I was young, confident, dedicated, eager to please and hungry to earn my stripes yesterday. I was the proverbial young man in a hurry. After all, I had joined the corporate world with a passel of collegiate achievements, a brain full of book-learning and ideas out the wazoo for how to do things differently and better. Full of piss and vinegar, as they say.
He was
Whenever I finished some project or assignment or report, he'd give a quick, cursory thank-you and then ask, "What's next?" Every. Single. Time.
I wanted a pat on the back, an acknowledgement of my brilliance, an atta-boy. I wanted some show of gratitude for the contribution I thought I was making. I wanted recognition. After all, that was what I expected after being a BMOC. Who did he think he was?
He would have none of it. Peering over his readers, he'd ask "What's next," as if I had an actual clue as to what he was talking about.
He stifled me. I hated him. I called him "Big Brother."











