Off Topic
A Session with Westy
October 15, 2061 | Forever Land | Bikini Krill GM, Ron Collins, and his assistant GM, Monica Green, step into their boss’s office and take a seat. “Westy will be with you shortly,” says Benjamin Harris, Krill owner P. Moreau Westmoreland’s personal assistant says to them. “Would you like a Fresca?”
“That would be great,” Green says, smoothing her sharply-creased pant leg.
“Um, sure,” Collins adds. “Do you know if he received our advance information packet?”
“I’m sure he did,” Benjamin replies, then goes to the molecular reconfiguration system embedded in one corner of the office—which is spacious and built high up in the middle of Forever Land, the immense amusement park that Westmoreland -- a youthful multi-trillionaire futurist has been building across many of the Marshal Islands. It’s mid-morning, heading toward lunchtime. Outside the soundproofed windows, a sleek conduction roller coaster creeps to its apex, then begins to fall. Hands up, Collins can almost hear their screams. A moment later, Benjamin returns with the effervescing drinks, and as the two take sips, Westmoreland steps through the private Come Together Door built into the wall behind his desk. He's been working out, it seems. At least he's wearing athletic gear, and has a towel draped over his shoulders. His hair is still wet, apparently from a shower.
“Ron!” Westmoreland says, “Monica! So good to see you.”
“Thank you,” Green replies, putting her drink on the hover tray that occupies space between Collins and her.
Westmoreland takes his seat. “You wanted to talk about the budget for next year, correct?”
“Well, the spending plan, anyway,” Collins replies.
“What’s the difference?”
“We’re talking OOTP here, sir, that’s a little complicated.”
Westmoreland looks to Green. “Is he always this way?”
She cocks her head in gentle exasperation. “I’m afraid so.”
“Hmm. All right, then. Whatever. You want to talk about the spending plan.”
“Have you seen the draft Monica sent over last night?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“If I’m reading this right, your plan is to spend $14M more then we intend to make.”
“Right.”
“And that’s assuming we make it to at least one round of the playoffs.”
“Yes, sir. The Silly Postseason Exhibition Season. If we make it there, we’d spend roughly $14M more than revenue.”
“And if we don’t?”
Collins presses his lips together but doesn’t say anything. Westmoreland looks again to Monical Green, who responds in a calm and collected tone. “Then we would overspend by about $18M, sir.” Her polished fingernails tap the edge of her armrest.
“Technically, that’s a step better than our operations pulled off this year,” Collins blurts out. “We spent $19M more than we made in 2061.”
“Isn’t that another way of saying we lost $19M this year?”
“Not when you take into account the SPET proceeds.”
“And not when you add in the money our outreach program created via participation,” Green adds, seemingly coming to Collins’s aid, but also (Ron notes) taking control of the conversation. She didn’t have to tell Westy that Community Outreach was still her baby. “I project that with that program in full force, we’ll fill the coffers back up to proper levels going into next spring. I knew we were going to be cutting it tight, so I had the guys work a little harder throughout the year.”
Westmoreland smiles at Monica. “That’s the kind of intuition I like to see in my executives.”
“We can do that again next year if we have to,” Collins says with a tone he hopes is commanding. He needs to control the flow of the conversation.
“What are our other options?”
“Not many,” Collins says.
“There are always options, my good man,” Westy replies. “The plan calls for spending $95M on players. What if we cut that.”
“We need a real hitter, Boss,” Collins said. “Cutting would be a bad idea.”
“We could release Vidaca,” Green says, again with the calmness. “But it would cost us $4M to let him walk, and we estimate the fan interest hit would run upward of $3M. Still, if that’s a fair estimate, it could shave $7M.”
Westmoreland strokes his closely shaved chin. “I like Felix, though. It would be a shame to let him walk.”
“We need him, too,” Collins replies. “We’re thinking of putting him in the bullpen full-time.”
“You’re telling me we’re going to pay $14M to a bullpen guy?”
“We paid him $16M when he came out of the pen two years ago.”
Westmoreland edges forward and levels his crystalline blue eyes on Collins. “I don’t think that’s the flex you think it is, Ron.”
“Um. Okay. Anyway, I figure we keep him in the spending plan, and depending on how things go we can try to trade him for value.”
“I see,” Westmoreland sits back with an angsty sigh. He looks to Green, then to Collins, then to Green again. “If I agree with overspending the budget,” he said, accentuating the word, “can your team bail us out again?”
She twists a wry corner of one professionally glossed lip into a lighthearted smile. “It’ll be a lot of work, but my guys are used to that. I’m sure we can find a way to cover things.”
A big sigh later, Westmoreland gives one more nod. “All right then,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
“Excellent,” Collins says, already standing. Win in hand, it's time to get out of here before Westy changes his mind.
Green, too, stands, though not with the same fervor. She reaches down to take her Fresca with her.
“Ms. Green?” Westmoreland says as Collins begins to head to the doorway that leads to Westy’s waiting parlor.
Monica Green stops.
“I was wondering if you had time to take a lunch with me. I'll need a moment to prepare, of course, but I’m interested in running some ideas through you.”
Green’s smile is instant. “That would be excellent,” she says, turning to Collins. “Can we reschedule our discussion about my raise to tomorrow?”
Collins tries not to react, knowing that their lunch meeting was not set to discuss any such raise but was instead supposed to cover plans for the winter meetings that would be coming up sooner than it felt like they would, but with Westmoreland’s gaze on him he knows there is only one answer to this question.
“That would be fine,” he says.
As he leaves the office alone, the door shuts behind him.
