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Executive Times |
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2006 Book Reviews |
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The
Futurist by James P. Othmer |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Imaginative James P. Othmer’s debut novel, The
Futurist, will make you laugh while you read it, and lead you to thinking
after you’ve finished it. Satire is always a challenge to pull off, and
business-related satire can be even more difficult. Despite coming across as
trying too hard at times, a typical debut shortcoming, Othmer
succeeds in placing a believeable central
character, J.P. Yates, the “founding father of the Coalition of the Clueless,”
into global situations that are both plausible and entertaining. Here’s an
excerpt, from the beginning of the chapter titled, “Threats and
Opportunities,” pp. 30-35: He once
fired a man on Take Your Daughter to Work Day. He once spent the night at a
wellness conference holding a bingeing MacArthur
Fellow’s puking head over a toilet. He once wrote the introduction to a book
he never read, Beehive Management: How
Life in the Honeycomb Translates to Winning in the Workplace. A recent
lecture circuit saw him speak on successive days to a leading pesticide
manufacturer and the Organic Farmers of America and receive standing ovations
from both. Yates
doesn’t remember whether he was simply booed offstage or physically removed
from the premises. He does remember that two people actually clapped, an
Irish journalist and a security guard, but they were immediately suppressed
by the glares of those who were fairly sure that they had been offended. This is
what Blevins said: “Nice job, fuckface.” This is
what the aide to the This is
what Faith B. Popcorn said: “Speak for yourself, ass-hole.” This is
what Marjorie said: “The truth is better than sex, yes?” This is
what he said: “No.” This is
what the reporter from Pravda said:
“Do you hold yourself personally accountable for the lives of the dying
civilian cosmonauts?” This is
what Yates said: “Yes.” And this
is what Amanda Glowers says as she takes him by the arm and steers him into
an anteroom: “That was one of the most spectacular suicides I have ever
seen.” “Thank
you.” “There are
some people I want you to meet.” “Where, in
the back seat of a car, with me in a black hood on a lonely She hands
him a plastic key card. “They’re in my room. Four-sixteen.” “Aren’t
you coming?” “I don’t
want to. And they don’t want me to. Separation of this and that.” “Government?” She
smiles, shrugs. “You tell me.” He doesn’t
knock, just swipes himself in. In the elevator he imagined they’d be sitting
at attention at a table facing the door, expecting him. Perhaps a clenched-fist type in the shadows, coming forth to give him a
perfunctory gun check. But instead the door quietly opens onto two
middle-aged white men lying on a queen-sized bed. One is asleep. The other is
fumbling with the clicker to turn off the muted pornographic movie he’s been
watching. “I can
come back. I mean, I don’t want to ruin the dramatic conclusion or anything.” The
clicker guy stands up, makes a martial show of powering the TV down. Clicker
as nunchaku. Clicker as six-shooter. “You could
have fucking knocked.” Yates
holds up his swipe key. “Didn’t need to.” The other
guy opens his eyes, rubs his face. He looks first at the blank TV, then
vapidly at Yates. “I’m
Yates.” Clicker
man nods. “I’m Johnson.” He smiles and gestures to his partner. “And so is
he.” “Lovely.
Are you twins, or is the surname a mandatory requirement for entrance into
the club?” “Hilarious,”
says upright Johnson. “Listen, Glowers thinks you were made for this. I think
you’re wired all wrong. But you clearly have a gift. What you just did this
morning—the Coalition of the Clueless, the philosophical task of our age—good
stuff.” “It’s
called a reckless disregard for one’s livelihood. The gist of the speech is
that my so-called gift is a sham.” Upright
Johnson waves him off. Prone Johnson lights a cigarette. “What
agency are you guys with?” “None. We
work for a company that is loosely affiliated with the military, a bit more
snugly affiliated with the party in power. When he’s not sleeping, Johnson
here sometimes works for a consortium called the Center for Emerging Threats
and Opportunities. Would you like a scotch?” Yates
looks at a bottle of Glenfiddich on the table.
“Sure. I mean no. What am I thinking? Definitely no. May I leave now?” “Any time.
But I haven’t given you our pitch. And since you’re fairly well
professionally neutered for the foreseeable future, I thought you’d give us
some consideration.” “Go ahead.
Seduce me.” “We want
you to tell us what you think of the world.” “Right
now? In one hundred words or less? Book length? Or small enough to fit on a
bumper sticker?” “We want
you to do what you always do but with a more sociological, geopolitical
bent. We want you to travel to the corners of the planet, occasionally on
assignment, and tell us what you think about what they think.” “They?” “The
citizens of the world.” “That’s
easy. They hate us. Every shade of hate. Shit, there are already libraries
filled with books about that.” “But the
degree and variety of hate changes by the hour. By the longitudinal click.
And you are right about the hate and the surface politics. But we’re more
interested in an assessment of the vibe, the emotional intangibles. The fads,
the waves, what you people call the memes. What is the global preoccupation?
