The Eavesdropper

by Edward Trimnell

  The Eavesdropper

  Edward Trimnell

  Copyright © 2017 by Edward Trimnell

  All rights reserved

  “There's nothing like eavesdropping to show you that the world outside your head is different from the world inside your head.”

  Thorton Wilder

  Prologue

  My name is Frank Joseph. What follows is the story of what happened when I eavesdropped on a conversation at work one day.

  I was a purchasing agent at a company called Thomas-Smithfield Electronics.

  Yes, a humble purchasing agent. I spent most of my day in a cubicle, hunched over a computer, often with a phone in my ear. I attended meetings. I did my best to finesse the intricacies of corporate politics.

  A typical boring desk job, you might say.

  Well, that typical boring job almost got me killed. Or to be more precise, what I overheard one day at work almost got me killed.

  Before I tell you what happened, let’s talk a little bit about eavesdroppers and eavesdropping, shall we? We all claim to look down on those who eavesdrop.

  And yet, we all do it. Be honest—if not with me, at least with yourself.

  This is especially true in office settings. The cubicle farm that has become the fixture of modern corporate life encourages eavesdropping.

  Sometimes you simply can’t help but listen in on a discussion that doesn't concern you. (This is largely because, corporate politics being what they are, any given discussion very well might concern you—or it might even be someone talking explicitly about you.)

  Of course, many of the conversations we overhear in passing, both intentionally and unintentionally, are indeed inconsequential: People talk about their weekend plans, their preferences in food and entertainment, a fight with a spouse or a significant other. People talk to pass the time, especially at work.

  Most of this stuff simply floats in one ear and out the other, forming the white noise of the modern workplace.

  But every once in a great while, you overhear something that really does change your life. Sometimes people reveal the darkest of intentions when they think no one is listening.

  And that’s what happened to me.

  Chapter 1

  Donnie Brady and I were both standing before the mirror in the men’s room on the third floor of the Thomas-Smithfield Electronics headquarters building. I was doing my best to ignore his presence, but I knew that he wasn't going to let me off that easy.

  “So,” he began, “All that sucking up you’ve been doing has finally paid off.”

  Donnie was about my age, give or take a year or two. We were both in our early thirties. The main difference between us was our relative sizes. I was five-ten and weighed maybe a hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet. Donnie was six feet, three inches tall. His frequent gym workouts were apparent even beneath the white fabric of his button-down oxford shirt. He usually left the top button of his shirt unbuttoned and worse his tie loose. His neck was that thick.

  “I’ll take that as a congratulations on my promotion,” I replied. Truth be told, Donnie Brady made me more than a little uneasy—even before everything happened. He had always given off the aura of a hoodlum in business attire. But I wasn't going to back down; I was determined not to let him rattle my cage.

  Donnie noisily expelled a puff of air out through his lips, a universal expression of sarcasm.

  “More like you’re just a big suck-up,” he said. He stopped checking his hair (although he was often disheveled, he was simultaneously vain about his appearance), and took a step closer to me.

  Donnie now towered over me, and I couldn't ignore the disparities in our heights, sizes, and physical strengths. I had thought that concerns about bullies were twenty years behind me, in the distant memories of junior high. Well, you just never know what aspects of childhood are going to come back to bite you in early middle age, do you?

  I was still determined to hold my ground. “If you’ve got a problem with it, Donnie, talk to Sid Harper. Or talk to HR if you want to. Hell, I don’t care. You’d think I’d been promoted to president of the company. It’s a grade promotion. That’s all.”

  Donnie was miffed because I had recently been promoted to senior buyer. This was, as I’d reminded him, a very low-key grade promotion. But it came with a modest bump in pay, and eventually it might mean a marginal level of authority. The promotion had been decided immediately prior to the company’s Christmas/year-end break; and it had gone into effect a week ago, the first week of the new year.

  I won't lie: I was more than a little happy to get the promotion. It was a small bright spot in what had otherwise been a depressing phase of my life. I had been downsized (or “right-sized”, or whatever they call it) out of my last job two years ago, about the time that my marriage had imploded. I was now living in Cincinnati, Ohio, and my ex-wife and daughter were living an hour away, in Dayton.

  Thomas-Smithfield was a snake pit of a company in many ways. There had been a series of upper-management shakeups; and the average employee didn't seem to be particularly happy. Well, I guess they call it “work” for a reason, right? Since joining the company barely a year ago, I had done my best to buckle down and work hard. Sid Harper, the manager over our purchasing group, had recognized and acknowledged my efforts. The grade promotion had been his idea.

  “You haven't been here as long as either Bethany or me,” Donnie said. “And you’re the one that gets the grade promotion. Explain to me how that happens.”

  I was going to tell Donnie that it might have something to do with all the time he spent checking ESPN and NFL.com on the Internet. Or maybe it was all the time that he and Bethany spent sneaking around, making out and fooling around in one of their cars during work hours.

  But mentioning those things might be going a bridge too far. I didn't want to escalate matters. I wasn't actively afraid of Donnie. But I avoided being alone with him when I could. I didn't know if he was capable of real violence. But I knew, even then, that he wouldn't be above keying the side of my vehicle in the company parking lot.

