Underneath

DEVIKA GIREESH

In a plush conference room aglow with screens,
Stood a man, seams of his suit as sharp as his grin,
A maestro of sales, a wielder of charts,
He danced through the slides with the art of the start.
 
His name was Zack, with a charisma so slick,
A silver-tongue salesman, quick with a trick.
His audience chuckled, enraptured, amused,
As he spun them through numbers, their doubts all defused.
 
But beneath the bright gleam of his confident show,
Lay a jittery heart that only Zack could know.
A tempest of nerves, hidden deep out of sight,
Battling the fear that gripped him tight.
 
With every question, a gulf opened wide,
A plunge into depths he dared not confide.
The words came at him, strange and obscure,
Yet, his smile never wavered, his response sure.
 
“Great question, indeed!” he’d start with a beam,
As if each query was part of his dream.
His answers spun out, so smooth and so fleet,
Not even Zack knew what his replies might weave.
 
Was it luck or a script that he followed along?
For each answer fit, though it felt somehow wrong.
But the nods came easy, and the laughter did flow,
In the magic of momentum, he was part of the show.
 
As the meeting wrapped up with applause and a cheer,
Zack packed up his laptop, his persona in gear.
“Another win,” he thought with a sigh,
Relief mixed with dread, a smile tucked in a lie.
 
At home, the suit comes off, its duty complete,
Revealing the truth from his head to his feet.
A slight gut hidden by the well-fitted guise,
Not a trace of the man who in meetings seemed wise.
 
No caviar dinners, no glasses of wine,
Just a bowl of cereal, poured at nine.
 
The night stretches out, his work never ends,
In the soft glow of the screen, his time bends.
Files upon files in silent array,
Sales may look slick, but the grind holds sway.
 
He toggles between spreadsheets, charts on his lap,
A far cry from the stage, this nocturnal trap.
The easy charm shelved, as deadlines draw near,
Jack's living room office, stark and austere.
Then ping went his email, a message alight,
“New account,” it declared, “Are you ready for the flight?”
Terms and figures spilled out like a foreign prose,
A tangle of data that no one could transpose.
 
Zack stared at the screen, his mind in a maze,
Acronyms and strategies in a cryptic haze.
Yet his fingers danced on the keyboard so spry,
Typing, “Can’t wait!” with a hope not to die.
 
Out went the email, into the ether so wide,
While Zack sat back, his panic to hide.
For in the world of sales, where charm is the king,
The show must go on, despite what it might bring.
 
So here stands our hero, not a knight, nor a sage,
Just a man riding the waves of the corporate stage.
A master of masks, in a theater of trade,
Where fear wears a smile, and doubts are allayed.