The Opportunitator is too sophisticated to copy a TV show. To memorialize the new Institute record, he will destroy a steel disc, a crude likeness of a record that’s not vinyl. He dons welders’ goggles. A rookie tech lights up an oxyacetylene cutting torch, the gas ax of the working people. He twists a valve slightly and adds more oxygen to the mix. The flame turns from yellow to a dark blue; the severe hissing sound intensifies as if to intimidate. Room lights dim He directs the intense blue flame at the platter’s topside. Steel turns cherry red, burns through, and showers yellow sparks on Institute officers, keyboard jockeys, and techs alike. The torch melts downward, slicing through stainless steel. Flying sparks sting, but don’t burn those of us in front. A golf ball-sized molten chunk breaks away and drops on the opportunitator’s foot as if to suggest it’s not best to put your best foot forward. Smiling a forced smile, he hands the torch to the rookie tech, removes his goggles, limps a few steps, stops, and turns to face the audience. Without a gong, emptiness floats in a silent vacuum, momentarily but long enough to draw half-hearted claps and cheers from a well-meaning audience, but not from me. It’s hard to tell what they liked, or if they liked it at all. In defiance of corporate etiquette, someone snaps a picture. From his expression, the opportunitator seems pleased.
