It tickled her that he admired them enough to want them for his own. She felt validated and flattered when someone truly wanted her work. Her joy morphed into panic when he carried them out of her cubicle, and she felt her Millie Field decrease significantly. It was still adequate to support her, but would it stand up if the big bad wolf came knocking?
The sun’s beam withdrew across the floor toward the window as the sun climbed the sky. She could no longer bask in its rays and stay within her protective envelope. She had little energy in the tank. There wasn’t anything affecting the living world that she could do without it and she was afraid to extend her vision outside her Millie Field.
She had her Spider-Sense turned up full. Briefly she fantasized that at some point Martin would come to her world as well. Could she survive that long? Was it possible to have overlapping fields so that the two of them could be together for eternity? She shook that off as dreamy schoolgirl nonsense. She sulked and listened to the sirens’ Song of Creation. Listened and prepared herself to make the choice.
Somewhere in the small hours, long before even the early birds began to arrive, Millie’s alarm went off. A panicked scan of the perimeter showed that whatever was observing her was not nearby. The observer could be anywhere, using the interconnectedness of all things as Millie did, to view anything anywhere.
It was unsettling. She thought the ability to see anything anywhere was an amazing gift, but now that she realized it also meant she could be observed anywhere and anytime. She no longer felt like Mighty Millie, but rather like a fish in a bowl.
Beyond the fact that she was being observed she knew the chosen viewpoint. She saw how the observation could be traced back through weft and weave of the connections of everything, back to the source. Even using the network to make an observation affected the network, and she saw the effect, like the vibrations traveling down a spider’s web, informing the web-master that a new victim had arrived. She didn’t dare follow it, afraid that she might find the beast on the other end, watching her.
18
I wear the chain I forged in life... I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.
―From A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
Martin drank two Red Bulls on the way to work. His stomach protested. Too much Bull and not enough sleep. Everything had that dreamlike quality you get about 3 AM. Today’s experiment concerns the effect sleep deprivation has on the time it takes the subject to complete the maze.
When he came through the last door into the big open room that held his office at the center of the labyrinth, he was assaulted by the theme from “Rocky” blaring over the speakers. Not that he hated this particular tune, but anything blaring at that moment would have been obnoxious.
The area was likewise visually offensive, decorated in garish bunting and helium balloons in the corporate colors. The pods of cubicles occupied by the direct marketing sales representatives were festooned with posters proclaiming: Sales Sharks are number one!!! and MARKETING MONSTERS RULE!!! The employees stood, pumping their fists in the air to the beat. Around the fringes less enthusiastic sales reps half-heartedly performed the ritual dance. Beyond them, the outright heretics skulked in the shadows with their arms crossed, looking like someone farted in the elevator. A stage had been constructed along the wall. The company performance charts and graphs that usually decorated the wall had been replaced with a giant banner emblazoned with the latest marketing slogan. A table with urns of coffee and stacks of what smelled like breakfast sandwiches stood next to the platform.
Martin stood, momentarily mesmerized by the madness. It was one of their sales rallies. These festivities would go on all morning. The song ended and cheering began. The Regional VP of marketing went to the microphone on the platform and waved her arms to stop the cheering.
She delivered a few worn out marketing aphorisms about meeting customer’s needs and acting as if it were impossible to fail. Martin considered sliding over and snagging a chicken biscuit from the pile.
With a flourish she introduced the MARKETING MONSTERS, who were to perform a “hilarious” skit entitled: “How Not to Make the Sale.” Chicken biscuit be damned, he was not going to expose the thin thread of his sanity to one of their skits; time for the headphones. As he made his way through the marketing madness toward E6 on the other side of room, he heard a sales rep smacking gum and generally being rude to another rep portraying the earnest, prospective customer.
Martin checked the copier. When he reached his desk he briefly surveyed the area to see if there was a message from Millie. He didn’t think she was likely to leave any such messages since she could use the computer. But he didn’t want to miss it if she had. He saw none. He booted up his computer, eager to see if Millie had left something there. From what he had seen her do on the computer in her cubicle, he didn’t think she would have any problem using email or instant messaging. While it cranked through its start up routine, he put on his noise-cancelling headphones, plugged them into his smartphone and chose his playlist entitled “The Apocalypse.” There were no messages from Millie, only the usual corporate emails and a reminder of the conference call.
Crap, he had forgotten about the Conference Call of Ill Foreboding. Maybe it was better he had forgotten because he hadn’t spent the weekend worrying about it. He took off his headphones. A “pump you up” dance number he didn’t recognize blared from the other side of the room. He put on his telephone headset. Even though it was over an hour until the scheduled time, he dialed into the conference bridge to see if it was working. He punched in the many necessary codes and a computerized voice announced that the conference awaited its moderator. He took the headset off and laid it on his desk, leaving the line open. Frequently there were problems getting into the bridge when there were large conference calls. A cheer went up from the marketeers. The headphones went back over his ears. “Please bury me with it. I don’t need none of that Mad Max bullshit.”
