Business Secrets from the Stars

by David Dvorkin

  The meeting was scheduled to start at 3:30. Malcolm, held up by listening to Marlene’s six installments of hatred, almost didn’t make it. He burst into the conference room panting and sweating and quickly took his seat.

  His coworkers didn’t notice. Some of them, the ones who were disorganized enough to also be almost late and wise enough to know that it was important to be present and on time, were also sweating and panting. The rest were too excited by the thought of this intimate meeting with one of America’s great titans of industry to notice anyone else’s panting and sweating.

  Despite what he had told Jackjackjack, Malcolm didn’t really work in the New Ways to Get Money from the Widows and Orphans Office. The proper name of his group was the Zombie Programmers Department. It was true that they were a part of the Every Penny Counts Squeeze ’Em Dry Division within the central billing office, so perhaps Malcolm’s exaggeration was excusable.

  Back in the early days of his marriage, when he had naively expected sympathy from Marlene, he had described his work as the providing of brain-dead programs for brain-dead users. Marlene had looked him up and down with a sarcastic smile, and he had never repeated the phrase to her. Now he looked around at his fellow zombie programmers and wondered if his eyes were as dead as theirs.

  The room was large and was filled with long, narrow tables with chairs lined up on one side of each table, all facing toward the wall opposite the door through which Malcolm had entered. That far wall held a white board, and there was a projector behind Malcolm aimed at the white board. The room was used for classes and presentations more than for conferences.

  Malcolm had been in here before. On one of those occasions, he had noticed something interesting.

  Near the whiteboard was another door. It had a small pane of glass in it, but the hallway or room beyond was dark, so one couldn’t see through the glass. That door was locked, as Malcolm had discovered when he had tried to get out that way in hopes of avoiding the crowd leaving through the main door.

  However, during a previous meeting of his work group with a high company official, Malcolm, idly watching the dark pane of glass while trying to stay awake, had noticed a face, dimly lit through the pane of glass by the overhead fluorescents of the conference room.

  Intrigued, he had watched.

  The face peered through the glass, then looked down at something, then looked through the glass again, then looked down again. The action was repeated a few times, and then the face disappeared.

  Taking names, Malcolm realized.

  The almost invisible face might be creepy, but there was nothing supernatural about it or what the person on the other side of the door was doing. It was some lackey checking off names on a piece of paper, probably attached to a clipboard below the level of the window.

  After that particular meeting, the few fellow zombie programmers who had not bothered to attend had disappeared.

  Now Malcolm looked around and wondered who was missing today. How soon would they disappear? They would be dismissed into the outer darkness of the non-Western Bell universe, lost and wailing souls, drifting aimlessly and hopelessly over the blasted terrain that everyone in Western Bell knew the outside world consisted of. They would never know what they had done wrong, whom they had offended, what unwritten rule of Western Bell behavior they had transgressed.

  Better them than me, Malcolm thought.

  Every employee kicked out, in these increasingly bad Big Gypper days, was one fewer employee who would have to be laid off.

  A minion bounded into the room from the door behind Malcolm and leaped and skipped to the front of the room. He had all the manic cheerfulness of JackJackJack. It might even have been the same man. Malcolm couldn’t be sure.

  The minion shouted, “Hi, everyone!”

  “Hi!” most of them shouted back.

  “So how are you all today? Is everyone doing great?”

  “Yes! We’re all doing great!”

  “Well, that’s just great! So okay, as you know, we’re here today to meet with our fearless leader, the Big Guy of our wonderful company, the greatest telephone company in the history of the entire world, Western Bell Telephone and Telegraph!”

  Lots of cheering and stamping of feet.

  “Great! Okay, so the Big Buck is meeting with every work group in the company so that he can really get to know everyone and really be your buddy because we’re all coworkers here and all doors are open and everyone is part of the same team! Yee hah!”

  The crowd shouted, “Yee hah!”

