by Carl Pritchard, PMP, EVP
Once upon a project dreary, at a meeting getting weary
Over many a rehashed mound of data by a crashing bore,
Came a beeping, beeping, gently seeping, seeping through the conference door.
"Tis only from the hall," I muttered. "A passerby it must implore."
"Only hall noise, nothing more."
Nonetheless the noise persisted. Its entreaties I resisted,
Till my boss at last insisted, "Find the source! My ears are sore!"
So through purses we did burrow. Pockets, wallets, all were furrowed
Seeking just to find a cure, OH! Cure, oh for that noise before
We all went mad from more, more, more.
All at once my cheeks turned cherry, for the noise 'twas I did carry,
Carry on my small Blackberry. I hit the switch, it beeped no more . . .
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"Tis a message worth deleting, just an ad, or little more.
Some bulk e-mail, drug, or store—
This is it and nothing more.
Presently my fear grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Glancing down, I had to, had to read what was the score.
I cast a look down as if nodding, to avoid my boss's prodding
And the jeers of peers applauding, applauding me—the local boor
So I looked for words of text there, on the screen I can't ignore—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
Was the Blackberry just broken? Would the darkness give no token?
Was this just some evil joke and should I throw it to the floor?
This I wondered, should I throw it to the floor?!
Merely this and nothing more.
Then I noticed each head turning, in the meeting, staring, burning.
Soon again I turned so red, yes, redder than I was before.
"Surely," said I, "surely something live or dead, yes;
Let me see then, what the threat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore—
Just blank screen and nothing more!"
Open here I then rebooted, as the crowd sat quiet, muted,
And there flickered on the screen the messages of days of yore.
Not a single one I clicked on; not a clear response would flick on;
But, as if it had been kicked on, turned to gray. "My GOD" I swore;
And on cue my boss let loose and sent me packing out the door—
Still no message; nothing more!
So I called the 1–800, and the phone rang then I blundered,
Pushing "one" instead of getting human help at "four."
Not the slightest slack was given; to the wrong place I was driven;
Like a demon unforgiven, sent me to the sales desk floor—
Where I got no help, no more—
On hold, and sat, and nothing more.
Then my cube-mate came and queried, "What's with you? You don't look cheery?"
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance I wore.
"I just fouled up in my big meeting." The whole story then repeating—
It all felt so self-defeating, hearing the whole thing once more—
"And I'm still on hold to fix it, fix it and find out the score
Of my message. WHAT'S IT FOR??!!"
Was it project change I dreaded? Was some work to Hades headed?
Was my subject matter expert vetted? Vetted as a fraud or MORE?
Was the customer agreeing that no living human being
Ever would be blessed with seeing finished product out the door?
Messages of doom or gloom or worse unseen and yet in store.
Could I read them? Nevermore.
But no message, and no ringing could be heard, no respite bringing
That one text, as if to share it would undo the pain that came before.
Nothing further of that message—no disaster did it presage
Nothing; not a single vestige of the word I waited for.
"On the morrow it will function, function as it has before."
Said my cube-mate, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if man or devil!—
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
This cell phone by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore:
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the cube-mate, "Nevermore."
"Come on, man, you've bigger troubles than your cell phone (which is rubble).
You get back downstairs on the double—fixing up that 'meeting war.'
The boss is one unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
will invoke on you much faster, faster than he's done before—
'Cause you interrupted him with tech toys (better thing if you had snored
or had thrown up on the floor)."
So I went back looking mournful, wishing I had not been born, full
Knowing he would be so scornful, for the cell phone he abhorred.
"Sorry for the interruption, didn't plan on that disruption.
Or the message's corruption, stopping what you had in store."
One cold stare is all he shot me. Shot me—cutting to the core.
"Sit down," he said, and little more.
And then, as if on Satan's cue, the beeping started all anew
With fervency that cut right through the cold chill he was working for
A hundred messages to tag you, flowing forth from this Niagara,
Selling cases of Viagra, timeshares, condos, web sites, MORE.
"Wait! Wait!" I cried, "I'll shut it off, never to be heard from more!"
And still security kept pushing, pushing me out the front door.
Quoth my ex-boss, "Nevermore."
Carl Pritchard is the lead chapter author for the Risk Management chapter of the Guide to the Project Management Body of Knowledge, Fourth Edition with a release scheduled in late 2008 / early 2009. He teaches risk management and PMP® exam preparation in public session and for organizations around the world. He welcomes comments at carl@carlpritchard.com or www.carlpritchard.com.
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