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Summer 1997
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A play in one act, by Andrew Morris
The darkened auditorium is hushed. Centre stage is the smart young presenter (SYP) surrounded by high tech equipment. Pacing up and down the stage bathed in soft lights, he delivers his message. The audience follows his every move like crowds at a slow motion Wimbledon.
Caught mid-sentence by the sudden noisy entrance of the rather haggard middle-aged accountant (HMA) through the rear door, SYP watches stone faced. The audience turns to watch as the HMA makes his way to a vacant seat. Sensing their hostility he fumbles his armloads of computer printouts and they crash to the floor. On bended knee he gathers his belongings together as though his very existence depends on their proximity to him.
He tries to calm himself, makes a small nervous cough and goes through his spectacle readjustment routine. (He had practice for days in front of the mirror to ensure that it displayed the right air of authority - he was convinced. Sadly everyone else just thought he was...)
He reaches the sanctuary of the vacant seat and settling one more into his normal inconspicuousness, like putting on an old cardigan, and awaited the resumption of the performance.
The SYP smiles in a way that would please his orthodontist, and apologises for the delay. With smooth precision he recaps the salient points of his presentation for HMA, making him fidget and squirm in discomfort. He cannot escape.
SYP continues, the acronyms rolling off his tongue with consummate ease and the audience are spell-bound. Complex slides flash on the screen, reflecting on the faces and the unstaring eyes - like prey. Images of processes blend together to build a future bright and clean. Transfixed they absorb word and devour every visual morsel. The tension is tangible, his phrases become live presences moving mysteriously among the congregation.
SYP, like a wily predator, prepares to strike. To gain loyalty and maximise commitment he must not hold back. Only a few seconds now, he thinks and fills his chest in readiness to deliver that final victorious message. I've got them all in the palm of my hand he says to himself.
There is a distraction, and he turns to see that HMA has got to his feet, his folders falling to the floor as he appears to rise like the mythical phoenix from the debris of his double-entry books.
"Excuse me, but I have just one question" says HMA. SYP smiles and senses that this intervention will serve his cause, so he nods slightly and stands under the spotlight in readiness.
HMA swallows, his nervous little fingers clutched together.
"My question is...does it do my debtors?"
SYP stares, then slumps. Unprepared for pragmatism, he snatches defeat from the very jaws of victory. HMA gathers up his belongings and makes his way out of the auditorium and heads back to the sanctity of his windowless cubicle.
Alone in the cold light of the now empty room SYP knows the cruellest truth: in the real world presentation is no match for content.
Andrew Morris
Last Updated: 28 July 1998