Catfish

 

        When the sun hits it just right I can see my fishing line stretching down to the lake and disappearing below the surface.  I can only imagine what is taking place down there.  I hope, of course, there are big fish swimming by and seeing the flavorful bait floating magically in front of them.  If they are male fish, I expect they’ll quickly chomp down on the tasty snack.  If they are female, they will make several passes, while justifying the calories.

        Sitting here at my desk and looking out over the factory floor, I can see various employees, some working, others pretending to work because they noticed me looking at them.  I cannot, however, see below the surface.  I have no way of knowing who really tries to do a conscientious job, and who is just passing time until the buzzer sounds.

        When I’m out fishing, I do not need to write a performance review on the fish.  How often are they late?  Do they complete their assignments on time, do they go beyond what is expected?  Then there’s old Jake.  He’s been here forever, knows the equipment and the jobs.  He is familiar with the jigs and fixtures and knows exactly where to use the shims to make things fit.

        He keeps to himself and rarely calls in sick.  He is not someone I would parade in front of management.  He is overweight, sloppy, with scraggly whickers and looks as though he should have retired years ago.  He often swims along the bottom, his long whiskers waving slowly in his wake.