  It was the new company yell, inaugurated only days before and intended to typify the rugged Western cowboy independence and vigor and energy and competitiveness of the typical Western Bell employee.

  “Kim chee,” Malcolm said, a few seconds later.

  His immediate neighbors frowned at him, and he cursed inwardly and strove for better self-control.

  “Okay, so, right, as you probably know, the Big Buck has just returned from a relaxing three months at the Big Guy Institute, which is, you know, like a special place the government runs where big executives can relax and meet together and change their attitudes about various things when what they’ve been doing makes the government see that they probably need to make those changes, and now he’s back here to take the reins of the greatest telephone company in the history of the entire world again and talk to all of us about what he’s learned and how he sees the future.” He drew a breath. “Yee hah!”

  “Yee hah!”

  Malcolm managed to join in on the second syllable this time.

  Then to his surprise the locked door to the dark regions opened and Milo Grossbuck himself swaggered in.

  Grossbuck was tall, somewhat overweight, somewhere in his fifties, bald, and he smirked. His tie cost more than Malcolm had earned in any given month in his life thus far. Grossbuck’s suit cost many times as much as his tie. He had coined the nickname Big Buck all by himself and he insisted that everyone use it.

  “Hello, everyone!” His voice was enormous. He smiled, and Malcolm was sure for an instant that Grossbuck’s teeth were long and yellowish gray and filed to points, but that was surely an illusion.

  “Hello, Big Buck!”

  A couple of members of the crowd, even more enthusiastic than the rest, called out, “Yee hah!”

  Grossbuck frowned. “I’d like to start out with an important announcement,” he boomed. “Since I got back from the Big Guy Institute, I’ve been meeting with the senior management team about a lot of things. Refrigerators are cold places. That’s important. Yarrow. About changes we want to make. About new directions for the future.”

  Uh oh, Malcolm thought.

  Some of his coworkers stirred uneasily.

  “These are difficult times for all of us,” Grossbuck said. “Tough economy. Tough world. Tough competition. Tough, tough, tough. Beedle. Whichness. Goom. But we can handle it. Why?” His smirk became a grin. “Because we’re the best! Bring on the competition! Eat our dust!”

  There were a couple of scattered yee hahs.

  Grossbuck frowned again but continued. “So, yes, we are going to have to rein in a little bit, be more careful with our resources, even watch those pennies, clean out your refrigerators, moldy food in the back, tune up your cars, work even harder and longer to ensure the continued success and strength and growth of this company we all love. Bep. Bep. This great telecommunications corporation that has been so good to all of us. Spleeble. It’s a monument. A monument to the greatness of free enterprise and the power of faith. Bow your heads for a moment. Thank you, Lord, for American free enterprise. Tegtegteg. So, well, okay, we won’t all be making the great trek into the future together. There’ll be an announcement about that aspect of things.”

  The uneasy stirring grew.

  “But the big thing I wanted to tell you about is that we’re broadening our scope. Don’t mope. Keep up the hope. On the ropes. We’re more than just a regional Western company now. We want to assert our new id
entity and make sure the world knows we’re here and we’re strong and lean and mean and tough and we can do everything. That’s why, effective today, we’re changing our name to Western Bell Universal Telecommunications Incorporated. Greeg! The new company cry is,” he drew a huge breath into his big torso and bellowed, “Uni! Versal! Uni! Versal! Come on, everybody! Do it with me! Uni! Versal!”

  With growing enthusiasm, the gang joined in. “Uni! Versal! Uni! Versal!” Their unease was forgotten.

  Malcolm shouted along with the others, although the second time he said, “Virgin! Vestal!” and no one seemed to notice.

