by David Cohen
I said, ‘What sort of budget parameters are we looking at?’
The boss lost it when I said that. ‘Budget parameters? Budget parameters? I don’t give a fuck about budget parameters!’ He was really yelling. ‘Are you aware that Tony and I go way back? Are you aware that we started this organisation together? From nothing!’ He looked me up and down. ‘And what are you? Some gen-Y hot shot with your budget parameters! You’ve got carte blanche! All right? Carte blanche!’
Then he went silent and looked kind of depressed, staring out the window. I stood there for a while, wondering whether this was the right moment to ask what ‘carte blanche’ meant. He was obviously under a lot of stress and I honestly wanted to leave him in peace. He kept staring out the window. I wondered if he was looking at something specific or just at the outside world in general. When he turned back to me he said, ‘What are you still doing here? I don’t want to see you until the farewell’s sorted out. Now piss off!’
I could see I really had to deliver on this farewell project. So, as soon as I’d looked up ‘carte blanche’ in the dictionary, I set a provisional date for the farewell. Then I got on the phone to some of the senior guys in the organisation to get some ideas. But they couldn’t help. What I mean is, they could help, but they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t give me the smallest crumb. I was on my own with this Tony thing. I guess I should have known that all along, given the highly competitive environment of the organisation. You’d think in a business like this we’d be working together, but no. Everyone was tight-lipped, especially the older guys, and Tony’s lips were the tightest of all. Maybe the older guys were jealous of me, the new kid on the block, being assigned what was, after all, a pretty important project.
All right, then, I thought, I’ll work all this out myself. I wiped my whiteboard clean and got to work. The first thing I wrote was
LOCATION
The main thing was that it had to be private. Privacy took the highest priority in our business. But even though privacy was a key factor, the location had to accessible; we needed to be able to get to and from it with minimum difficulty. It wouldn’t be any good if the location took ages to reach and required complicated directions. That could really stuff things up, and I could not afford to stuff even the smallest thing up.
So I had (1) Privacy and (2) Accessibility. But I still had to think of a location that satisfied these key criteria and was special enough to meet the boss’s demands. I found a number of options, but while many were private and accessible, they weren’t special; while others were special, they weren’t private or accessible. It was hard to come up with something that I could be sure the boss would approve. I stared at the whiteboard for a while longer and decided to leave location aside for the time being and move on to the question of transportation.
Transportation to and from the farewell was another important issue. I’d only been involved in one farewell since joining the organisation – and admittedly that was in a peripheral capacity; we met at the office and took separate cars to the location, which was a restaurant in the middle of nowhere we’d hired out for the occasion. There didn’t seem to be any reason to break with tradition here, except that this time, of course, Tony wouldn’t be doing any driving. Since I was organising the farewell, perhaps I should be the one to drive Tony. I was about to call the boss when I remembered he didn’t want to see me until the farewell was all planned. I made a note to confirm this point about transportation with him once everything else had been organised.
The next question was: what would make this farewell special? As far as I could see, that was all tied up with location, so I really had to settle this question before I went any further. I wrote LOCATION on the whiteboard again and stared at it for another half an hour before deciding it was time for bed.
That night I dreamed I phoned up Tony himself to ask where he wanted his farewell, but true to his real-life self he just looked at me and said nothing.
I’ll admit I had a period of self-doubt and wondered if I’d bitten off more than I could chew. But then I reminded myself that a peak performer doesn’t think that way, and hadn’t I learned anything from the Creative Problem Solving seminar I’d attended – at my own expense, with peals of laughter from some of the older guys in the organisation, including Tony, still ringing in my ears? No, I told myself, the joke would be on them, especially Tony, when I single-handedly brought the farewell to a triumphant conclusion. But to be a success, you have to visualise your successful self with the utmost clarity. So I sat down and I pictured the whole thing from beginning to end. The beginning was a bit cloudy but the end was crystal clear, right down to the very final moments. And then I pictured the boss congratulating me in his office. I pictured him saying, ‘I couldn’t be happier with the outcome of the farewell. I couldn’t have done it better myself.’ He gave me a promotion, and in his eyes I could see genuine respect. I was no longer just a gen-Y hot shot.
