The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  “Sweetie,” she announces, stretches her arms, motions me to her with her fingers. “There you are. These fellas won’t let me come up and surprise my own husband. Come over here and give me some sugar.”

  The security guards watch as I let Mama wrap me up in her arms and slide her open mouth across my face. I strain and turn to avoid a direct hit, and her teeth and tongue trail against my jaw. I look at the frozen guards and force a smile. “Sweetie,” I say. “You’re here.” Mama holds me close and groans. I push her off and turn to the guards. “I’m taking my wife upstairs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I take Mama’s hand and lead her out. “Where are the boys?” I ask.

  “Relax,” Mama snaps. “You’re such a helicopter parent—jeesh. Besides, we need to talk about this meeting.”

  She’s right. “Actually, I was thinking. I spoke with that guy you mentioned—Carl Blakenship.”

  “Good.”

  “And I spoke with Peter Randell, the conhacker.”

  “Even better.”

  “They’re all going to be there, and that’s great. But when the subcommittee sees me, they’re going to know I’m not the real Dick. You know? They’ve worked with the real Dick, the Dick who truly knows this stuff. You know?”

  Mama struggles to get up the stairs—panting, gripping my forearm hard. She looks up at me, grimaces.

  “So I’m wondering if it makes sense for me to even be there? You know? Maybe I just bring them together, bring you and Carl and Peter in, and then I step out? You know? I just think you all might be able to tell the story better than I ever could.”

  Mama stops and looks at me.

  “I mean, maybe we could even get Bobby Flanduzi to attend and tell his story.”

  Mama reaches into her fanny pack and pulls out my phone. “Take this,” she says. “But just so you know, I copied your sister’s name down. So, any funny business with me, mister, and I’ll call your sister right now and tell her everything.”

  I feel my jaw pulse. “She wouldn’t believe you.”

  “Well . . .” Mama shakes her head and takes a few more steps. “. . . if you want to take that risk, honey, just try it.”

  I tighten. “Listen,” I plead. “I’ll do what you want with this meeting. I’m just telling you, they aren’t going to believe I’m Dick. And I think hearing from the real victims, and hearing about the conhacker project—that has to be illegal—will be more effective.”

  Mama huffs as we reach the top of the stairs. “Just take me to the conference room.” She stops, looks around, trying to catch her breath. “I need to collect my thoughts, and figure this thing out. Because I think you’re right. You’d screw it up.”

  I feel a lump at the bottom of my throat. Because I know she’s right.

  I always screw things up.

  * * *

  Once Shelley and I get Mama, Carl, and the conhackers into the Alcatraz conference room, I realize it’s nearly time for the five o’clock meeting. Mama takes my hand and leads me out of the room. “I want you nearby, you hear?”

  Dick’s security guard approaches with a walkie-talkie pressed to his chin. “Sir, we have an SOS from Bob Irvman.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Bob from Security in Cell Block A. You know, the guy who took care of that, you know, that . . . that solicitation problem for you in Dallas.” He pauses, presses his lips a little, and steps back. “I’m afraid we have a Class Three situation over there.”

  “What the hell is a Class Three situation?”

  “Sir, it’s a Class Three riot. That’s as bad as any prison riot you’ve seen on TV. Sir, we have this building secure, and we’re locking the other buildings, per procedure.”

  I think of dozens of squad cars speeding onto the Robards International campus. “Are they sure? I mean, are they sure it’s that bad?”

  “It’s bad, sir.”

  “Do we need to call the police?”

  “If we can’t contain them. If they get out of Cell Block A, we’ll have nine hundred ex-cons rioting across the entire campus.”

  Ricky screws up everything. Always.

  “And you’re sure it’s that bad?”

  “Sir, come with me a second.” He leads me to a small office around the corner. Inside, two other security guards are seated at a desk analyzing the grainy screens of no fewer than ten displays, each of them providing a live feed from Cell Block A. “Let’s take a look.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly, sir. That’s why we can’t—we really shouldn’t lift the lockdown. This thing is far from quelled. Bob and his guys are getting ready to do a floor-by-floor.”

