The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  And then I realize, Collin was always this way.

  I glance in again. Collin is still lecturing. I turn to Shelley and say, “I need to find a way to excuse ourselves early enough so I can get to get to my sister’s house by six.”

  “Well then . . .” Shelley looks at her wristwatch. “You have fifty-three minutes.”

  “I have to stop this,” I say and ease the conference room door open.

  Collin is saying, “Every assumption modern society has made about these people—and yes, they are people—is wrong. They never were subhumans. They’ve just had too many people dismiss them as . . .” Collin thrusts his fingers up to make the quotation sign. “. . . ‘dumb Neanderthals.’” His voice quavers, and his jugular bulges. “It’s just that no one ever gave these poor guys a break. The world expected them to act like subhumans, so a lot of them have done just that. And yes, many of them—like my Neanderthal, Cujo—do have pronounced brows and large bones, like an ape or early human, but the truth of the matter is, those features have no correlation at all to intelligence or lack thereof. In fact, the History Channel says . . .”

  I look to Mama, and she’s shooting me a nasty glare. The subcommittee members—two men and one woman—notice and turn to face me. I can’t remember their names to save my life. The two men smile uneasily and nod. One of them says, “Is that your honorary jumpsuit, Dick?” and laughs.

  Oh, shit. That’s right. The jumpsuit.

  “We just have a little situation outside, and I needed to—No need to worry about it. Just stay in here, and you should be fine.”

  Collin hasn’t stopped talking. “. . . which just goes to show you that they are capable of doing much more than anyone has ever guessed. But more importantly, this Invitation to Cooperate program doesn’t allow them to assimilate into normal society. The program is dividing classes, widening the divisions, and creating even greater problems, if the revolt downstairs is any indication. And if you ever stopped to look at the fossil record . . .”

  Mama says to me, “I need you to get Bobby. Remember?”

  Oh, crap—Bobby Flanduzi. In the next building. Stuck in an all-day meeting with a huge bag of cash as hundreds of conployees go wild a few feet away. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll go get him.”

  “Thanks, Dick.” Mama turns to the board. “Mr. Rayborne is going to get an employee who has an important story for you. A story you must hear.”

  The board members lean back and roll their eyes. The woman says, “This has got to be the strangest meeting I’ve ever—” She turns to me, squints. “And you’re not fooling anyone.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re not Dick Rayborne,” she snaps. “Where’s Dick?” She leans back, looks at her mobile phone, thumbs over her screen. “Where’s his number?”

  Mama says, “Dick’s going to get Bobby Flanduzi. In the meantime, we’re going to thank Collin here and introduce you to Dick’s computer boys, and then Carl.”

  My—I mean, Dick’s—phone rings in my pocket. The female board member looks at me, scowls. “Why do you have Dick’s phone?”

  I say to Mama and the board members, “I’ll be right back with Bobby Flanduzi.” Then I meet the woman’s eyes. “Give us a chance, okay? As an officer of the company, it’s really important that you hear this.”

  Mama says, “Because it’s not just the conployees who are being mistreated, but nearly every single employee at the company. And it’s your ass that will be thrown in jail.”

  I close the door, and Shelley pulls on my arm. “We have visitors,” she says, so calm. “Over there.” Across the empty office, dozens of conployees are fanning out. One short, massively broad-shouldered conployee with a red bandanna tied over his nose and mouth has collected three laptop computers and is meandering through the office, scanning desks and cabinet tops. Others seem to be sightseeing as they stroll across the floor, their heads down as they try to avoid clear shots from the security cameras. Jeremy approaches us, says, “Don’t worry, sir. The majority of the mob is next door.”

  My real building.

  Where Janice from Finance is holding her all-day meeting.

  Fantastic.

  I turn and grab Shelley by the wrist. “I want Jeremy to never leave Collin out of his sight.” I look at her. “Okay?”

  She nods, says, “I won’t let him out of my sight.” We stand there, watching the conployees. Finally, Shelley whispers to me, “You know, if they hear these stories. The board? If they hear these stories, if they are officially disclosed regarding the tactics Dick and the company are using. And they are illegal. Then the board is legally required to act. Did you know that?”

