The Meeting

You showed up today. It’s a massive achievement, all things considered. As a human resources consultant, the sexual harassment classes are your least favorite for many reasons. The key to your aversion; the high probability that an incident occurred that predicated the necessity for your help. It means rather than talking about what happened or making meaningful changes; the company brings you in to cover their liability while they try to sweep it under the rug. 

Your administrative assistant booked this seminar, so the only detail you received prior to this morning was a jeans company had a problem with one of their departments. As far as facts go, it is less than ideal. When the clock hits eight, the workshop starts. Two distinct groups of men file into the conference room and you realize you are the only woman in this sea of testosterone. It makes you curious what sparked them booking a sexual harassment workshop. 

Studying the participants, you observe one group of five men that share similar features. With wide smiles full of shiny, white veneers, each man is only differentiated by the blondness of their hair. You can tell they are devoted to their tanning booths, the deep bronze skin contrasting with bleached teeth and frosted spikes of gelled hair. You remember these gods from high school. The popular boys. Stylish, confident, and ready to squash you like a bug beneath their beautiful feet.

 In contrast, the second group of men is a diversity of types. About double in number, the disparity in their features marks them as their own faction. Some are tall and thin while others are short and fat. There are redheads, brunettes, and a few with shiny, hairless heads. Most wear pleated khakis and short-sleeved dress shirts. They all look like various iterations of your dad.

Calling the meeting to order, you ask everyone to go around the room, introduce themselves and explain what they do. A man pops up, blond-haired and blue-eyed, thrilled to be the first. His excitement dies when all eyes focus on him and he struggles to speak. “Hi, uh - I’m Brett. I’m a model. And…” 

He seems a bit confused by what else he should say. As his silence stretches on, you jump in to help, “Thanks Brett, it’s nice to meet you. How long have you been modeling?”

“Uh, well, yeah, um. Like a month.” He shrugs and sits, the room sniggering at his poor performance.

You motion to the person next to him, another from the blond group. “Hi, yeah. My name’s Brett and I’m a model.” 

Your brains screeches to a halt to learn that, not only do these two men share physical characteristics, they share the same name. Before you wrap your head around what is happening, another ‘Brett’ pops up. Blond, check. A model, check. Named Brett, check. 

What the hell is going on here?

Before the next man moves, you hold up a hand attempting to slow the unfolding Twilight Zone. You need to figure out what’s happening. You want to ask why all the blond men share the same name. You don’t really care that they look the same. They’re models. It makes sense they would have similar features. But the names. Why are the names the same?

“Just say it,” you think to yourself, “Just ask why?”

Instead, you change tack. You point to the other group hopeful to find someone, anyone who isn’t a Brett. A lanky redhead with thick coke bottle glasses stands. “I’m Brad and I work in accounting. I’ve been here for three years.”

Oh, thank god!

You enjoy the sense of normalcy returning to your seminar, so when the next man stands, you’ve let your guard down. For a second, you savor the dark-haired muscle man with chocolaty brown eyes. Why he isn’t in the model group, you don’t know.

“Brad, marketing. Five years.”

You try to mask your inner freak out as this second Brad makes himself known. Giving up, you start pointing at everyone in the second group. “Brad.”

You point again. “Brad.” And again. “Brad.”

“ARGH!” You scream. All attempts at professionalism flee and you can no longer contain your confusion and frustration. “What is going on!”

You point to the blond group, “You can’t all be Bretts!” Changing your focus to the hodgepodge group, “You can’t all be Brads!”

A bald man in the back stands up, and you pray he explains. Surely, this is only a prank. Some idiotic joke someone came up with to break the ice. Maybe this type of stupidity is why you are here today?

“I’m Brad. I’m with HR.” Your brain explodes when he says his name, but he doesn’t stop speaking to let your face finish contorting, “At this company we maintain a high standard for all our employees. We have learned Bretts make the best models and Brads make the best administrators, so we have a strict “Brett/Brad” policy.”

When you got up this morning and put on your nice grey sheath dress, you expected to run a meeting for a group of professionals. You suspected you might find a bad egg or two and either help move them out the door or give them tools to change their behavior. But there was no way to prepare for this kind of event.

You flop back in a chair, rung out and despairing. It’s only half-past eight, which means you have seven more hours of this Brett/Brad hell. Maybe you should just leave. How can you help this group? They are beyond help, aren’t they? You don’t know. And with that, you make a decision. You will stay and see this out.

Determined, you stand to hand out the course paperwork, but before you get started, a Brett raises his hand. With your resigned permission, he asks, “What is your name, ma’am?”

You hesitate for a second, eyes closed in supplication before you tell them, “Bradley.”

And you realize why they hired you.