  I lean in and scan the screens, and what I see makes me choke on my spit. The screens are buzzing with black-and-white feeds from dozens of security cameras placed throughout Cell Block A. Each screen flashes scenes of absolute mayhem—conployees turning over desks and chairs, conployees kicking walls, conployees punching and kicking each other, conployees taking whizzes on desks, conployees attempting to rip flat-screen displays off walls. But most of all, conployees pumping their fists in the air, in unison, as they chant something over and over and over.

  “It’s bad, sir.”

  I scan the screens, hoping to make sense of it all.

  “Most have congregated, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, sir, an unsanctioned assembly. Take a look.” The guard leans over and clicks a mouse. The top screen—the largest of them all—blinks and flickers until a new feed flashes into clarity. Hundreds of jumpsuited conployees have encircled a center table in the cafeteria. They’re pumping their fists into the air. Some of them are skittering off to wreak havoc elsewhere, but most remain congregated around a main table.

  “We have an agitator, sir.”

  “Agitator?”

  “He’s right there in the middle.”

  I lean in and squint at the grainy forms on the screen, and soon I find the agitator—my nephew, standing on a cafeteria table, stomping his feet, pumping one fist in the air and using the other to shout into a bullhorn.

  I freeze, and my bowels weaken.

  “Sir, we understand the chant is a bit odd—We’re humans, too. So whatchya gonna do? Clearly this agitator has planted some ideas into their heads, got them thinking about their second-tier status at the company.”

  Someone seems to reach for Collin, and my stomach goes ice cold.

  I turn to the guard and grab his lapels. “What’s your name?”

  “Jeremy, sir.” He looks at me, his eyes huge. “Sir, do you want to go to your safe room and wait this one out?”

  I release his lapels. “Jeremy, this is an order. I need them to unlock every single door in that building. You hear me?”

  “Sir, we’ll have—”

  “Jeremy, I’m not going to say it again. There are innocent people in there, and they’re trapped in there with nine hundred felons until we unlock those doors and people can disperse. Now, Jeremy. I’m telling you one last time. Open. Those. Doors.”

  “Sir, we’re talking about hundreds of thousands of dollars in dam——”

  “Jeremy.” I’m grabbing his lapels with both hands, shaking him. “I’m going to fire you and every single member of your crew here unless you tell them—right now—that Dick Rayborne wants those doors opened this instant.”

  I release him, and he brings the walkie-talkie to his chin. “Bob, this is Jeremy. I’m here with the Warden, and he wants all doors in Cell Block A unlocked. I repeat, the Warden has reviewed the camera feeds, and he wants all doors unlocked.”

  Long silence, and then, “Ten-four.”

  I run back to the Alcatraz conference room, pop my head in. The subcommittee isn’t there yet, fortunately. I get Mama’s attention. “They’re in Cell Block A,” I snap. “The boys took Collin to Cell Block A.”

  Mama gives me an exaggerated so-what? look. “He’ll be fine.”

  “He started a riot,” I yell,
pull my head back out, and slam the door.

  Back in the security office, Jeremy announces, “Lockdown on Cell Block A has been lifted. The conployees are pouring out, and we have all the other buildings in a strict lockdown.”

  “Show me the cafeteria again.”

  The cafeteria appears on the top screen. Thank God, I can see Collin. The kid is still on the table, still leading a group chant, still pumping his fists, still stomping his feet. The mob is thinning as more and more conployees march out of the room, their fists in the air, heads bobbing. I’m relieved to see Cujo standing close to Collin, even pushing a few conployees back.

  “Sir, we’re getting a new report. The agitator is leading them in a new rallying cry. Something along the lines of ‘We’re no subspecies.’ Does that make any sense to you, sir?”

  I stare at the screen, my mouth open.

  “Regardless, the mob is mobilizing, sir. Are you sure you don’t want to go to your safe room?”