Okay, I told myself, now it’s time to brainstorm, but this time don’t be so rigid. For now, categories don’t exist. For now, the only question is: what do you know about Tony that would help make his farewell special? I rubbed out everything I’d written and started writing whatever came into my head. I thought back to the few words we’d exchanged when we worked on a project together. Having a conversation with him was like pulling teeth. I guess that’s why he lasted so long: he didn’t give anything away.
So instead of trying to remember the content of our exchanges, I used all my mental powers to recall any observations of Tony in general, anything I’d overheard other people say re Tony’s interests outside the organisation. With the help of these fragments, I pieced together a portrait of Tony the man.
THINGS I KNOW ABOUT TONY
Likes wine
Likes seafood
Likes golf
Boating enthusiast
I was surprised and gratified by the amount of information I’d managed to collect. As I stood admiring my list, it hit me. I could be creative and incorporate all of these things in the farewell. I’d been fixated on finding a single designated place for the farewell, but now that I was thinking outside the box, or the square, I visualised a progressive farewell, with different activities along the way, culminating in the send-off proper. It was a good thing I’d found out what ‘carte blanche’ meant, because I was going to need a lot of it.
The farewell took place two weeks later to the day. I’d organised a HiAce Commuter Bus along with a driver named Shane, a very reliable guy whose diverse skill set had served the organisation well on previous occasions. At ten to eleven that morning we went down to the car park. Shane rocked up at eleven on the dot, and then it was off to the Peninsula for what I hoped would be an entirely successful day. We couldn’t have asked for nicer weather, and as we hit the freeway there was a definite sense of expectation in the air. Tony sat towards the back and looked a bit uncomfortable at first – he’d never been a big socialiser – but he started to get into the spirit of things when Shane put on a Bruce Springsteen CD and we all sang along.
Our first stop was the golf course, so close to the sea you could practically hear the waves breaking. I could tell Tony was impressed, and even if the game itself was a bit unserious due to our varying golfing prowess – and the fact that Roy, one of our newer recruits, threw his sand wedge against a tree and had to be cautioned by a club official – it proved to be an effective team-building exercise. I remember Doug, who’d been with the organisation almost as long as Tony, looking over at me at one point; it was only a glance but I sensed approval in that glance.
Then we piled back into the HiAce, and Shane drove us to what TripAdvisor regarded as one of the top five wineries in the region. After sampling some excellent local wines, we ate dinner out on the deck as the sun was setting over the vineyard. Tony ordered the bass groper with shellfish, macadamia and koji, which he described as ‘very fresh and very tasty’, as was my calamari with roasted pepper. Tony was drinking pinot grigio,
and since he was the wine expert I followed his lead, but I took it easy because I had to keep my eye on the prize.
We got a bit rowdy as the night wore on, and when Roy, who’d been overdoing the red wine, groped a waitresses and had to be cautioned by the manager, I decided it was time to head to our third and final stop. Because I’d planned everything so carefully, Tony suspected nothing and had no idea what was coming next. I could see he appreciated the effort we’d gone to – he didn’t say much but he smiled quite a bit, although he smiled less often as the evening wore on, I guess because he realised his time with the organisation was ending and there was no going back.
When we arrived at the marina, Me and Doug ushered Tony onto the Javelin 42 powerboat I’d organised specially. Shane came too because he was the only one of us who could drive a powerboat – except for Tony himself, but he wouldn’t be doing any driving tonight. The boat met all our requirements: private, accessible and special, not only in itself but also because it was tailored specifically to Tony, a man passionate about boats, if you could describe Tony as being passionate about anything. Talk about the perfect conclusion to the farewell!