While time inched toward nine o’clock, he went through his morning emails, handled what he could, and flagged a couple to take care of later. When it finally got to be nine, he ended “The Apocalypse” and put on his telephone headset. He had to put his hand over the other ear because “YMCA” was playing so loud the bass rattled the coffee pots on the other side of the partition. Someone on the phone implored everyone to mute his or her microphones. Just sharing the joy, thought Martin, as he found the mute button.
When the background noises were finally silenced, the moderator dispensed with the opening formalities and then introduced the Vice President of Information Technology. From the moment the VP began speaking, it was obvious that she was reading a prepared statement. She spoke in gushing language of the corporation’s joy (as if the soulless beast could feel anything) in announcing a “strategic partnership” with AmeritSource. Martin could hear a microphone rubbing and a dog growling in the background. Someone had just joined the call from home. The VP paused a moment while the disturbance settled, cleared her throat, and then proclaimed that the alliance that would propel the company into the future, reducing expenditures and allowing the company to focus on its core competencies. He knew it was corporate doublespeak for outsourcing.
The speaker concluded her remarks and introduced a “Facilitator” from Human Resources. The officious facilitator announced that they would receive packages in their email informing them as to their status within the hour. They would also be invited to an appropriate informative “transition” meeting. He concluded the call and closed it down before anyone could say anything.
Martin pulled off the headset. The marketing jamboree was still going strong. He put his headphones back on.
He wondered what he could find out about this AmeritSource Company. It only took a little searching and reading to find out that they were a US subsidiary of a huge Indian IT company and that surprise, surprise, the CEO was a former CIO of Martin’s company. People in IT we
re familiar with the game. They were contracted to take over parts or all of a company’s corporate support systems and maintenance. They would take some of the employees with them (for knowledge transfer) and the company would “right size” the rest. The chosen few would be run ragged until the contract company was comfortable either shipping the work overseas or delegating it to an endless merry-go-round of newly hired wage slaves who would take the jobs for a year or so because they couldn’t find anything else.
An email slid into his in-box with no more fanfare than a reminder to contribute to the monthly coffee fund. Which will it be, Martin wondered, the highway or the hard way?
The email informed Martin that he had been offered a position at AmeritSource. Regardless of whether he accepted their offer, his “separation” would occur a week from Friday. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a conga line as it snaked past his cubicle. There were links to various “transition resources” and an invitation to a “transition meeting” the next day in the big conference room.
Martin was numb; years of top performance and this is what he got. Sold like an old mule to the glue factory. It was not that he was particularly fond of his job, but he felt betrayed.
Suddenly the music blasting from his headphones annoyed him as much as the party going on around him. He had to get out of there, or his head would explode. He took off his headphone, stood, and started to leave his cube when he nearly collided with Wesley.
Wesley had on one of his signature grins. “Let’s either get out of here or spike the punch.”
Martin said nothing; he was in no mood for frivolity. He headed down the aisle, through the pep rally and out of the building in the most direct path possible. Wesley followed without a word to his car but broke the silence by shouting “Shotgun!” before he got in. Normally that would have amused Martin. It was too early for lunch, so they went to a local 24-hour pancake place and found a booth in the back. Wesley cheerfully observed Martin’s silence.
Martin groused, “What are you so happy about?” As he asked, he realized he hadn’t even asked him if he had gotten a notice. Some friend he was.
Wesley was hungrily scanning the brunch menu. “Finally done dodging the ax. What a relief.”
“They didn’t offer you a job?”
“Nope, and it’s just as well. I don’t want to work for those jerks anyway.”
That was a new Baby Ruth in the swimming pool. Not only would Martin have to work for the jerks, but Wesley wouldn’t even be around to lighten things up a bit. But were they jerks? Was that a given? He sometimes thought he was a bit too open-minded, getting abused occasionally while giving the benefit of the doubt. He figured he could see how it went and start looking for a job if it was as bad as he was afraid it might be.
And then there was Millie. If he took the job, would he even be working in the same building? He certainly wouldn’t be if he didn’t. How much misery could he endure to be around Millie? Could he move her to somewhere else?
A ninja dressed as a waitress appeared at the table out of nowhere, “What can I get you, Hon?”
Martin held the menu up as if reading it but didn’t have the slightest idea what he was looking at. “Uh, you first.”
Wesley ordered a giant combo thing with a sports analogy name. Was it a last meal or had the excitement worked up his appetite? Martin ordered an omelet and coffee. He wasn’t hungry, but he figured he should order something.
Wesley didn’t seem the least concerned about finding another job. He had connections with many people he had worked with before and mad skills in programming languages that were in high demand. Possibly leaving the area and friends behind didn’t seem to concern him either. It was all just a great adventure. Martin wished he felt that way. He nibbled his food and questioned Wesley about his plan of action to avoid lapsing into another non-communicative daze.
Wesley didn’t ask Martin directly about his plans. Martin knew that he would listen if Martin wanted to talk about it but would wait until Martin brought it up. It was another thing he liked about Wesley. He was wide open about himself and what he thought and felt, but he didn’t expect everyone else to be that way.