What ideological truths are being crammed into the minds of unsuspecting
children?” “Didn’t you guys already
try this a long time ago? The terrorism futures market. What are the odds on
the next attack, bloody insurrection, assassination, violent coup, subtle
regime change?” “Space
disaster?” “Funny.” “The
futures market, which, for the record, we had nothing to do with, was poorly
conceived. Should never have been released, or even leaked for public
consumption, which rendered it susceptible to the manipulation of the
would-be perpetrators themselves. This is much more about the gathering of
emotional intelligence for probabilistic risk assessment. You know how
insurance companies calculate to mitigate? We calculate to prevent.” The other
Johnson clears his throat. “And to enact. In certain situations, we might ask
you to give a well-placed sound bite on behalf of our interests.” “Why me?
Why not a numbers cruncher? Why not a policy guy? Why not go to the
appropriate wonk? Or to the inhabitants of some corporately funded,
ill-intentioned think tank?” “Because
they’re not intuitive. They’re binary. Rational. Just like you said today.
Black-white. Yes-no. We use them, but wonks and numbers crunchers can’t read
the tea leaves.” “Neither
can I. In fact, I don’t even know what a wonk is.” “Intuition
is integral to understanding the probability of catastrophe. Insurance
companies can assess the likelihood of earthquake, hurricane, nuclear plant failure. How many drunken sixteen-year-old
boys will crash their parents’ SUV into an oak tree on prom night? For that,
it is entirely possible to
ballpark a number. But not when one is calculating to prevent or to change
the course of global events. We can use advanced game-theory techniques to
emulate human decisions and geopolitical trends, to model the malicious
intent of a potential adversary. But you can only play and calculate so much
re the individual psyche. Re the group psyche.” “And re
me? You want me to. . .” Johnson
pulls an index card out of his pocket and clears his throat. “Go wherever you
want. You will have golden credit and a golden ticket. Go wherever you want
and watch the world and listen to its voices. Take its temperature, its
resting and agitated pulse. Listen to its sins and chronicle its beauty. All
the while imagining the absolute worst. The most abject combinations of the
tragic and the horrible. The unforeseen. The unthought-of. Big and small. Go
anywhere on earth. Consider the reality. Hope for the best, imagine the
worst, and come up with a tone of voice. A way to speak to these people. On
behalf of these people. Or do something more dramatic—discover a theme, an
emerging pattern. An unstoppable wave in the ripple stages. It’s quite
heroic, actually. Being able to forecast and perhaps prevent the
unspeakable.” “That’s
nice. Did you write it?” The other
Johnson nods. “He worked all morning on it.” “Well, it
does sound. . . interesting. But I
can’t. I have no proclivity for this. I’m not global. I’m not worldly or
political. I haven’t even voted in the last three presidential elections. I’m
a fake.” Prone
Johnson stirs, taps his head. “But you have this.” “Plus I’m
a coward. If you think I’m going to the so-called hot spots, you’re crazy.
The Gazas. The “We
understand. In the rare instance that we actually ask you to go to a specific
location, your safety will not be compromised in the least. Whatever you are
comfortable with. All that we ask is that you do what you’ve always done and
tell us the parts you never dared to tell others.” “Maybe you
didn’t notice, but I just renounced all of this. I saw the light. I’m going
to turn my life around.” Both Johnsons are standing now. One hands the other an envelope.
“We’re not stopping you. But it might be easier to turn it around with this.”
He holds out the envelope. “Everything you need is in here. The credit cards,
the e-mail addresses. There is one number to call for all your travel needs. Hotels,
cars, flights. Just tell them the credit card number. If you decide not to
play, we will terminate the cards in twenty-four hours. The cash is yours
either way. If you decide to continue, a matching sum will be transferred to
your Citibank account, which clearly can use a little help, every seven
days.” “I have a
lot of stock options.” “We know.
And we’re not impressed.” “How will
we stay in contact?” “Check
your e-mail. All we expect in return is some kind of regular update. A log or
diary. Bullet points of things you find interesting. Once a week or so. Do
we have a deal?” Yates
stares at the outstretched hand. In twenty-four hours he’s gone from
run-of-the-mill sellout to self-destructive moralist to what? The ultimate
sellout? A shadow patriot? A job? He doesn’t know. He had wanted to walk away
from it with dignity. No, that’s not true. He had wanted to destroy himself,
perhaps with dignity, but implosion was the primary goal. And now this, an
option that is utterly devoid of dignity and likely to lead to the darkest of
all possible worlds. Which is precisely what the jilted, hungover,
morally confused Yates finds so compelling. Why not? Why the hell not? “Can I
travel with an assistant?” They look
at each other, shrug. “Sure.” He takes
the envelope, shakes the hand. The other
Johnson unlocks the door and stands behind it as he opens it. “Of course none
of this ever happened.” “Not even
the porno movie?” If you’ve ever rolled your eyes while
listening to a buzz-worded speech at an industry convention, you’ll love
reading The
Futurist. If you’ve traveled enough on business to awake many mornings
with an uncertainty as to where you are, you’ll enjoy the exploits of J. P.
Yates. If you are concerned that we’re likely to get the future we deserve,
reading The
Futurist will give you plenty to think about. Steve Hopkins,
August 25, 2006 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the September
2006 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Futurist.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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