While the four of us went out on the boat, the others, who were in no state for an evening spin, waited in the HiAce. Although I was a bit nervous, it was a relief to be out of the van, because Roy had thrown up on the way to the marina and had to be cautioned by Shane about the importance of not throwing up in the van. Once the boat was a few kilometres out to sea, Shane switched off the motor so Doug could make a speech and I could conclude the proceedings. I have to admit I wasn’t in a terrific state afterwards. Even though I’d gone easy on the pinot grigio, my stomach wasn’t coping too well with the calamari combined with the smell of the ocean and the rocking motion, and I spent a good ten minutes vomiting over the side of the Javelin 42. Doug said that was perfectly normal and not to worry about it. He was an old hand, nearly as old a hand as Tony himself.
Doug’s speech was short and to the point: Tony, you were one of our best, and so on. Tony, you were a peak performer, and so on. Regrettably, Tony, your performance is no longer at its peak – far from its peak, if we’re going to be brutally honest. But the real issue, Tony, is that your loyalty has been called into question. We know you’ve been exploring your options, sounding out other organisations, rival organisations. And so on. Tony denied it, of course; he protested strenuously. In fact, he said more in those last few minutes than I’d heard him say in the five months I’d been with the organisation, even though he knew he was wasting his breath. But at least he got his special farewell, which was more than anyone had been given previously. And the best part was that I’d organised and managed it all myself, right down to the very end. I knew it had gone exceptionally well, and I knew the boss would look favourably upon me when I went back and gave him my report.
LAMENT OF A BUS STOP OUTSIDE THE BENRATH SENIOR CENTRE
Let’s clear something up at the outset. You’re probably wondering: how can I, a bus stop in Benrath, Düsseldorf, claim to be telling this story? But there’s nothing so extraordinary about it: like many Germans, I have an excellent grasp of English.
Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I’d like you to imagine the following scene. A woman named Gisela is trying to get home, but she can’t recall where she parked the car. Has it been stolen? Meanwhile, Astrid will be back from school, and she’s certain to worry when she finds the house locked and empty. Our anxious Gisela starts to walk, as fast as she can; there’s a long journey ahead. Isn’t it odd, though, how the terrain seems so unfamiliar: this street, those churches, that marketplace? And now, believe it or not, Gisela is lost. In fact, she’s somehow forgotten where she was heading in the first place. Nor does she remember that Astrid hasn’t lived at home since 1975. In fact, Astrid no longer even resides in Germany, but in faraway Brisbane, Australia. As for the house itself – well, there is no house anymore.
Until recently, the scene I’ve just described was pretty much a daily occurrence here at the Seniorenzentrum. You see, no matter how vigilant the nurses were, if Gisela felt the need to get home, she’d find a way. True, she never actually made it, but she sometimes managed to cover a lot of ground before anyone noticed her absence. And Gisela was just one of many residents with a tendency to wander.
But the good people here at the centre have found a solution. This is where I come in.
You probably wouldn’t even notice me if you were walking by. I’m stationed just outside and I look like the real deal: metal post; white, green and yellow sign displaying an H inside a circle – Haltestelle is what we Germans call a bus stop – and underneath, Seniorenzentrum Benrath. But if you look carefully, you’ll notice that there’s no road in front of me, just a square of brick paving. How, you may ask, can any vehicle, let alone a bus, pull up here? The answer is simple: there is no bus. I’m a replica – a pretend bus stop. I’m an experiment gone right.
You see, as things stand, the doctors can do nothing to make Gisela’s brain accommodate what most of us like to call reality. But we lateral-thinking Germans have arranged for reality to meet Gisela halfway. Her daughter may have grown up and moved far from Düsseldorf, her house may be gone, she may be destined to live out her days at the Seniorenzentrum, but at least she has me: a deceptive link to the past to soothe her restless soul, and the restless souls of her fellow wanderers. It makes them feel better, waiting here for the bus that will take them where they need to go, even if that bus never comes.