  “Jeremy, I want you to track the movements of the agitator. With the security cameras, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just give me one of those radios—a walkie-talkie. How do I use this?”

  “Sir, here. Just . . . There you go. Turn that like this. And then, yeah. Press this if you want to talk.”

  I turn to leave the room. “Just let me know if they leave the cafeteria, okay? Tell me where they’re going.”

  “Sir, you’re going out there?”

  “I need to get him.”

  “Sir, I should come with you.”

  “No,” I say. “I need you here. I need your guys telling me where he’s going, and I need you to make sure that meeting in Alcatraz actually occurs.”

  Silence.

  “Okay?”

  “Yes, sir. Brandon will track the agitator and keep you coordinated.”

  “Perfect.”

  “But, sir. I really think you should change.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your clothes, sir. If you run into Cell Block A like that right now, they’ll rip you to shreds.”

  I stand there, look down at my—I mean, Dick’s—suit, and it clicks with me. Jeremy’s right; the last thing I can do is look like Dick Rayborne right now.

  “Follow me, sir. Your safe room has a jumpsuit for this very purpose. You really did think of everything, sir.”

  * * *

  Outside, scores of conployees rush past me hooting and hollering. They’re like thirdgraders released from class on the last day of school, headed in every direction, crisscrossing each other as they embark on a hundred different adventures. To avoid getting plowed over, I have to dart from side to side. Some already have reached the main professional building and are congregating at the doors, kicking on the presumably shatterproof glass, trying to bust through. I press the radio to my chin and holler, “I need a location update.”

  The radio crackles. “He’s at the back of the primary mob, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Right ahead. And, sir?”

  “What?”

  “Sir, the agitator is a child.” It’s like he can’t believe it. “A child, sir. The agitator is a little boy.”

  Finally, I see the mob, but not Collin. “He’s not here.”

  “He’s at the back of the mob, sir. The agitator was leading them, but his friend pulled him back. Straight ahead, sir.”

  The conployees are packed in tight, clapping and yelling at the tops of their voices, and it really unnerves me. Their war cry sends shock waves down the narrow pathway and seems to rattle the windows in the adjacent buildings. All of it makes me want to turn around and head back to the executive building—but I summon every muscle in my body to press forward.

  We’re no . . .

  Clap-clap-clap.

  Subspecies.

  Clap-clap-clap.

  We’re no . . .

  Clap-clap-clap.

  Subspecies.

  Clap-clap-clap.

  I step out of the way as they begin to pass. I yell as loud as I can. “Collin.”

  All I can hear is . . .

  We’re humans, too.

  Clap.

  So whatchya gonna do?

  Clap.

  Finally, I see them at the back of the mob. “Don’t let them take advantage of you,” he hollers under the war cry. “Don’t let them treat you like dumb brutes. Because you never were, and never will be.” He’s nearly crying. “They never understood you.” Cujo is trailing behind—watching, smiling. I rush to them, take Collin by the arm, and pull him back a little so he’s with Cujo and me.

  “Hey.”

  “Collin, what on Earth are you thinking?”

  Cujo says, “Dude, you’re wearing a jumpsuit.”

  “Uncle Rick, I can’t believe you’ve allowed this to happen. Treating Neanderthals like subhumans. Doesn’t this bother you?”

  We’re humans, too.

  Clap.

  So whatchya gonna do?

  Clap.

  Collin yells, “What we’re going to do is fight for liberty.”

  “Collin, you’ve started a riot. This is not—”

  “The time for change is now.”

  My phone rings. It says my sister has called ten times in the last forty minutes.

  “Collin, this is a company. This isn’t a city or a state.”

  The call goes to voice mail.

  We’re no . . .

  Clap-clap-clap.

  Subspecies.

  Clap-clap-clap.

  A new call comes in. It’s an unknown 650 number. What the hell is going on? I swipe and answer the call.

  “Yes, this Sabine Rorgstardt from Stanford University.”

  “Oh, hi. I’m sorry, I’m a bit frazzled at the moment.”

