She sniffles, glances at me. “I want to know who they are, Dan. I have a right.”
“I don’t even have their names yet. When I get them, I’ll let you know.”
She covers her eyes again. “Fuck.”
“Have faith, Anne.”
She looks up, examines my face. “I think this finally did it.”
“Did what?”
She makes a look like she smells something foul. “Killed my crush on you.”
I force a chuckle. “Aw . . .”
She gets up to leave. “Don’t take it personally when I go back to my desk and remove you from my IM list.”
“You haven’t done that already? Damn.”
She walks to the door, and I don’t even take the opportunity to glance at her butt.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, and turns back to me, her eyes shaky.
“What?”
“Do you think I could take her?”
“Take her?” I frown. “Who?”
“Kate? If she comes after me, do you think I could take her?”
I don’t have the heart to tell her.
Time to unload the peas. The bag has been defrosting, and my crotch is starting to get wet. I take a stall in the men’s room, pull the bag out. I don’t want to walk out of here with a bag of peas in my clutch, so I rip it open and turn to the toilet. They spill out, and it sounds like a giant rabbit on the toilet releasing a thousand pellets into the water.
I hear something, stop.
Someone’s at a urinal.
Fuck.
I wait awhile, hoping he’ll finish, but Christ, he’s taking forever. Fuck it, I don’t have time for vanity, I think, and recommence the pouring: more rapid-fire kerplunks, followed by a few stragglers, which sound even worse.
I flush the toilet, realize I should’ve been flushing all along, then fold the pea bag and slip it into my back pocket. Now it’s a matter of waiting the urinator out.
The urinal flushes. Finally.
I stand at my stall door, spy through the crack. It’s this guy from Web marketing—big jaw, bigger nose, small eyes. Can’t remember his name.
He looks into the mirror, sees my feet at the stall door, scans up and meets my gaze—looks away quickly.
Major awkwardness.
Only one thing to do now, unless I want to be known as the guy who spies at people from inside the stalls. I open the door and step out. “Hey, man.”
Scrubbing his hands hard. “Hey.”
I take a sink on the opposite end. “What’s new in the Web cave?”
“Just manic, as always. Was here till three A.M.” He glances at my shoes. “You okay?”
“Me?”
He straightens, pulls a paper towel, glances back at the stall. “Just hoping you’re okay.”
“Oh, I’m fine. It’s just that I had a minor procedure yesterday and—”
He waves for me to stop. “No worries, man. You don’t need to explain.”
“No, that was just a bag—”
“No sweat, man.” He turns and heads out the door. “Take it easy.”
That went well. Wonder how long it will take before half the Web team has heard that Dan Jordan is crapping mass volumes of pellets and spying on people from bathroom stalls. If only I had the time to care.
I hobble toward Fitzroy’s office until Danzig from PR comes up behind me and grabs my shoulders, scaring the hell out of me. “You gotta see this,” he says. “The new guy’s putting on a show in the break room.”
“Wish I had time for it.”
“You won’t believe it, Danny. The guy’s eating a rat on a stick.”
That gets me. “Rat?”
“Like a kid at the fair polishing off a corn dog.”
“A rat? You sure?”
Danzig leans in; his breath is like sour milk. “Dude, it has legs. And the new guy’s eating it. Fitzroy’s new genius.”
I press forward, toward Fitzroy’s office. “That’s some trippy shit.”
Finally, Danzig says, “Ask Fitzroy about that guy, dude.”
People always want me to do things like that, but I never do. I hate office politics. Plus, the minute I start passing along comments from Fitzroy is the minute my reputation tanks.
Danzig grabs my shoulder, stops me. “At least come check out the new guy. You’ll never see anything like it again.”
He has a point.
The new guy is, indeed, sitting in the break room poking his tongue through a rat on a stick. Just like Danzig said, and it’s pretty disgusting. Carlie from Legal walks in, gives him a double take, drops her Swedish meatballs, and trots away. We can hear her retching in the restroom.
We watch him from afar, through the glass. And I suddenly wonder if this new guy possibly could have something to do with the upheaval in my life. I mean, what are the odds of all these crazy things happening at once?
“It’s a stunt,” Danzig says. “He’s trying to psych us out.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not.”
“Oh, c’mon, you think he just loves rat?”
More people join us. Gasps abound.
“Well,” I say, “in Africa, a field rat is a real treat. Millions of people eat them.”
“But this guy isn’t African.”
“So you’re saying only Africans can eat rats?”
Carol from the second floor says, “But Fitzroy loves him.”
Barbara from Analytics joins us and squints into the break room. “That’s Fitzroy’s new guy.” She watches him. “Some kind of rugged genius.”
Danzig snaps, “Genius? Who said that?”
“Well . . .” Barbara watches. “They say Fitzroy loves him.” And then after a pause she asks, “What’s he eating?”
“Rat.”
“Rat?” Barbara straightens her blazer and clears her throat. “We’ll see about that.”
She charges in. We all look at each other and decide to follow.
“So you’re the new guy,” she says, hands on her hips.
The new guy looks up, licks his teeth, and grins. “Yeah,” he says, nice and slow—lazy-California-surfer style. “That’s right.”