Thankfully, when he returned to the office, the marketing pep rally had ended. Only the decorations and a few uneaten breakfast sandwiches that no longer smelled appetizing remained. As Martin made his way back to his beige box, he passed Don’s empty cubicle. The flower planter with the plaque “Rest in peace little soldiers. They can’t hurt you any more,” had been pulled back out to the edge of the desk along the aisle. It was crammed full of new nameplates.
Back at the World’s Worst Cubicle, the message light blinked on his phone, an urgent email indicator pulsed on his email client icon, and the instant message icon on his desktop danced the Important Message Shuffle.
Before he could even decide which to deal with first, Project Manager Herb appeared in his cubicle entrance, “Did you get my message?” He placed a hand on each side of the opening, preventing escape.
Martin was in no mood. Without even turning to look at him he said, “I just sat down. What is it Herb?” trying not to sound to annoyed.
“Will you commit to having the project deliverables completed by Friday?”
Martin cut his eyes at Herb. It took a moment to drag from his brain what project deliverables Herb might be referring to. The only thing he could think of wasn’t due for three weeks. “I don’t have anything due Friday.”
“You do now. The project board is escalating all deliverables. They have deemed the outsourcing to be a significant vulnerability and decided to address the risk with proactive measures. I am trying to get buy-in from all stakeholders.”
Martin swiveled in his chair to face him. He felt like letting him have it, but he didn’t. As usual he choked it back and just stared at Herb, not trusting himself to say anything.
There was something in that stare that made the normally unflappable project manager squirm. “I’ll uh… Come back later.” He sped off, Martin assumed to elicit buy-in from the other stakeholders.
The nerve, he thought, boiling. He had already finished the task and was holding it for the due date, but he wasn’t going to tell Herb that. As astonishing and ludicrous as it seemed, turning things in early counted as a missed date. Under commit and over deliver was a precept he lived by, even if the stupid system didn’t allow you to over deliver. It was a far, far greater sin to miss a commitment than to be less than fully productive. To fill up his time, he always found things that needed to be done which they never wanted to fund. Items such as refactoring chunks of code modified so many times by so many programmers over the years that it became inefficient and nearly impossible to follow.
On the conference call he had been stunned and unsure of how he felt. Now he was unquestionably angry. Martin hated to be angry, going to great lengths to avoid it. He wasn’t going to do any work. Why should he? He started packing up to leave when he decided to check on Millie first. He looked to make sure she hadn’t sent him any messages. She hadn’t, but maybe a visit would prompt contact.
Somebody might see him brazenly going into her cube in the middle of the day, but he no longer cared what people thought. He would tell them he was from IT and needed to check something on the computer (which he did). An emotion akin to reverence washed over him as he entered the cubicle. He stood briefly in the doorway, seeking a sign of her presence. He sat in her chair and felt her touch his soul.
19
Tame the ghosts in my head that run wild and wish me dead
—From “Lovers’ Eyes” by Mumford and Sons
Millie hovered in the sweet spot of her Millie Field and waited for the worst. But it didn’t come. She watched as the observer’s viewpoint rotated around her cube a few times and then left. She wasn’t going to leave her spot for a while. There was no way of telling if the voyeur was the beast from the hospital or a new entity.
She briefly fantasized that an Angel had found her. After having f
inally realized the oversight, it would come and take her under its wing. Nothing came. If something friendly had been watching her, surely they would have come to visit.
After a few such musing she gave in to either realism or pessimism and concluded that it was most likely the beast. It had tracked her here. If she took that as her assumption, then she could further assume that her field was enough to protect her from it, since the monster hadn’t already showed up and sucked her down like a preschooler would a pudding pop.
She concluded that she was safe as long as she stayed in her nest. There may have been flaws in that plan, but she couldn’t (or didn’t want to) see them. There she was, Mighty Millie, afraid to leave the house. The insecurity of her predicament kept getting worse. No wonder there weren’t ghosts everywhere.
The sun came up and began the cosmic trickle charge on her battery. People began to arrive. There was a lot more activity than usual in the marketing area. Martin arrived and watched the activity briefly with weary displeasure. He went to the copier and checked it. Then he surveyed his cubical before sitting down and putting on his headphones. He was looking for a message from her. She was tempted to send him a hello, but she had so little energy still. She decided to wait until she had a full day of the sun’s ray stored before she started a conversation. Surely she would be safe for that bit of time. She had so much to say, and she didn’t want to waste it on small talk.
She studied Martin’s aura. Something made him anxious. Then she recalled the ominous conference call invitation she had read off his monitor when he received it Friday. He put his headset on and his hand over the other ear. She had no way to listen. Learning to translate sound wave energy to recognizable speech was a project she would work on if she got the chance. She imagined Martin typing the words and then speaking them aloud. It would be like the inverse of learning to read.
Synergeist: The Haunted Cubicle Page 11