The Emotional Intelligence Quick Book

It was frigid and damp at dawn the last day Phineas Gage arrived to work on time. As he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and cut through the cold, he contemplated the challenges that lay ahead in the building of the Burlington Railroad through Vermont. In the eighteen months he'd served as foreman, the crew had made considerable progress, but the terrain they were now forced to conquer was rocky and unforgiving. The early dawn light, softened by the moisture in the air, scarcely lit the winding path to the job site. The distant rhythm of iron sledgehammers thumping in sequence was soothing and forced an early morning smile from Phineas's lips. His crew was on the job a full fifteen minutes before the first whistle. Phineas had earned a reputation as the most efficient and capable foreman in the company. The discipline and passion he brought to the site ensured that projects were completed on time, and the social niceties he espoused made him a favorite with the men he supervised. A "shrewd, smart businessman," he walked his talk, avoided the alluring depravity of the local saloon, and got along famously with family and friends.

The day wore on with the usual efficiency. Yard by yard Phineas and his crew laid tracks, blasting through the rugged terrain in the quest to speed travel for busy commuters. By the time he glanced at his watch at 4:30, they had added half a mile to the rail line. With skill Phineas thrust his tamping iron into the angled blasting hole and entertained thoughts of the day he had retrieved this special rod from the local blacksmith. The brawny craftsman had explained to Phineas with uncharacteristic glee that this iron was unlike any other he had ever seen.

Before taking the next swing in his daily exercise of geometry and strength, Phineas signaled his assistant to pour sand into the blasting hole. The layer of sand would protect the powder from exploding prematurely while he packed it with the tamping iron. As Phineas reared back to swing, he was startled by a shrill racket behind him. Peering over his right shoulder, he saw that the crew in the pit had knocked over a large load of boulders they were transferring to a platform car with a crane. Phineas sighed briefly to mourn the setback, then completed his swing with the iron, oblivious to the fact that his assistant had also been distracted by the noise. The assistant had failed to place sand in the hole, and the scrape of Phineas's iron against the rock perimeter of the crevice created a spark big enough to ignite the unprotected powder at the bottom. The raw force of the explosion launched Phineas's tamping iron like a rocket. It pierced his face below his left eye and continued upward through the top of his head and beyond. The iron finally settled in the weeds a hundred feet from the spot where Phineas stood.