A large, soft man wearing an aging crew cut and a faded red Member's Only jacker shuffles into the brightly lit room. He pulls a chrome chair from under the table, slowly eases his massive body in, a bit uncertain whether the chair is up for the challenge. Leaning forward, he folds his oversized arms behind a small, tent-like piece of cardboard. Nearly lettered in black marker, the card simply reads: Earl.

Earl looks around and nods at the others in the room and at the lady who seems to be in charge of the meeting. He notices a table with a tray of sodas and coffee. He sees three white walls and another that appears to be covered with mirrors.

Just on the other side of the mirrored wall, in a darkened room and out of Earl's sight, a voice breaks the silence. "Look at this guy." His hushed tone borders on a snicker. "Where in the world do they find these people?" he says, shaking his head to no one in particular.

Suddenly the door to the room opens and the hall light rushes in.

"Starbucks, anyone? I'm going on a coffee run,'' a slender girl offers. A twenty-something-year-old with nearly cropped black hair and complementing black glasses responds. "Latte, please." Two girls, like something torn from the first few pages of Vanity Fair, reply in unison. "Latte, non-far." With a smile, the figure disappears, closing the door behind her. The eyes in the small, dark room peer back through the glass wall at Earl and the others.

Besides Earl, a woman in a perky red suit sits in her chair, her backbone as straight as a lamp post. Her red lipstick marches her red suit which marches her shiny red shoes. From behind the glass, someone whispers, "Check this out, it's the Mary Kay lady. " As if on cue, the lady in red smiles. But it is a dangerous smile. An all-knowing smile. It is clear that though her name rag reads "Jeanette," it can only be translated as "Trouble."

For those safe behind the mirrored wall, it is a routine that is all too familiar, a dangerous game of Russian roulette, the life of their precious ideas at stake. It is a labor to them, an inconvenience, an insult. They are richly talented and richly paid professionals. They will make more money in a few short years than those condemned to the brightly lit, but overly dull, existence on the other side of the mirror will make in their lifetimes.

"Find your name rag and have a soda if you like," the moderator says. A rail, lanky, fencepost of a man pokes his head through the open door. "You're at the right place,'' the moderator assures him. The man looks as if he's just climbed off a horse and walks that way as well. He folds himself into a chair, his eyes gently sink to the table the way a rock slowly feels its way to the bottom of a lake.

At that moment, a cell phone rings. A dark-haired, breasty woman leaps from her seat, her hand rummaging through her bag, rooting around like a pig looking for an apple. A pack of tissues spills out, followed by a tube of lipstick. The phone keeps ringing as she continues to dig. Earl and the tall, lanky man stare at the woman, her arm now resembling a small backhoe.

"They're braindead," an amused, but fearful voice notes from behind the glass. "We don't stand a chance."

"Is everyone here?" the moderator asks. "Let's go around the table and hear a little about each of you, starting with you, Arnold."

Arnold is short and thick with curly hair that hangs like a drape over his glasses. His shirt seems a size too small or maybe he is just a size too big. "I'm Arnold Krewzinski, I'm 33 and I work in customer relations for Burrell Cable." Arnold turns to the woman dressed all in red. "Jeanette Burmeister,'' she bubbles, "I'm a real estate agent with Century 21. I have two kids, Josh and Evelyn."

"How bout you, Earl?" the moderator asks. "Tell us a little about yourself."

Earl stiffens in his chair, his tongue fallen silent. He slowly shuffles through his mind, sorting for the most appropriate response. He then leans forward. "Earl Kelly, I live in Greensboro about twenty miles outside the city. I'm retired from the post office." Satisfied that he's met his obligation, Earl turns to the dark-haired woman next to him. "Susan Greer, I own a health food store, I enjoy exercise and playing with my kids. I design and write my own greeting cards, I love tapping into my creative side."

"Great,'' a voice moans from the darkened bunker, "It's Jeff Goodby in a floral pantsuit. I thought the client hired us to do the ads, but I guess they'd rather trust a cable guy, post-man and a health food nut who writes cute little cards."

