Dead Man's Float

The fluorescent name tag reads AREA MANAGER, which is corporate speak for the person who manages nothing while looking busy. I'm forty-seven years old, and I've become exactly what I swore I'd never be: a middle-aged zombie in an ill-fitting suit, shuffling through yet another mandatory sales conference at a Pyramid Resorts property in Phoenix.

The pyramid scheme—corporate hierarchy, not the illegal kind—has me somewhere in the middle. Enough responsibility to drown in, not enough authority to make actual decisions. My ex-wife Elena used to say I had a talent for floating. She meant it as a compliment once. Later, not so much.

The conference ends at six, but the real meetings happen at the pool. That's where I find Marcus, VP of Regional Development, holding court with the younger sharks. They orbit him like eager planets, their laughter too sharp, their drinks full. I order a whiskey and settle into a lounge chair far enough away to appear aloof, close enough that I can still claim I tried.

"Tom, my man," Marcus calls out, spotting me. "We were just talking about the Dallas quadrant. Come join."

I wade into the shallow end of the conversation. The water feels good after three days of air conditioning and PowerPoint presentations. Marcus is talking synergy, disruption, Q3 projections. The words wash over me. I nod at the right moments. I've mastered the corporate language, a dialect where nothing means what it should.

That's when I see her across the pool—a woman in her thirties, alone, reading an actual book. Not a tablet. Not checking her phone. Just reading. She looks alive in a way I haven't felt in years.

"Earth to Tom," Marcus says. "You still with us?"

I stand up. The water clings to my legs. "Actually, Marcus, I think I'm done for the night."

"We haven't even talked about the restructuring."

"Exactly." I walk away from the pyramid, away from the zombie I've been playing. Toward the woman with the book. She looks up as I approach, and for the first time in a decade, I don't know what I'm going to say. I don't have a pitch. I don't have an agenda.

"That seat taken?" I ask.

She smiles—genuine, startled. "It's all yours."

I sit. The water on my legs dries in the desert heat. For now, that's enough.