  Slowly, I shake my head.

  Shelley nods to the conference room. “Your wife is a lot sharper than she lets on.”

  Something just can’t allow me to accept that Mama planned all this.

  “Go get Bobby Flanduzi,” Shelley says, “and let’s see if we can do something kinda big today.”

  * * *

  By the time I reach my real building, hundreds of conployees have poured in through shattered glass doors and windows, and hundreds of normal employees have streaked out, car keys in hand, screaming into their cell phones, the whites of their eyes showing. On each floor, including mine, conployees are yanking displays off desktops, or stacking laptops neatly in their clutches, or simply lounging in the break rooms and coffee areas. Distant sounds of breaking glass, splintering wood, cracking plastic, and baritone hooting bounce off the walls. Some are still yelling Collin’s war cry. One conployee sits in a cube, his feet on the desk, with a desk phone cradled to an ear as he chats with an old friend who seems to be living in Barstow. “First we need to store it in my cousin’s garage,” he says. “Then we talk numbers with the Stockton guys.”

  I don’t see one regular employee. Anywhere.

  I turn a corner and approach the conference room. I stop and take a breath, looking at the closed door. Considering everything that’s happened, one would think they couldn’t possibly . . . I mean, we’re in the middle of a melee—a looting, a riot, an uprising. Of course, Janice loves her meetings. And yes, she hates to stop any meeting early—in fact, she resists early stops with every fiber in her body. And yes, Janice never loses sight of things. There is never any doubt she’s a tireless corporate soldier who will grind you to pulp. And yes, that conference room is a bit removed—kind of tucked away. And yes, these walls are thick, the door solid. But still—what about those conployees over there holding an impromptu donnybrook? What about those guys on the other end marching through the adjacent hall, chanting and pumping and clapping? What about the red-alert alarm that’s just sounded, slashing deep into my skull, blaring long and hard with ruthless precision—over and over and over—like we’re a submarine that’s taken a direct hit?

  Blang . . . blang . . . blang . . . blang . . . blang.

  Don’t they hear all of this?

  Apparently not.

  I approach the door and peer in through the porthole. Janice from Finance is at the whiteboard, her back to the attendees, each and every one of whom is staring into space, thumbing through a mobile phone, or slumping his head in utter defeat. Only Hank seems to be taking notes.

  Poor souls.

  And then I realize, at least they’re safe in their J-23 Incubation meeting. At least they’re missing the stress of a full-blown melee. At least they can sit there, bored off their asses—daydreaming about sex, or planning dinner, or finalizing to-do lists—instead of rushing to their cars with the knowledge that a felon is riffling through their desk drawers. Okay, time to get cranking. I scan the room for Bobby Flanduzi. There he is, still in the center of the room, still staring at his zipped-up Nike bag, still seeming a bit dazed. Time to spring him loose, get him and his money to Alcatraz and then into his car and headed home with the cash still in his possession.

  I get ready to do a reinsert—a basic, unapologetic Bob Watson maneuver of walking back in, preferably when heads are turned in
the opposite direction. Then I realize I’m wearing a jumpsuit. Now, that would cause a commotion. I back up a little and unzip the jumpsuit and step out of it, wondering if anyone in there will notice my new eight-thousand-dollar Italian suit. At least I left the suit jacket back at Dick’s office. I peek in, and Janice’s back is still facing the attendees, who are still in their own worlds. I open the door, slip in, and head to my seat, where my notepad and pen lay undisturbed.

  “So . . .” Janice scribbles a concoction of acronyms onto the whiteboard. “. . . the K-KAR acts as a virtual filter for the P-FID, which means we must R-Doc every single L-27 in the system so we can run B-PODs across every division, whether it is . . .” Her whiteboarding becomes more aggressive, more passionate, as she really puts some mustard into it. “. . . the FG, or the YTA, or the PGT or even the guys in EDG.”

  I look over to Bobby Flanduzi, who’s still staring at the Nike bag. I wait for him to look up.

  Janice turns to face us. “So, the question is, how do we architect a system for P-FIDs when all we’ve ever done are K-KARs?”

  I raise my hand.