The moderator now turns to the lanky man, his eyes still affixed to the table. "Could you turn your card a little more towards me?" she inquires. The lanky man looks up.

"Langston, Langston Seahorn, I've been with Capitol Building Materials for 25 years now. I like huntin' and fishin,' both saltwater and freshwater."

"Thank you, Langston," comes the moderator's cheery response. Even she is now beginning to annoy those concealed behind the glass. From their vantage point, it is all so very clear. They've seen enough, they've heard enough, they've come across these kind of killers before. The only question that remains is how will death come? Will there be a struggle? Will their brilliant thoughts have a fighting chance? Or will they die quickly and will that brevity somehow make the pain more bearable?

The moderator opens the deliberations. "I want to thank you all for coming, tonight. I'm going to share some ideas with you. These are not ads, just ideas. A way this company might portray itself."

Jeanette and Susan straighten and smile. Earl looks on like a dog peering into a hollow log, not quite sure what might come out.

The moderator goes on. "There is a two-way mirror behind me. I have some co-workers who'll be watching." The news of this spooks Earl a bit. His eyes strain to see through the mirror, but to no avail. He focuses again on the moderator and her instructions.

"As I walk you through this first idea, please keep your thoughts to yourself and I will call on you one at a time."

This is the calm before the sickening storm. An eerie quiet falls over the darkened side of the glass like those empty moments before the executioner throws the switch.

As the moderator flips over the first board, a collective breath is taken in the small, dark room. As she describes the idea, her voice seems to melt into a low hum. Maybe the idea's authors can't bear to hear the news. So instead they hear only her words flowing like a river. A river carrying their sweat and labor and inspired thoughts downstream, only to disappear into an ocean of meaningless, faded Fomecore. Then the moderator's voice stops, all eyes and ears now standing at attention. Ready to face their sentencing.

Earl raises his foam cup of lukewarm coffee to his lips. As he swallows, his dry, parched lips crack open and he speaks, three words as clear as a gunshot. "I like it."

"I like it a lot," he fires again.

From Earl's side Jeanette chimes in, "It's kinda funny, I remember doing that as a child, so it struck a chord with me." Jeanette beams with pride. To those behind the glass, the dull fluorescent lighting now seems to dance off Jeanette's red shoes and red lips and red suit.

"It made me think for a minute, but then I got it," the dark-haired woman chimes in. "I love the color palette," she adds, illustrating her keen design sense.

Even Langston agrees. "Like Earl says, it's pretty good."

The people behind the glass are speechless. There has been a sudden and dramatic stay of execution. How could this be? How could these people have understood? These people they have so greatly feared. These idea assassins camouflaged in J.C. Penney casual wear. These people so seemingly unlike them who are somehow actually very much like them, armed with intelligence, insight and honest emotion.

The moderator continues sharing ideas and the words of adulation continue to spill from the lips of Earl and Arnold and the others. Behind the glass, silent cheers erupt and mock high fives are exchanged. They who are behind the glass have trusted their instincts and their instincts have rewarded them.

But along with the verbal applause from Earl and Jeannette and the others, along with the showering of praise, there comes a sprinkling of constructive comments as well. Not criticisms, just candid observations, places where the dots don't quite connect for them. Areas where communication has unexpectedly broken down. A few blemishes in the thinking.

It would have been quite easy at this point, with victory in hand, to cast their comments off as insignificant, unknowledgeable and statistically irrelevant. Ideas, after all, are like children and, understandably, all children are beautiful in their parent's eyes.

And then the evening's most stunning occurrence.

The talents in the small, dark room set their egos and insecurities aside for the moment, and open their eyes and their ears for these are just honest thoughts from honest people with nothing to gain, and unlike themselves, nothing to lose. These are not meant to be directives or mandates, just opportunities where the ideas might actually grow better, stronger, clearer.

The group discussion is winding down now. Most of the others have gathered their belongings and collected their $50 checks. But Earl remains. Finally, the mountain of a man nudges his chair back from the table and rises to his feet, his work done here. He takes one last, long glance at the mysterious mirrored wall, pauses as if he can feel the eyes staring back. Then, like an old bear being called back to the woods, he lumbers off through the open doorway. ca