and waited.

Walter opened his eyes to find the planchette floating an inch off the ground. It began to move, briefly stopping over different markings on the table.

“J!” the board yelled together at the first letter.

“A!”

“N!”

“U!”

“S!”

The planchette then moved to the numbers.

“1!”

“1!”

“0!”

At that point, everyone was confident the transmission was complete.

“Janus Tech?” somebody asked.

“Must be.”

“It was at $6 when the market closed on Friday afternoon.”

Everyone in the room cheered, except for Walter. He just watched in stunned silence.

Martin approached him on the way out. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t even know what just happened.”

“Listen. You need to understand, you’re part of something big now.”

“Am I?”

Martin nodded. “You of all people should know. To make it to the top, you have to play the game.”

Behind him, John Watson and David Morrison reset the room, wiping the table clean and placing the giant planchette in the center. Walter tried to see the board room as he had once imagined it, as a place of business. But all he could see were the characters scrawled into the table, and he wondered if, one day, he might see a slot machine in its place, with stocks instead of cherries.

When he got back to his office, Walter found a box with his business cards sitting on the desk. He opened it up and pulled out a card. They were black, with the company emblem emblazoned in gold on the back. He’d never found it particularly noteworthy before — the outline of a man looking hopefully forward, a bindle with a sack of money slung over his shoulder. They said in new hire orientation that it was inspired by Stanley Milton himself, and his rags to riches story. But he could see now that it was derived from something else, something far more appropriate.

A Tarot card.

The Fool.