Is working 4 days a week more efficient?

Microsoft tested in August 2019 in ıf is working four days a week more efficient in Japan. And asked the employees what they feel:’’ They told them they are feeling better’’. Employees were…

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The Big Shot

Not a big shot.

Johnny was a big shot.

Everyone in the city knew who he was.

When he drove by in a flashy car, the people would say, “There he goes, the Big Man in town!”

Everyone knew that his garage housed seven vehicles. All were high-end, luxury brands and all of them had a big shot aura that could be felt by people one half-mile away

“Only seven?” asked Wayne Hudson, a short man of 35 with a shaved head and thick eyebrows; he was in town visiting his college friend Jack Blumenthal for a week and had heard about Johnny from some other friends of his in the city.

“Yeah, seven, it’s a superstition thing… hell, the man could have eighteen cars and a LearJet, but that’s not his number. Seven is.”

Jack defended Johnny like everyone did. The economic impact of Johnny’s lavish consumption and smart investment in local business was one thing, but there were other reasons people admired him as well.

Such as:

One small subset of local residents, the fashion-conscious admirers, loved to speculate on what new articles of clothing he would stock his closets with once the weather began to change. He never disappointed them. The outfits that were always on point with subtle flourishes that befitted a man of his status. No one knew where he procured his textiles and who, if anyone, provided advice that led to Johnny’s audacious fashion choices. There was always something to talk about.

“I would die for Johnny’s wardrobe,” a high-school teacher named Bill Wilson said to his wife, Denise, on a cold, December night while eating dinner at a local restaurant.

“Me too!”

Denise and Bill connected at that moment and their marriage was saved.

Things had been hard for the couple recently. It was difficult for Bill to think of things to talk about with Denise after twenty years of marriage. Now, there was no thinking required for Bill; both were sufficiently obsessed with the mysterious contents of Johnny’s wardrobe to forge a bond built on something of substance.

Bill’s friend Patrick McCool was not interested in hearing about Johnny’s wardrobe. He belonged to another subset of the population: A fairly large group of admirers endlessly impressed by Johnny’s posture.

“You can tell a lot by a person’s posture,” he said to Bill, who was distracted by thoughts of color-coordinated jewels and other accessories.

Dr. Donald Black, a well-respected psychologist and a member of the local intelligentsia subset, opined:

“It takes confidence to follow this path. It’s not for everyone. A big shot is a rare personality. A big shot cannot doubt his ability to be the man about town, or he has already lost.”

Donny’s thoughts reflected commonly held beliefs among his peers, who loved to discuss Johnny’s complex cultural role at fancy dinner parties.

Johnny as a Big Man?

It was destiny. Completely. The role of the big shot is a culturally revered position of unofficial power reserved for individuals that happen to grow up under the right set of circumstances.

A big shot is developed through luck and good parenting. The type of parenting considered good for a big shot is a twisted, unholy take on traditional parenting, meaning, Johnny’s parents were never home and they did not care what Johnny did after school. He often went to the corner of Vine and Garrison to drink malt liquor and talk to the drug dealers.

Johnny stood out. He was a small white boy with sandy blond hair that cascaded over his delicate blue eyes when he leaned forward. There were stares at first, but he didn’t care. Those would go away once his presence became normal. He already knew this was the way people were; they become tolerant of the familiar.

The drug dealers respected the bravado of the scrawny little boy that came down to hang out. They teased him, but it didn’t bother Johnny much. He would laugh and talk shit right back. He handled the situation perfectly, every time.

When the sun descended and the threat of violence began to alter the pleasantly tense vibrations at dusk, Johnny would get on his bike and ride home to an indifferent mother and slovenly father. His mother watched a loud, commanding television and his father hid in his study. Johnny never knew what his father was doing in there, nor did he care.

Of course, this is not the recommended way to raise a child. However, if your child is destined to become a big shot, this is the best approach to cultivate the style and I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude required.

It bears repeating:

You can’t give a fuck about your child if you want him to become a big shot.

Johnny stopped going to school around fifth grade. No one told him this was a bad idea, so he was unaware that most Americans would consider this a bad decision.

However, these bad decisions set Johnny up perfectly.

It all happened just the way it should.

On the night of 14 March, Johnny went out to celebrate life with another subset of his ardent admirers.

“Hey there, Frank, great to see you. My man.”

That is what Johnny said when he gave knuckles to Frank Schmidt, a grizzled goon contracted by Johnny’s underlings to handle small security tasks for the evening, as he entered the popular Shangri-La Nightclub.

Once their closed fists connected, Frank was imbued with authority. The exact amount of authority was not apparent. It couldn’t be measured or communicated, but it was real enough.

