I was in a meeting this morning where there was one guy who looked uncannily like a young John Malkovich. He had the bald pate, the rumpled forehead, the droopy, hooded eyes, the soft nasal drawl of a voice. Even his coloring, the scruffy light brown hair and the seemingly non-descript eyes (gray? brown? black?) were reflected faithfully.
He came in late and then proceeded to yawn throughout all the charts, reports, and PowerPoint figures. As I watched furtively, his long fingers kept rubbing the scalp exposed on his bald spot; rubbing, rubbing, and sometimes getting in a little bit of a scratch.
On his right ring finger was a chunky gold band that clasped what looked to be a round black onyx. Underneath the table, I could see well-worn black cowboy boots, missing only their spurs.
When someone raised an issue that involved his department, Malkovich sat up straight and fired off a series of questions—not fast, but in a steady stream, one right after the other. Oddly, to me it had the effect of a routine interrogation gone evil.
And that’s my Monday for you, so far.