  “So, yes, well, as you were just told, I spent the last few months at the Big Guy Institute brainstorming with a whole bunch of other big guys from all over corporate America. Geniuses. Brilliant. Real movers and shakers, titans of industry, captains of this great ship we call our free-market economy. Oh, sure, we spent a certain amount of time playing golf and tennis and just walking around and getting some exercise every day during the assigned hours, but then, after dinner at those fucking long tables, we all sat down and talked about what we had all been doing and why we were all there and our wonderful country and the greatness of our way of life and how God loves free enterprise, and we kind of planned out the future. Poop. Did that every evening until it was lights out and they told us we had to go to bed. Bananas. Prunes. You guys and your future and what to do about you and how to take care of you. That’s what we planned. And the government. And the media. And just everything. Minnywinny.”

  He paused in deep thought for a while and then nodded. “Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. See, people, when you’re in charge of the ship, when you’re the captain, when it’s all on your shoulders, it’s like this, see. Murgle. Blither blather.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “What?” he said.

  The coworker to his right, an attractive young woman named Jeannie who worked in a cubicle near his, shushed him. Her eyes were glued to Grossbuck’s red, sweating face.

  Malcolm whispered to her, “But he’s not making any sense. He’s speaking nonsense words.”

  “Gabargle, gabargle, gabargle!” Grossbuck shouted. “Meenie oodie oodie! Snicker whacker. It’s like, oh, I don’t know, wilga woolgy.”

  “He’s incoherent,” Malcolm said.

  “Oh, hush.”

  “We have to refrigerator notebook magazine newspaper radio television control and conglomerate.”

  A few people said tentatively, “Uni! Versal!”

  “All together! All together! Repeat, repeat, repeat, and then eventually everyone agrees!”

  The enthusiasm was growing. “Uni! Versal! Uni! Versal!”

  Grossbuck grinned approvingly, and again Malcolm thought he saw those ugly pointed teeth. He ignored that and said in a low voice to Jeannie, “He’s a blithering idiot. He can’t string words together to make a meaningful sentence.”

  “You don’t get it,” Jeannie said. She was annoyed. Her voice was also low, but the tone was hostile. “His brain is working so fast that his words can’t keep up with his thoughts. He’s thinking brilliant business-management thoughts all the time. Corporate leaders like him are the true heroes and intellectuals and mental giants of our age.”

  A woman seated on Jeannie’s other side had apparently been listening to their conversation. Now she joined in. “He’s so powerful and impressive!”

  Jeannie nodded. “He really turns me on.”

  Good God, Malcolm thought. Good God, Good God, Good God, Good God! Won’t some godlike alien save me? Teach me to blither like the Big Buck? Make women look at me the way Jeannie’s looking at that horrifying creature?

  Maybe there really are wonderful, noble races out there in space, Malcolm thought, just like in my fiction. And equally horrifying, evil, monstrous ones. Maybe Grossbuck is actually one of the evil ones, stationed here to control us. No, to destroy us! To destroy any human being who shows real intelligence and soul.

  Marlene’s one of them, too.

  “Religious bathtubs,” the Big Buck blared. “Radio station. We bought one. We have to get our message out. Deregulation. Bring on the competition. If your faucet’s dripping, you should probably replace the washer. Fix the leak. Control the flow. That’s gotta be our philosophy. Thank you.”

  Cries of “Uni! Versal!” Loud applause.

  The minion who had originally introduced Grossbuck stepped to the front again. “Okay, so listen everybody. The Big Buck has to get back to the 55th floor now and think a lot for all of us. Before he goes, he wants to shake everyone’s hand and say hello and get to know each and every one of you.”

  Oh, boy, Malcolm thought.

  His fellow workers moaned a simultaneous orgasmic “Oooh!”

  “Except for anyone whose first or last name begins with a W,” the minion said. “Those people need to proceed immediately to Room B, right next door, where a group of managers and security guards want to explain some things to you. The rest of you, please line up in an orderly manner and walk past the Big Buck and shake his hand and say hello at the rate of one employee per three seconds.” He clapped his hands, a sudden, startling, cracking sound. “Move it!”

  The cattle lined up obediently on one side of the room and began to shuffle forward at the rate of one employee every three seconds.