  “I’m doing a favor for a friend.” She sounds like a robot, so serious. “I understand you wanted to arrange a brief visit for a certain someone who is passionate about Neanderthals.”

  We’re no . . .

  Clap-clap-clap.

  Subspecies.

  Clap-clap-clap.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Sabine. Can I call you back?”

  “Of course,” she says, and I hang up a little too quickly.

  I turn to Cujo. “I need to get him out of here,” I say. “Pull a left up here and wait at the door. I’ll have them buzz him in.” Then I bark into the radio. “They’re coming to the bottom-floor entry. I want you to let the boy in immediately—as soon as you see him at the door.”

  A new call comes in—my sister.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I swipe at the screen of my phone. “Ana,” I say as pleasantly as possible. “What’s up?”

  Ana sounds acidic. “I simply can’t . . . believe you.”

  I fall back some more, try to cup my hand over my mouth as I speak into the phone. I try so hard to sound pleasant. “What do you mean?”

  Long pause. “You know exactly what I mean.”

  I watch as Cujo leads Collin away from the mob and toward the door to the executive building. A few conployees linger back with them. The door opens, and the conployees rush the guard, pull him out of the threshold, and toss him onto the sidewalk. They charge in, and Collin and Cujo follow suit. I feel my stomach tighten, and I decide to hightail it over there.

  “Actually, Ana, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “His body-language coach?” She waits, hoping it will register. “The body-language coach. He was waiting for Collin, and he never showed. I’m gathering you two ditched him?”

  How about the entire second half of the school day?

  “Do you have any idea how important these things are? You know, if you want to get into a good school?”

  I want to say, How can you care so deeply about things like your kid’s body-language tutor and yet neglect this kid so thoroughly? Instead, I say, “I’m sorry, Ana.”

  I help the guard up, and he opens the door with his badge. We enter.

  “This is the
kind of thing, Rick. I’m sorry, but this is exactly the kind of thing that worries me—you know, about taking care of the house, about Collin coming out and visiting.”

  The guard and I take the stairs up to the executive floor, where Mama hopefully is holding court with the subcommittee. “Listen, Ana.” I feel like I’m about to explode, but I hold it together, take a deep breath. “In terms of having command presence and earning the confidence of followers, I think Collin’s body language is just fine.”

  * * *

  By the time I reach the executive area, the meeting with the compensation subcommittee is in progress in the Alcatraz conference room. I stop twenty feet short and marvel at the sight before me. An empty-nesting granny with no affiliation to the company is holding an emergency meeting with the compensation subcommittee of the Robards International board of directors. And the guest speakers include one benefits-sabotage IT geek, one sabotaged employee-turned-conployee, and one very passionate, opinionated, and confident eight-year-old.

  Never mind me pretending to be Dick Rayborne.

  Shelley is pacing outside Alcatraz. When I approach she says, “Mama wants you gone.”

  “I know. I just wanted to make sure you guys are okay.”

  “I just heard the tape,” she says.

  “Tape?”

  “Is that your nephew there? The agitator?”

  I nod and smile.

  “The security guys just played the tape,” she says. “It was nuts. One minute, he’s simply asking them about the rules for conployees, and the next thing, he’s telling them they’re oppressed, that they’re being discriminated against, that they’re humans, too. That they never were the brutes—the subspecies—that the world thinks they are.” She looks away at a thought, shakes her head. “It was amazing. Conployees started coming over and listening. Then more guys came over. Then he’s suddenly leading these protest chants, and that only got them more worked up. It was crazy to see.”

  I glance into Alcatraz. Collin is at the head of the table, his arms thrust out in exclamation, his head cocked sideways in a plea for reason. It looks like he’s got a lot to say, his jaw jutted out, his eyes saucered, his jugular popping. And I have to say—I’m not too surprised that the three members of the subcommittee are sitting there listening, equal parts curious and entertained. I also have to say I’m more than a little proud of Collin’s vision, his leadership. Okay, so maybe this is what they teach at the Halvaford School—how to change the world.