  Janice nods, and I stand up and walk to the whiteboard. Gently, I relieve her of the marker, and I begin the scratch out the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever put on a whiteboard (during a real meeting, at least). I sketch out an insanely intricate matrix of lines and arrows and boxes and—of course—triangles and cylinders, and then I begin to label each of them—a flurry of K-KARs and P-FIDs and B-PODs and L-27s. I really have no idea what the hell I am suggesting, but I also really don’t have the time to care—all I must really do is provoke them. When I finish, I turn and jam the cap onto the marker and meet Janice’s gaze. “This, my friends . . .” I force my voice to quake, and I tense my jaws and neck and arms. “. . . is the future of the K-KAR optimization process.” I pause again and try to choke on my spit. “The future of bottom-tier data transformation. The future of . . .” I drop to a near whisper. “. . . the future of everything.”

  I hand the marker back to Janice and slowly return to my seat, my head bowed like I’m leaving an altar. Janice stands there, her chest rising, nostrils flaring. “To suggest that the K-KAR might someday be directly fed into the B-PODs is nearly offensive.” She takes a huge breath, looks down, and lets it out slowly. “And yet . . .” Her voice lightens. “. . . there is something nearly poetic to the suggestion. Something . . .” She uncaps the marker, turns, and attacks the whiteboard, scribbling furiously. “. . . possible.” She tightens her jaws and loops long lines over my drawing. “What if—Now, consider this. What if . . .” She loops another long line across the matrix. “. . . we introduced a Tri-B-POD Process—call it a TB-PODP—and strung it through the K-KAR?”

  I sit there, lean back, and fold my arms, nodding in quiet satisfaction.

  Imprint? Done.

  Distraction? Done.

  Ditch? They’ll never even miss us.

  * * *

  By the time I send Bobby Flanduzi and his Nike bag of cash into the Alcatraz conference room, the red-alert alarm seems to have gotten much louder. Collin and Jeremy the security guard are waiting for me. “This building is cleared and secure,” Jeremy says, and the alarm finally stops. “Most conployees have either returned to their desks, left for the day, or are loitering in a few professional buildings. The rest of the executive team is huddled in Rikers Island, waiting out the storm.” He lets his shoulders sag. “A few employees called 911, but we were able to turn back the police at the gates. As you’ve said before, a police response would be a publicity nightmare.” He cracks a grin. “I knew you’d be happy to hear that, sir. Like you said, sir . . .” He blinks, looks down in embarrassment (or maybe shame?) as he recites “. . . employee terror lasts only a few minutes, maybe an hour, but bad publicity lasts forever.”

  I close my eyes, wait for the anger to dissipate. I control my breathing. When I open my eyes, Mama is sticking her head out of Alcatraz. She’s smiling, her eyes twinkling. “I had Shelley come in and take official minutes so that it would be on the record.” Her voice lifts in excitement. “With all of this in the minutes, they’re legally required to act—that is, unless they want to go to the big house.”

  I nod and Collin beams.

  Mama looks at her wristwatch. “Now it’s time for you and the kid to get out of here. I know you have your own important meeting.”

  I look at the clock on my phone—it’s 5:34. Holy crap. I have twenty-six minutes to get Collin home, and it’s rush hour, which usually takes forty minutes. I tense and spin around, trying to think clearly. What do I need?

  “I need my wagon.” Mama says it so sweetly. “Why don’t you get your briefcase . . .” She gives me the eye. “. . . and your keys for the Porsche and just go?”

  I leave the check for Shelley on her keyboard, facedown, and soon we’re racing out the back door and into the gated executive parking lot. I’m not sure I knew what to expect, but I certainly didn’t expect the gate to be jammed open with a two-by-four, and I didn’t expect to see an old white pickup truck idling inside the lot. I didn’t expect to see several dozen conployees using hydraulic tools and crowbars and wrenches to strip down the executive fleet of Mercedes, Teslas, Karmas, and BMWs. And I most certainly didn’t expect to see Ernie and Cujo working a jack under my—I mean, Dick’s—Porsche.

  I run up to the Porsche. “Hey.”