  “Like I said,” I told him, “I don’t decide who gets promoted. You got a problem with it, talk to HR or Sid.”

  I turned to leave the men’s room. Donnie turned around, too. He stepped ahead of me, and cut me off, blocking my path to the exit.

  “Maybe I’ve got a problem with you,” he said, throwing down the gauntlet.

  “I’ve got work to do,” I muttered. I brushed by him. It was then that I got a full sense of his height and strength. He didn't yield at all, and I had to squeeze myself between him and the wall.

  But at least I didn't back down. I passed through the swinging restroom door and stepped out into the main office area, relieved to find that Donnie hadn't followed me, at least.

  I know what you’re thinking: Why didn't I go to HR about Donnie? Thomas-Smithfield, like every company in the litigious twenty-first century, had a lengthy and explicit set of policies that forbade all forms of bullying and harassment, or “hostile work environment”, in human resources parlance.

  The simple truth was that I didn't want to be wuss. My manhood had already been challenged by my unwanted divorce, and I wasn't going to let Donnie Brady humiliate me further—even if it meant getting my ass kicked one day in the parking lot after work.

  How far was Donnie Brady prepared to go? I had no idea then. But I would soon find out.

  Chapter 2

  I started back toward my desk. (As I had told Donnie, I really did have work to do.) The third floor of the building—like the rest of the Thomas-Smithfield headquarters building—was arranged in an “open office” configuration, which, I believe, had been originally popularized by Japanese companies. Or maybe it was bas
ed on the older American concept of the “bullpen”; I’m not too sure. In any case, the office was set up so that the average employee had minimal privacy.

  Each person had a desk, surrounded by low cubicle walls, which never blocked either the view or the sounds of one’s colleagues. The managers had offices, of course, but they were in a different league.

  The entire third floor was allocated to the company’s purchasing department, and we were subdivided into groups and sub-groups, based on the suppliers we handled. Donnie Brady, Bethany Cox, and I formed a sub-group. Needless to say, I was the odd man out.

  We also had an administrative person, or admin, assigned to our subgroup. Our admin’s name was Ellen Watson. She was about ten years older than Donnie, Bethany, and me. So far as I knew, she had never been married.

  Ellen was something of an island to herself; but I sensed that in the ongoing cold war between the Donnie/Bethany alliance and me, Ellen marginally sided with the other two. I was the newcomer, after all; and besides, Donnie and Bethany formed a slim majority.

  When I returned to my desk, Ellen was the only person present. Donnie still hadn't returned from the men’s room. I suspected that he was outside the building, smoking a cigarette—a bad habit that he somehow reconciled with his weightlifting. Or maybe he was off somewhere again with Bethany.

  “Hello, Ellen,” I said, as sunnily as possible. She looked up briefly and nodded at me without speaking or smiling. The bare minimum, just short of outright rudeness. Oh, well, I thought. It can’t hurt to try.

  I knew all too well how I felt about Donnie and Bethany; but I wasn't quite sure how to assess Ellen. Maybe she actively disliked me, and maybe her manner could be attributed to middle-age weariness and apathy. Her life probably wasn't very exciting. She was by no means a wholly unattractive woman. But like many middle-age people—both men and women—she had allowed herself to put on excess weight, and she had acquired the blank, slouching appearance of the permanently disappointed and defeated. I realized that such a fate might await me, too, if I wasn't careful.

  I was seated and just getting back to work, examining a recent supplier quote on my computer screen, when Bethany Cox returned, sans Donnie.

  Bethany was a year or two younger than Donnie and me, perhaps twenty-nine or thirty. She had dark red hair, a good figure, and an expression that seemed to shout “take me now and use me hard”—if you were a guy like Donnie Brady, that is. For me she had nothing but disdain. She wore a form-fitting black sweater, the sleeves rolled up, and a black leather skirt. The outfit was impossible not to notice, if you were a heterosexual man, that is. At the very least, her attire was a marginal violation of the company’s dress code—not that I was going to say anything, mind you.

  She sat down in the desk across from me. As always, I resisted the urge to check her out. But I did look up at her and nod. She gave me a supercilious smirk in return. Oh well. I noticed the tattoos on her forearms and sternum, as I often did.

  In case it isn't clear yet, I was conflicted about Bethany Cox. She captured my imagination, even as she was an opposing factor in the little war within our purchasing subgroup. And as I’ve mentioned, Bethany was very “noticeable”, from a male point-of-view.

  I was also in starvation mode. Since my separation and divorce, I had had little in the way of either dating or sex. (The two do not always go together, I’d discovered long ago.)

  Six years ago, I’d thought that “dating” was something that I’d never have to worry about again. I’d believed that my ex-wife, Claire, was my exact fit, and vice versa. Then Olivia was born, and things had been even better. I’d had a happy home life and a great job in Dayton with a company that I’d liked a whole lot better than Thomas-Smithfield. I’d believed that my entire happy state of affairs was going to endure forever, more or less. What the hell had I known?