October 15, 2061 | Forever Land | Bikini Krill GM, Ron Collins, and his assistant GM, Monica Green, step into their boss’s office and take a seat. “Westy will be with you shortly,” says Benjamin Harris, Krill owner P. Moreau Westmoreland’s personal assistant says to them. “Would you like a Fresca?”
“That would be great,” Green says, smoothing her sharply-creased pant leg.
“Um, sure,” Collins adds. “Do you know if he received our advance information packet?”
“I’m sure he did,” Benjamin replies, then goes to the molecular reconfiguration system embedded in one corner of the office—which is spacious and built high up in the middle of Forever Land, the immense amusement park that Westmoreland -- a youthful multi-trillionaire futurist has been building across many of the Marshal Islands. It’s mid-morning, heading toward lunchtime. Outside the soundproofed windows, a sleek conduction roller coaster creeps to its apex, then begins to fall. Hands up, Collins can almost hear their screams. A moment later, Benjamin returns with the effervescing drinks, and as the two take sips, Westmoreland steps through the private Come Together Door built into the wall behind his desk. He's been working out, it seems. At least he's wearing athletic gear, and has a towel draped over his shoulders. His hair is still wet, apparently from a shower.
“Ron!” Westmoreland says, “Monica! So good to see you.”
“Thank you,” Green replies, putting her drink on the hover tray that occupies space between Collins and her.
Westmoreland takes his seat. “You wanted to talk about the budget for next year, correct?”
“Well, the spending plan, anyway,” Collins replies.
“What’s the difference?”
“We’re talking OOTP here, sir, that’s a little complicated.”
Westmoreland looks to Green. “Is he always this way?”
She cocks her head in gentle exasperation. “I’m afraid so.”
“Hmm. All right, then. Whatever. You want to talk about the spending plan.”
“Have you seen the draft Monica sent over last night?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“If I’m reading this right, your plan is to spend $14M more then we intend to make.”
“Right.”
“And that’s assuming we make it to at least one round of the playoffs.”
“Yes, sir. The Silly Postseason Exhibition Season. If we make it there, we’d spend roughly $14M more than revenue.”
“And if we don’t?”
Collins presses his lips together but doesn’t say anything. Westmoreland looks again to Monical Green, who responds in a calm and collected tone. “Then we would overspend by about $18M, sir.” Her polished fingernails tap the edge of her armrest.
“Technically, that’s a step better than our operations pulled off this year,” Collins blurts out. “We spent $19M more than we made in 2061.”
“Isn’t that another way of saying we lost $19M this year?”
“Not when you take into account the SPET proceeds.”
“And not when you add in the money our outreach program created via participation,” Green adds, seemingly coming to Collins’s aid, but also (Ron notes) taking control of the conversation. She didn’t have to tell Westy that Community Outreach was still her baby. “I project that with that program in full force, we’ll fill the coffers back up to proper levels going into next spring. I knew we were going to be cutting it tight, so I had the guys work a little harder throughout the year.”
Westmoreland smiles at Monica. “That’s the kind of intuition I like to see in my executives.”
“We can do that again next year if we have to,” Collins says with a tone he hopes is commanding. He needs to control the flow of the conversation.
“What are our other options?”
“Not many,” Collins says.
“There are always options, my good man,” Westy replies. “The plan calls for spending $95M on players. What if we cut that.”
“We need a real hitter, Boss,” Collins said. “Cutting would be a bad idea.”
“We could release Vidaca,” Green says, again with the calmness. “But it would cost us $4M to let him walk, and we estimate the fan interest hit would run upward of $3M. Still, if that’s a fair estimate, it could shave $7M.”
Westmoreland strokes his closely shaved chin. “I like Felix, though. It would be a shame to let him walk.”
“We need him, too,” Collins replies. “We’re thinking of putting him in the bullpen full-time.”
“You’re telling me we’re going to pay $14M to a bullpen guy?”
“We paid him $16M when he came out of the pen two years ago.”
Westmoreland edges forward and levels his crystalline blue eyes on Collins. “I don’t think that’s the flex you think it is, Ron.”
“Um. Okay. Anyway, I figure we keep him in the spending plan, and depending on how things go we can try to trade him for value.”
“I see,” Westmoreland sits back with an angsty sigh. He looks to Green, then to Collins, then to Green again. “If I agree with overspending the budget,” he said, accentuating the word, “can your team bail us out again?”
She twists a wry corner of one professionally glossed lip into a lighthearted smile. “It’ll be a lot of work, but my guys are used to that. I’m sure we can find a way to cover things.”
A big sigh later, Westmoreland gives one more nod. “All right then,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
“Excellent,” Collins says, already standing. Win in hand, it's time to get out of here before Westy changes his mind.
Green, too, stands, though not with the same fervor. She reaches down to take her Fresca with her.
“Ms. Green?” Westmoreland says as Collins begins to head to the doorway that leads to Westy’s waiting parlor.
Monica Green stops.
“I was wondering if you had time to take a lunch with me. I'll need a moment to prepare, of course, but I’m interested in running some ideas through you.”
Green’s smile is instant. “That would be excellent,” she says, turning to Collins. “Can we reschedule our discussion about my raise to tomorrow?”
Collins tries not to react, knowing that their lunch meeting was not set to discuss any such raise but was instead supposed to cover plans for the winter meetings that would be coming up sooner than it felt like they would, but with Westmoreland’s gaze on him he knows there is only one answer to this question.
“That would be fine,” he says.
As he leaves the office alone, the door shuts behind him.