  Ernie keeps cranking the jack, lifting the Porsche off the ground. Cujo lowers his wrench and looks up at me. “I’ve gotta say,” he says, his eyes so alive. “This has got to be the best fucking day at work ever.”

  “Guys. C’mon. I need the car.”

  Cujo begins to wiggle off a wheel. “Sorry, dude. You know how much these wheels go for on the black market?”

  “Guys. Listen. I’ll give you this Porsche. I promise. I mean, forget the wheels. You can have the whole thing.”

  Cujo stops with the wheel, and Ernie peers up at me.

  “Just put this car down, get those lug nuts, and tighten them back on. Please. Just please let us get the hell out of here, so I can convince my sister—I mean, do you want Collin to never be able to come back home and visit? Do you think some vegan chef named Luke should babysit Collin for six weeks?”

  Cujo looks at Collin, then at me. “You serious, dude? Some weed eater is gonna babysit our little buddy in Mongolia—”

  “Argentina.”

  “—unless you hightail it to your sister’s crib in twenty minutes?”

  “That’s it. Exactly. C’mon. I need your help.”

  Ernie is already lowering the Porsche, and Cujo is wrenching a lug nut onto one of the wheels. “I’ll get these two on this side,” he grunts. “Ernie will do the other two over there—You hear that, Ernie? The Egghead needs to get to his sister’s.” He looks up at me. “You just get in the car and start the engine, and we’ll have you two peeling out in a second. Just wait for my tap on the window.”

  Only problem is, Ernie is just standing there looking at me with the saddest face. Cujo notices, releases an annoyed sigh. Then he looks at me, says, “You have to understand, Warden. This kind of thing is tough on Ernie.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Saying goodbye.” He looks at Ernie, then at me and Collin, his voice softening. “Mama says Ernie has some ‘loss issues.’ All I know is, it’s hard for the little guy to let go.” He studies Ernie some more. “I think he’s worried that he’s never going to see you two again. And he likes you both.”

  I turn to Ernie and meet his wet gaze. “You think you’re never going to see us again?”

  Ernie blinks away a tear. Nods.

  “Well, what if Mama and I set up a playdate—I mean, some time for all of us to hang out?”

  Ernie sniffles and nods.

  Cujo works the lug nuts. “I’ll do the other wheels real fast so you three can hug it out.”

  Ernie grins at us, sniffling, and opens his arms.

  * * *

  Racing up Interstate 28
0 to Woodside, weaving in and out of relatively light traffic, I hit speeds nearing ninety miles per hour. All I know is, I’m glad I don’t have my commuter car this afternoon. I scan my rear- and side-view mirrors, hoping I don’t see the flashing lights of a California Highway Patrol car. Not that I would stop if there were any. We just have to get there by six. No exceptions, especially not today.

  Finally, at 5:51, I shift down on the Woodside Road exit. I scan my mirrors one last time and feel my shoulders relax as I realize we now have more than enough time to get to Ana’s house by six o’clock. From this spot, I usually can get there in five minutes, which now gives me four cushion minutes to slow down and think about what to say to my sister and how to say it.

  Collin’s breathless. “That was amazing.”

  “Don’t tell your mom.” I pull a right onto Woodside Road and head down the hill. “I need to clear my head, kiddo. It’s just spinning right now.”

  “Put on some music,” Collin says. “Music always helps.”

  I fiddle with the stereo, and like a miracle, I’m able to get SiriusXM Radio. Apparently Dick Rayborne likes his love songs—Channel 17 (“Love”) appears on the screen, and suddenly I’m listening to “When a Man Loves a Woman.” I pound on the buttons until I land on Channel 33(“1st Wave”)—and just like that I have the English Beat, of all bands, thumping through the car, the saxophone wailing, the bass thunging, and the horns twisting and winding to “March of the Swivel Heads,” the instrumental version of “Rotating Heads.”

  Maybe the universe really does want me to go to the Greek tonight?

  I downshift as I approach Southgate Drive and pull a right, my head bopping to the beat, the trumpets popping.

  Bup-bup bup-pup

  Bup-bup bup-pup

  Bup-bup bup-pup

  Beeeep bup-bup-bup