Speak of the devil: here’s Gisela now, shuffling in my direction. Good afternoon, Gisela. Take a load off. My wooden bench isn’t exactly soft but it’s sturdy, and a mere ten feet from the centre’s entrance. That’s right, no need to wander – the bus will be here soon. Meanwhile, have a chat with Ilse, who’s also waiting; well, her husband’s hardly going to cook dinner himself, is he? And here comes Horst, Zimmer-framing his way towards us. Better get a move on, Horst, or you’ll be late for your shift at the chemical plant. And Reinhold’s been sitting here for the past hour, compulsively checking his watch. What business do you have, Reinhold, that’s so urgent? Oh, I see: you just want to go home. Patience, my friend, patience.
To pass the time, Gisela tells us all about how, just yesterday, Astrid’s teacher made another silly mistake during the history lesson, and clever Astrid corrected him (once again). What did that dummy get wrong this time, Gisela? Are you serious? No, I can’t believe it – what a clanger! And did he appreciate Astrid’s astuteness? Was she rewarded for setting him straight? She wasn’t? He sent her out of the class? Honestly, what kind of topsy-turvy world are we living in?
I pretend that I’m hearing all this for the first time, while Ilse, Horst and Reinhold think that they are hearing this for the first time. Before you know it everyone’s forgotten all about the bus, and as if on cue, Gerda, one of the nurses, emerges to shepherd them back in. ‘Looks like it’s been delayed.’ How easily she inhabits her role in this charade. ‘Why not come inside and have a cup of coffee?’ They follow her without protest, and all is well, until tomorrow, when they’ll be out here once again as if yesterday never existed, and who can say for certain that it did?
A heartwarming scene, yes? Nice for Gisela and the other wanderers – I still call them that even though their wandering days are pretty much over. Nice for the nurses. Nice for the director, who’s thrilled that such a simple – not to mention cheap – innovation has proved so effective. Also nice, I daresay, for the wanderers’ families – some of whom, I might add, show up here about as often as the bus.
But does anyone give a thought to my feelings? Did anyone ever think to consult me?
Admittedly, when I took up my position here at the Seniorenzentrum I felt no conflict whatsoever. Emotions? What emotions? I played my part as required, a professional through and through. But after a month or so I became conscious of an internal – how can I put it? – unrest, which before long escalated into turmoil. What in God’s name was happen
ing to me?
It dawned on me only recently. How can I be possibly be at peace? Here I am in a country with one of the finest public transport networks in the world, and I’m no longer part of it! Or perhaps (I honestly can’t recall) I was never part of it in the first place. Either way, I am tormented. Don’t misunderstand me: I’m not asking for Munich or Berlin; I just want to be plugged in to the network, any network. Instead, I am literally nowhere. I remind myself of those once proud bus stops of the former Soviet Union (how I admire their striking, architect-designed shelters!), which now sit around with nothing to do but pose for Canadian photographers. I don’t even have the consolation of being a tourist attraction! My German colleagues no doubt have a good laugh whenever my name comes up. Or perhaps (and this is far worse) my name never comes up.
To add insult to injury, I’ve been made complicit in a project that is, to say the least, ethically questionable. Deluding the deluded – is this the way for health professionals to conduct themselves? You might argue that the only other means of preventing the wanderers from wandering is to lock the ward, or drug them into compliance; surely the fake bus stop solution is more humane? But that counterargument does little to ease my conscience. Don’t we all, when you get right down to it, deserve the truth?
Sometimes I try to alert Gisela and the others. Wake up! Can’t you see what’s going on here? There is no bus, and there never will be, no matter how long you wait. I am not the beginning of the journey; I am the end. But they’re taken in every time. That’s the problem with the wanderers: no short-term memory.
So successful is this trick that homes for the elderly all over Germany – all over Europe, in fact – are jumping on the bandwagon, erecting increasingly ‘realistic’ bus stops. I know of one outside a Seniorenzentrum in Remscheid with an exact replica of a timetable from 1973. You’d think we Germans could apply our well-known attention to detail to worthier enterprises.