Regarding Ms. Smith

The two or three regular readers of The Schprock Report who have heard of Ms. Smith recognize her as the quintessential client from hell. Equipped with such knowledge, these people may continue to read this post; however, I must entreat those not familiar with Ms. Smith and the story of how she would rather get shot to please follow that link and read the whole tale first. Certainly Ms. Smith has popped up in other places in this blog, but this one story truly encapsulates what the Ms. Smith experience has been all about. So go ahead and read it and we can wait. Take your time.

(taps foot, whistles, glances at watch)

Back now? Good. Let’s begin.

I will deliver the news about Ms. Smith by telling you exactly how I broke it to 80 Hour Man, who had the day off when we heard these unexpected tidings of her. 80 Hour Man and I usually get in to work before everyone else, so, after he stepped out of the elevator and we said our good mornings, I insisted he sit down and prepare himself for some rather shocking news. He did so with a smile on his face, no doubt expecting something facetious to come out of me. When I saw he was properly seated, I asked him, “Do you know Ms. Smith?”

“Yeah?”

“Dead.”

“What?”

“Dead!” I repeated.

“She’s dead?”

“Dead!”

Yes, Ms. Smith is dead, from what cause we don’t know. Theories abound of course, but all that is known is that her parents discovered her body in her house possibly on Wednesday. Ms. Smith was only 33 years old, incredibly young to die, and this, as I’ve said, has led to all manner of speculation. I instantly thought of suicide but have since amended that. Whatever the cause, and whatever opinion you or I or anyone might have of her, it’s very, very sad.

The most popular theory is that an eating disorder did her in. It is true that Ms. Smith was seen very rarely to eat. One of our bosses, the creative director, used to supply Ms. Smith with fresh fruit and little vegetarian dainties every time Ms. Smith made one of her infamous, prolonged visits. The rest of the people in the office acted like starving wolves held at bay, waiting for enough time to pass to politely dive into the food she obviously would not eat. I could almost sense a certain pride she might have felt in disciplining herself to not put nourishment into her system while looking at the rest of us as weak.

Another theory is cocaine. The president of our company heard rumors that Ms. Smith battled an addiction to the white powder some time ago, and maybe a renewed abuse of that drug led to her demise. She seemed to live on Diet Coke, so there’s a sort of irony in considering the possibility that the other coke would in the end deprive her of the life the first Coke sustained. Suicide, of course, is right up there. She had gone through a string of high-powered positions in the schoolbook publishing world, always leaving each job under a cloud, and an imminent dismissal from this, her latest position, with no other prospect in sight, might have meant a loss of stature and material wealth too much for her to bear.

Here’s my theory: I’m guessing Ms. Smith suffered from a rare disorder, let’s say some obscure blood disease, which she kept hidden while bravely putting in 16 hour days, knowing all the while her life would be cut short. That would explain her mysterious absences during urgent projects when she would suddenly become completely unavailable: she could have been receiving critical, life-preserving treatments during those times.

Well, like I say, it’s a theory.

Whatever the case, I feel bad. I always kind of liked her even though she frustrated me and made me furious at times. She was, at bottom, a nice person, and I always thought she led a pathetic life despite her five bedroom house, Jaguar, $5,000 boots, her Gucci this and Gucci that, and a yearly salary with all those zeros in it. In a way, I think she fussed and micromanaged herself to death, and that’s just plain sad.