Frank, who had a reputation as a loose cannon, would be careful with his behavior while working for Johnny. However, if the chance came to act a little rowdy, he would not hesitate to do so. He figured it was part of the job.

Now, the recognition of a man by a big shot in public is an honor. And a big shot respects this responsibility because that’s what big shots do and that’s what Johnny was. His name was Johnny for fuck’s sake.

After Johnny gave knuckles to Frank, he headed up the stairs to a VIP lounge reserved for him and his entourage and posse. It was the right thing to do. No one begrudged him this kingly perch.

There was a kid named Jack Randolph at the bar who could not look away from Johnny’s shadowed frame moving gracefully around the dark room high above the crowded, frenzied floor of sweat and stink and lewd behavior.

No class.

Jack watched Frank walk by next, his quick, erratic movements demonstrating a sad contrast to Johnny’s soulful gait. Frank was a hard, silent man with a crop of black hair slicked back from his broad, pock-marked face. He had a cigarette behind his ear and eased into a languid lean on the pole near the stairwell that led to Johnny’s receiving area.

Jack wondered why Frank was down on the floor with everyone else. There was no reason for him to be. No reason that Jack could think of, at least.

Frank made eye contact with Jack. Jack waved. Frank did not.
“I’ll teach that bastard to wave at me,” Frank whispered to himself, the lingering result of incompetent parenting, which happens when you care too much for your child.

Before Frank could teach Jack a lesson, Jack had left the club. He didn’t like the look that Frank gave him and so he walked quickly out the doors, hailed a cab, and rode twenty blocks back to his apartment on the north side of town. Nothing ever happened there, and Jack didn’t mind. He did not want a big shot living close by. Sure, there were benefits, but the risks were substantial. Risk aversion was Jack’s preference, he knew it, and he had no compunction in admitting this to people.

Jack did admire Johnny’s jackets; the material, the fit, the color, the attitude… he would have liked just one jacket like that, only one, but he understood the vagaries of luck. Some things just don’t work out.

The sign on the door to his building diverted his thoughts from jackets to the desperation of his neighbors. It read:

“Cat missing. Male. His name is Hector. Black and White. Please return. Reward.”

Jack had never found a missing animal. He never really looked for them.

“I hope someone finds that cat,” he said to no one as he entered his apartment and leapt on his couch. The remote control was on the floor and he picked it up, pointed it at the television, and pressed the big red button.

Electrical currents surged to the location where Jack pointed his magic wand. “Antichrist,” was on. The rusty scissors had not come out yet and so Jack braced himself for the carnage, happy to be home.

Back on the other side of town in the Shangri-La, Johnny was sitting on a maroon plush couch between two women, sipping Don Julio and laughing heartily. He preferred the añejo to the reposado and everyone knew this.

“Ladies, this is some fine tequila.”

They laughed and moved closer to him, giggling and gloating over the other women that were standing around, surrounded by the hideous beasts that Johnny rolled with.

Rondo Smith, Johnny’s best friend, was on a tall stool with a perfect view of the entire facility. His arm was rested on the rail by the edge of the loft. He smiled to himself, noticing the glances directed at Johnny and the women that currently held his attention.

Down on the floor, there was Frank. A joyless fool of a man, yes, but a good man.

“Frank!”

Frank looked up.

“What’s good, brother?”

“Some punk waved at me, actin like he knows me… I can’t stand that shit.”

“Chill out friend; get a whiskey and come up.”

“Nah, I’m thinking about something.”

“About what?”

“I saw a lady with a blue wig at the far end of the bar. That’s all.”

“What’s there to think about?”

“Wigs. I don’t get em; I don’t understand the concept.”

Rondo turned back to the crowd gathered around Johnny and whispered, “Good help is hard to get these days,” under his breath.

Frank walked away from where he was standing and ordered a whiskey at the bar. A few minutes later he had a bottle of it. A few minutes after that, the bottle was shattered with jagged tips of glass fangs coated with the blood of mouthy frat boys.

“I never saw a blue wig I liked…” was all Rondo could say to himself while he headed down the stairs.

Johnny paid no attention to the commotion downstairs. Whatever it was, it was of no concern to a big shot.

On the other side of town, Jack was smoking a joint and watching a dead fox say, “Chaos Reigns.”

Below him on the second floor, a jittery young college girl named Clarice missed her cat.

No one ever found Hector and it took awhile for Clarice to get over his disappearance.

Frank died.

Jack slept.

Johnny grinned.

Just another ordinary night in the city.

Is working 4 days a week more efficient?

The Big Shot

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