Barbara seems unfazed by the glistening rat skeleton on the napkin in front of them. “Where are you from?”
The new guy pulls his head back, grins. “All over.”
Barbara frowns. “No, I mean, where were you working before this?”
The new guy grins wider. They’re nice teeth. “Long story.”
I like this guy. It’s like he’s saying, Fuck you, lady, smiling nice and easy the whole way.
Standing behind me, Danzig must be feeling brave. He leans in and says, “So what’s the deal with the rat?”
New guy turns and looks up at Danzig. Long silence.
“Well . . .” The new guy waits a long beat. “What do you think?”
Danzig studies him. His voice is high from the stress. “They say you’re some out-of-the-box thinker.”
He smiles and nods, like he’s saying, Okay, man, it’s cool. I hear you.
Barbara bursts out, “What are you going to do here?”
Slowly, the new guy turns to her. “Are you familiar with the California stink beetle?”
Barbara squints. “What?”
“Well, the stink beetle can thrive in some of the world’s harshest environments—like the world’s toughest deserts—even though it’s this big, juicy insect. So the question one might have is, What gives? How can this black beetle thrive in a place like that?”
Barbara is still squinting.
“So here’s the deal.” The new guy straightens. “The deal is, the stink beetle innovates. At dawn, it ‘drinks’ from the moist air simply by positioning its rear into the breeze and opening its anus.” His smile is
gone. “Now that’s innovation.”
He looks up at Barbara, an eyebrow emerging from behind the shades. “So the thing is, maybe it’s time to open your own anus to the moisture that breezes over you every day.”
Barbara is frozen. Speechless.
Danzig says, “So it stinks or something?”
The new guy turns to him. “You fuck with the stink beetle, it’ll stand on its head and expel some seriously nasty gas.”
Danzig mouths the words.
The new guy folds his arms. “Yeah, I seriously dig the stink beetle.”
And I’m realizing: I do need to ask Fitzroy about this guy.
Stephen Fitzroy’s office is at the end of what we call Executive Row. Anytime you visit, you must walk past a series of executive offices and admin stations. It’s a long hallway, and it’s always an awkward journey—like walking up the center aisle of church as everyone watches, nodding as you bring the sacraments to Fitzroy’s altar.
Fitzroy’s admin, Sharon, is at her station right outside his office. She’s in her late fifties, with vibrant green eyes, a square chin, and short, salt-and-pepper hair in big curls. You wouldn’t guess it by looking at her, so unassuming and gentle, but she puts all the other admins to shame with her world-class speed and grace.
When I approach, Sharon gives me the please-help-me look.
“What?”
She motions with her head, whispers. “She won’t leave.”
I look in. It’s Beth Gavin, Fitzroy’s executive assistant, talking with the boss. I roll my eyes, mumble to Sharon, “What’s new?”
Beth Gavin does everything she can to be attached to Fitzroy’s hip. I’ve learned what a big deal it is for some folks, to be there constantly with the top dog. Check me out, look at who I spend my day with. As long as Beth is with Fitzroy, she has access to a wealth of information and power—she’s in the in, as they say, and she has the opportunity to influence Fitzroy. One of her best-loved sports is giving the boss her color commentary on just about everyone—and it’s usually not pretty. When you realize how avidly she feeds this bullshit to one of the most powerful people in the Valley—paralyzing careers along the way—you realize just how dangerous she can be.
Can you tell I don’t like Beth Gavin?
I’ve watched her misrepresent people and their contributions. I’ve seen her blame her mistakes on them. I’ve watched her seize a quiet moment to drop in a comment to Fitzroy about someone else’s screwup—always careful to make her tattling seem incidental.
And I’ve been there during concalls, when it’s just the three of us in his office and some poor bastard in Sales is talking on the Polycom, and Beth mutes the speakerphone and says, “This guy’s an idiot.”
Fitzroy looks at her. “Really?”
“Big time.”
Happens every day.
Sharon says, “Will you go in there and break them up? I need to get him in the sedan by one.”
“Of course. Where’s he going?”
“San Diego for a quick meeting, then back up in time for dinner.”
Classic Fitzroy. The man uses the jet to achieve feats that otherwise would be impossible—day trips to locales as far out as Tennessee, thanks to one of the easiest, most luxurious ways to travel.
“Speaking of the jet,” I say, “do you think I could get on that flight tomorrow to Tampa?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. It’s just him and Beth tomorrow.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“No problem.” Her brows wrinkle as she thinks about it. “I thought you said he wouldn’t need you on this one.”
“Yeah, but now I think I should join him. There’s some new content in this one, and he’s probably gonna have some questions.”
“No problem.” She jots a note on a piece of paper. “I’ll add you to the manifest.”
“Thanks, Sharon.”
“You need a room at the Grand Hyatt?”
“That’d be great, Sharon. Thanks.”
“Wheels up at nine-thirty.”
“I’ll be there at nine,” I say, and pause. “And, oh, one more thing. Do you know Janice?”
“Janice?” She seems surprised. “From Finance?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “The tunnel-vision lady.”