  Except for the handful whose first or last names began with W. They went obediently through the door at the back of the room and then into the adjoining conference room, Room B, where a gang of managers backed up by large, well-armed security men explained a few things to them. They were then handed their personal belongings, which had been brought there in sealed cardboard boxes, and were escorted from the building via a rear door giving onto a filthy, stinking, dark alley infested with rats, drunks, and roving bands of hungry, armed gang members. The faucet had been leaking quite a bit lately.

  Malcolm, meanwhile, had been shuffling forward with the non-Ws. He had contemplated leaving with the W group and then splitting from them outside the door, but something, some instinct born of years of working at Western Bell, had told him that that might not be safe. So instead he had fallen obediently in line behind Jeannie. Now, gloomily, he moved a step, paused, moved a step again, meanwhile staring longingly at Jeannie’s back.

  When they reached the front of the room, Jeannie gripped Grossbuck’s extended hand tightly, stared up at him adoringly, and said, “Do you need a trophy wife, Big,” she breathed rapidly, “Buck?”

  Grossbuck looked her up and down admiringly and chuckled. It was a sound that turned Malcolm’s stomach and raised the hackles on the back of his neck and made him wish the damned Commies would finally start World War Three at that very moment and put these people out of his misery. “Call my secretary,” Grossbuck told Jeannie, “and make an appointment.”

  Jeannie passed on, stars in her eyes, and it was Malcolm’s turn. He shook Grossbuck’s repellent paw as the great man looked through him.

  “Malcolm Erskine.” He thought he should say his name.

  “Uh huh.”

  “I hate you. I hate my job. I hate my life.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Malcolm froze in horror, then realized that what he had said aloud was, “I admire you greatly, sir, and I feel honored to work for this company.”

  Some day, you’ll be in a book, Malcolm thought. Some day, all of this will be in a book.

  Malcolm would be in the book, too. Except that in the fictional version he would behave heroically. With a single, mighty blow, he would vanquish the evil alien invader, the Grossout, and rescue from his slimy tentacular grip the gorgeous, black-haired Jennya, who would fling her arms —

  The apartment!

  Malcolm looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was only 4:30. He had been sure it would be midnight.

  He rushed from the conference room and back to his desk, shut down his computer, flung his possessions into his briefcase, and sprinted for the elevator. He ran from the building and then ran the five blo
cks to the apartment building.

  Thanks to the dismal economy, the apartment was still unrented. And so, only hours after listening to Marlene’s enthusiastic farewell message, Malcolm had a place to live. It was furnished, it was near downtown, it was cheap, and it was immediately available. It was also tinier than anything he had lived in since his student days.

  The next day, he called in sick, took the bus to what had been his home, betting that Marlene would be at work (she was), and broke in. He loaded a large part of his personal possessions, including his computer, into what had once been his car and drove downtown. The car was legally Marlene’s, just like everything else. She had always preferred to get a ride to work rather than driving herself, partly because it was her nature to have other people do the difficult or tedious stuff and partly because she liked to spend the commuting time telling one or more of her friends how worthless Malcolm was and how she deserved far better. Malcolm didn’t know about the last part, of course, although he had guessed that that was what she did during the commute. Because of all this, he had bet — correctly again — that the car would be at the house.

  After unloading the car at his apartment, he drove back to his former house, left the car parked where it had been before, and then took the bus back downtown and walked to his apartment.

  Then he settled down in his new home and began to write.

  He began a new short story, titled “Sleeping in the Devil’s Bed,” about a fearsome monster from another world, accidentally brought back to Earth by an expedition of hardy space explorers. The creature is called a Marlinga, but the explorers think it is a human woman, the lone survivor of a crashed alien space ship.

  That the theme and style of his story were more appropriate to the pulp magazines of the 1930s than to any literary market of his own time didn’t bother him. He wasn’t writing for art. He was writing for release.

  It took him two weeks to complete the story, which turned out to be quite long — too long to sell anywhere he knew of.