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Business culture has long been marked by impressive selfishness and a chokingly competitive spirit that has, on occasion, literally left bodies in its wake. In the purely scatological sense, if you're not number one, you are, indeed, number two. Invariably, this effort to avoid fecalization can breed a certain amount of paranoia for weak-minded fools who traffic in a combination of pettiness and secrecy. A one-time coworker of mine personified these characteristics, but the story doesn't end there.

After I was out of work for far too long, a friend took pity on me, getting me on board with the US branch of a successful-in-spite-of-itself, UK-based pharmaceutical media company. It was a gig, and in the interest of personal hygiene and saving my marriage, I gladly took the job. My faithful cohort was also kind enough to give me the lay of the land. This included giving me the lowdown on Ed Morgan.* Ed was a lifer, a company man who felt as though his existence was absolutely vital to the survival of the US operation. He'd convinced himself of this fact, but was seemingly unaware that most of his colleagues regarded him as a chronic annoyance.

At the most basic beginnings of perception, Ed's complexion was reminiscent of the back of a sunburned armadillo. Along with this pockmarked landscape, he'd carried a lisp into adulthood, making every use of the "s"sound an adventure (especially fun when selling the company's wares required frequent use of the word "pharmaceutical.") To cap the whole package off, though, Ed was a confident bastard, which is generally the hallmark of an insecure loser. He bore a passing resemblance to actor James Woods, a characteristic that would send a normal man off to the plastic surgeon looking for some pro bono work, but it was a fact that Ed would point out with a peacock's pride. It seems cruel and rather base to make fun of a colleague's personal appearance and speech impediment. But when the barer of these traits is a throbbing rectum of a person, all's fair game. In business, though, he reigned supreme, at least in one area of the media trade.

Ed was easily the biggest commission hound I've come across. He would crawl across a solid half acre of nail-filled, dirty diapers to grab onto any sales lead, and then hold on for dear life. Once in the door, he'd guide the mark toward whatever paid him the highest rate, regardless of whether or not it would yield any meaningful results for them. Then, when the unhappy client would never advertise again, he would proceed to try and sell them anything that wasn't nailed down. It was an embarrassing effort, but even when his eyes were swollen with tears, and any normal man would've reached for a length of rope, Ed was steadfast. He was a living monument to persistently misguided energy, a veritable human Hackney horse, reputed to be so stubborn and single minded that he would die working in his harness.

Talk around the office was that Ed could continue to come home as long as that sweet paycheck led the way through the front door. He had some sort of common law marriage, which was rumored to have grown out of one of those classically romantic substance abuse issues. (Think F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, or Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, just without the talent or notoriety.) This blessed union resulted in the birth of a child. While by my guess, Ed was a perfectly loving father -- not prone to wickedness or abuse -- he was not a skilled father. When he failed to enroll his child in kindergarten because he didn't know he had to do so, this was an indication. When he excitedly told us of the load of used plush toys he'd lucked into at no cost to him, sure to result in the merriest Christmas ever, it was simply further proof of his dubious parental instincts.

But there was always the determination, a highly enviable trait that cannot be taught, but when combined with skill and polish, can create a sales professional of unequalled talent and value. For Ed, it was an internal organ as vital as his liver or kidneys. It was his special donation to the effort and what made him successful, regardless of the definition. Then again, perhaps this is all a great joke, the higher power getting a giggle out of putting this engine in a truck with no tires and dented front fenders. Maybe we all need a little Ed in us, but then that's what his drunken common law wife said.