  So mostly I had been focused, of late, on getting my life back together. But I supposed, even then, that “getting my life back together” ought to include something in the relationship department. My ex-wife, Claire, had certainly been moving on.

  “So,” Bethany said, abruptly. “I heard you’ve been sucking up.”

  There had been no formal announcement of my grade promotion, but the word had trickled out, in dribs and drabs. Donnie and Bethany weren't the only coworkers who had heard; but most were a bit more supportive—or at the very least, neutral.

  Bethany was waiting for me to respond. Once again, I wanted to say something like, No, I’ve just been working while you’ve been sneaking off with Donnie. But I held my tongue.

  Well, I didn't completely hold my tongue. “I’ll take that as a congratulations,” I said, “Thank you.”

  She had no comeback for that. She had been hoping to get a rise out of me, and her efforts had fallen flat. Maybe I was learning how to deal with Donnie and Bethany, after all.

  Chapter 3

  I was finally getting back to work when I felt a hand clap my shoulder. My first thought was Donnie. (He had still not returned from whatever excursion he had gone on after our sort-of confrontation in the men's room.)

  I turned around, looked up, and saw Sid Harper instead.

  As I've said, Sid was the manager over our group. (Sid, in fact, was one of the senior managers in the entire purchasing department.)

  Somewhere back in the last century, there developed a stereotype of what the corporate senior manager should be. I can say without exaggerating too much that Sid Harper fit this description.

  In his late forties or early fifties, Sid Harper was tall and broad shouldered, with the trim build of an ex-athlete. Most women, including women decades younger than him, would have described him as handsome. He had that perfect square chin of the classical heroic figure. There were small traces of gray around the sideburns of his black hair, which had not yet begun to thin.

  Now, if you think that I was jealous of Sid Harper, you'd be wrong. Yes, I was indeed in awe of him, to a certain degree. But more than that, I was immensely grateful for what he had done for me. Sid had taken an interest in me early on, perhaps recognizing that I was determined to make the most of my job at Thomas-Smithfield. He had encouraged me and helped me along where he could.

  And, of course, Sid had been responsible for my recent grade promotion—the promotion that had driven Donnie and Bethany so batty with jealousy.

  “Got a few minutes to talk?” he asked me. “I’d like to go over the McDonnell bid. If you can spare the time, that is.”

  If I could spare the time. Sid wasn't being disingenuous in his solicitousness. He really was the sort of manager who liked to show due respect toward his subordinates, within reason. There was no question about who was boss; but Sid wasn't the kind of manager who threw his weight around gratuitously. Or so I thought at the time.

  “Sure thing,” I said. I had already begun to gather the materials related to the McDonnell bid from the surface of my desk.

  I should probably take a moment now to tell you a bit more about Thomas-Smithfield Electronics. The company made electronic subassemblies for the automotive, factory automation, aviation, and consumer electronics sectors. Our customers and suppliers were located all over the world, and big money was involved in practically everything the company did. I regularly issued purchase orders for hundreds of thousands, even millions of dollars.

  “Tell you what,” Sid said as I was standing, “Let’s go over to the tables. This might take a few minutes.”

  “The tables” were a set of small, round tables in a common meeting area in the middle of the third floor. If you said “the tables” everyone knew what you meant.

  There were lots of meetings at Thomas-Smithfield, as I suppose there are at every large company. For confidential matters, there were meeting rooms. But this was a relatively bread-and-butter conversation about a supplier quote. We could talk in the open area.

  I walked away with Sid, Bethany’s eyes boring into my back, no doubt. Donnie had still not returned.


  It was something of a big deal to be seen walking with Sid Harper. As we proceeded toward the tables, I noticed more than one purchasing agent look up from his or her desk, do a double take, and look down again.

  To begin with, Sid attracted a lot of attention. Everyone wanted to be his protege, or to be noticed by him. I suppose some of the managers were envious of Sid. I knew that there were managerial factions throughout the company; and I figured that Sid would have had rivals and enemies, no different from the rest of them. But those conflicts were above my concern and beyond my pay grade. The peons all competed for his attention.

  And he had taken a special interest in me—in my career at Thomas-Smithfield. Or at least it seemed that way.

  When we arrived at the tables, we sat down at one of them and went to work. Sid was a busy man, and I so I took pains—as I always did—to be thorough yet concise in my explanation. I recapped the basics of the McDonnell bid for him, and answered the two or three questions that he had.

  “Good work here,” Sid said when we were done. I resisted the urge to smile. But I had done a good job, and I was grateful that once again, Sid was taking notice.

  It wouldn't be too far-fetched to say that I regarded Sid Harper as something of a surrogate father, though I was too hard-boiled to admit that to anyone, perhaps even to myself. My parents had divorced when I was very young. It was all quite civilized, and I didn't have a traumatic childhood; but I was constantly shuffled about as my parents remarried and created new, blended families. I had half-siblings from both of them. I still saw either Mom or Dad most Christmases and Thanksgivings, but we weren't close.

  “All right,” Sid said. He reached toward his pocket, where I could hear his cell phone chiming. “I think we’re done. Thank you.”