“Yup,” I say. “So you know what I’m dealing with.”
“What’s she doing?”
I lean in and whisper. “For some reason, she thinks I’m the one who’s supposed to fill all these data points into all these reports—something about putting P6s into an FOD. I don’t even know what the hell she’s talking about.”
“Lord.”
“And she says—get this—that Beth told her I’m the guy for this.”
Sharon blows out a loud gust and types Janice’s name into her computer. “Let me get her number.”
“Thanks, Sharon.”
“This kind of stuff needs to stop.”
“I know.”
“We need you focused on his speeches. You’re working too much as it is.”
“I know.” I look down at my feet, wait a moment. “I’m sorry to even bug you about this.”
She looks up at me, eyes hard. “You need to stick up for yourself, Danny.”
“I’m going to. I’ll bring it up on the flight tomorrow.”
She dials, waits, looks up at me. “Yes, this is Sharon in Stephen Fitzroy’s office.”
I imagine Janice’s eyes when she picks up the phone. Most people at FlowBid have never gotten a call from Fitzroy’s office—have never even met the guy. I’ll bet Janice’s heartbeat just jumped from seventy-two to one-forty-four.
“I’m calling to let you know that Stephen needs Dan Jordan to join him on a trip tomorrow for a critical speech. . . . Yes, and so we need you to find someone else who can do those reports for you.”
She looks up at me, smiles. I bow to her in a silent thank you. I can almost hear Janice backpedaling through the phone.
“Yes, well, he’s very busy supporting Stephen.”
She listens.
“Yes, well, maybe you and Beth had a misunderstanding. Dan is Stephen’s speechwriter, and you’re asking him to do data entry for Finance.” She glances up at me, purses her lips, listening. “Beth told you that? Well, nothing could be further from the truth. . . . No, no apology necessary. . . . Okay, thanks, Janice.”
Sharon hangs up, gives me a motherly look, nods into Fitzroy’s office. “You need to find a way to call her off.”
I nod. I’m pissed, but I hate confrontations. There’s something building at the base of my throat, and I can’t tell if it’s anger or anxiety or both.
Sharon says, “Not tomorrow on the jet. Right now. You need to stick up for yourself. For your own self-esteem. Don’t let it go another hour.” She nods toward Fitzroy’s office. “Now’s your chance.”
“Okay.”
“And get her out of there so we can get him to the jet center.”
I square myself to his office door, trying to summon the spirit of Rod Stone, the Big Fighter. If Rod were here, he’d swat me over the head, finger-push me in the chest, ask, What the fuck is wrong with you, Jordan? Putting up with assholes like this? Haven’t you learned anything after all these years? I can almost see him in front of me, his jaw jutting out, his temples throbbing.
Time to get out of the comfort zone.
You saw Beth Gavin on the street, your jaw would hit your chest. On paper, she’s gorgeous. Enormous blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, long snow-white hair, silky skin, legs till next year.
And yet, midway through my first day with Beth Gavin, I was kind of turned off. Not sure why—I usually find strong, smart women sexy—but I’d say it has something to do with the fact that she seems so one-dimensional, as if there’s
nothing there beyond ambition. She’s not passionate about Finance, like Janice; she’s not passionate about finding a better way for people to connect, like the engineers; she’s not passionate about making deals, like our sales teams. Beth is passionate about herself, and that’s her problem.
Beth once told me she prefers job candidates who are “forward-looking,” as in, driven to get lots of promotions, to earn tons of money, and to lead larger and larger groups of people. These people are like her, she said: hungry, willing to bust their asses to do whatever it takes to get ahead.
Don’t get me wrong. I like people who bust their asses, and I like people who want to succeed. But I prefer them to be busting their asses and succeeding because of their love of something other than their personal advancement—whether it’s Rod’s love for mixed martial arts, or Steve Martin’s passion for humor, or Brad Mehldau’s love of the piano, or even Janice’s love for finance. Point is, what drives their success is their belief in something else—something other than themselves.
The way I see it, rabid ambition intoxicates your moral equilibrium. It fuels bad behavior, encourages you to screw your friends and colleagues, and justifies your lies and misrepresentations. These people want their promotions so bad they’re capable of doing anything—like throwing you under the bus or smearing you—to advance themselves.
So I have a hard time trusting ambitious people.
There, I said it.
I take another deep breath and step in.
Stephen Fitzroy’s office is enormous—windows everywhere, looking out on a sweeping view of rolling hills. He’s slouching in an armchair; Beth is on the couch, legs crossed at the knees. From the stack of papers on the coffee table, it looks like they’re prepping for sales meetings he’ll have in Tampa.
Beth is trying to soothe him. “You’re the reason. Everyone knows it.”
Fitzroy tightens, looks away. “Which is why Fortune is doing another profile on another member of my staff?”
“No,” Beth says. “Everyone knows it’s you, Stephen. Everyone knows you’re the reason this place is white-hot. A Fortune story on one someone else won’t change that.”
Fitzroy seems satisfied. He looks up, raises his eyebrows. “Danny Boy!”
Beth gives me the slightest of smirks, glances back at Fitzroy as if they’re in on some joke.
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