by Richard Hine
“Not the fire truck,” says Fergus sternly. He gets up and takes the metal toy from Beryl’s hand before she puts it on top of her Angus-designed tower. “Why not put your new monkey on top?” he says, handing her the stuffed animal Sam brought. “Doesn’t that look great? It’s King Kong. Raaaaarrrrr!!! How about some juice?” He tickles Beryl’s belly, then picks her up and heads to the kitchen. He holds Beryl sideways against him, still tickling her as she giggles and struggles.
“The Donald,” he says. “You want some too?”
“Sure,” says Angus, following his dad to the fridge.
“We call him The Donald,” Fergus informs me, pouring juice into two glasses. “He likes building things.”
Fergus sits back down and bunches his thick, rusty eyebrows, accentuating the deep crease on his forehead.
“With everything you tell me,” he says, “I don’t understand why you just don’t get out. Don’t you want to do something you feel passionate about?”
“Ha! Do you think I could deal with the frustrations, the politics, the backstabbing and the ineptitude if I was working toward something I really cared about? Banging my head against the wall trying to make the world a better place? That would be too heartbreaking. As long as I get paid well, I prefer to be good at something that has absolutely no value in the real world. We’re all going to die anyway. I can’t stop wars or global warming. I can’t stop AIDS in Africa or bring about peace in the Middle East.”
“Who knows what you could do? Doesn’t the individual still have the power to change the world?” The DVD that’s been playing ends. Fergus reaches for the remote control and starts the movie again.
“And what about you?” I ask. “How are you going to change the world if you keep turning down jobs at bigger magazines?”
“Maybe I just haven’t had the right offer yet,” he says.
Suddenly Beryl’s crying. Her tower has fallen again. Her juice has spilled. Angus is denying his alleged involvement in either incident.
Julie appears with a sponge and some paper towels, reassuring Beryl that everything will be OK.
“She needs her nap,” says Julie.
Fergus ruffles Beryl’s hair. “If Angus is being a pain, why don’t you go and hang out with Mommy and Auntie Sam?”
I update Fergus on my lunch at Fabrice, Henry’s latest schemes and my fears that Henry, no matter what ideas he comes up with, no matter how well he fights each battle, can no longer win. He’ll never be seen as the kind of next-generation leader the company now needs.
I tell him that more layoffs are coming. That Henry is ready to abandon his allegiance to Jack, the guy who’s taken care of him all these years. He’s pinning all his hopes, I say, on a new consultant who’s starting Monday, for whom I have to provide top-secret support.
“Fuck-rying out loud,” says Fergus, trying not to swear in front of the kids. “Why don’t you just get out now?”
“And miss all the fun?”
“I thought the good times were over for newspapers.”
“You’re right,” I say. “Something changed between the time Google went public and Craigslist ate all the classified ads.”
My big fear, I want to tell Fergus, is that Larry Ghosh realizes the Chronicle is not really in the newspaper business. It’s in the information business. He knows there’s no future being the number four newspaper in a market that can at best sustain three titles. If he were to shut the newspaper down and take the whole business online, he could give the Chronicle at least a fighting chance to become a profitable Web-based, multimedia brand. He’d have to replace Mark Sand, the idiot who runs our online group. But after that, things would be relatively easy. With the radio and TV resources of Ghosh Media behind it, and none of the newsprint, distribution and subscriber-acquisition costs, the Daily Business Chronicle might even regain its relevance and secure its future.
“Listen up,” says Julie. She has just emerged from the bathroom holding Beryl by the hand. She waits till she is sure of our attention. She has an announcement to make.
“Guess who did number twos in the grown-up toilet?”
Fergus, Julie, Angus, Sam and I all gather round to inspect one at a time the rodent-size pellets at the bottom of the toilet bowl.
“Wow,” says Fergus, sounding genuinely impressed.
“What a big girl,” says Julie.
“Great job,” says Sam.
“Is she getting enough fiber?” I ask.
Julie lifts Beryl up to have her flush the toilet. And as we watch the water swirl and Beryl’s poo-poo disappear, Fergus yells “Hooray!” and bursts into proud applause.
Beryl seems rejuvenated, but only briefly. After a little more running and shrieking, she starts getting grumpy. Meanwhile Angus, hungry now, insists on being allowed to microwave himself some macaroni and cheese for dinner. I call a car service to take Sam and me home.
In the car, Sam leans against her window, looking out at the brownstones going by. Neighborhood families and friends are sitting out in the late afternoon sun, chatting on their stoops.
One time, years ago, when Sam and I were first living together, we were driving back home from a party in a car just like this. We were both tipsy. Sam lay down suddenly on her back with her head in my lap, took my hand and guided it inside her panties. Before my hesitant fingers even had time to react, Sam was moaning loudly, as if she were putting on a show for the driver.
Today she seems more interested in the world beyond the backseat of our car.
“They seem so happy,” she says at last. “Julie wants another one, but Fergus isn’t sure they can afford it.”
“Having kids is tough on just one salary,” I say.
On Sundays, Mondays and Wednesdays, Sam works from noon to six at Artyfacts, Park Slope’s “first-class, secondhand” store. The store’s run by her friend Shila Hawthorne. Sam makes fourteen bucks an hour, or $252 a week. That’s enough, theoretically, to allow her to cover her day-to-day expenses and even shop for some occasional groceries. In practice, though, she gets paid in merchandise. She’s unable to withstand the temptation to convert her salary into lightly used and slightly worn items from the store, taking advantage of the substantial employee discount Shila offers.
Sam’s schedule allows me to devote Sundays to researching and writing my Christopher Finchley columns. I make a pot of coffee. My home office is set up at a small desk in the corner of the living room. I get out my Leadership, Management-by-Magazine and Unicorn files. I skim some articles I’ve already read and highlighted, then lay them out in a semi-circle on the floor behind my chair. I open a new Word document. While I’m thinking of a great opening line, I log on to eMusic to select this month’s tunes. Some great independent stuff that, even as it’s downloading, I know I’ll never listen to. I take a quick look at YouTube and start clicking on all kinds of two-minute videos, each of which seems ninety seconds too long. After that, I skim the news, quickly getting entangled in the lives of the latest batch of celebutantes, tracking their drunken antics, nipple slips, anorexia denials and embarrassing emails all the way from TMZ to Defamer to Go Fug Yourself and back again. Suddenly I’m nauseous. Like a teenager drained by too much porn, I can’t look at this stuff anymore.
It’s already three fifteen. I need to get my day back on track. Fast.
I reach into the back of my file drawer for my AntiCrastination Workbook.
Last summer, Henry decided that his whole team was not getting things done fast enough. He made us sit through a half-day seminar on AntiCrastination. Boiled down, the training consisted of three steps to ensure we would never drag our feet, goof off, or make Henry look bad ever again.
THE SECRETS OF ANTICRASTINATION
List your Works in Progress (WIPs). Now prioritize them!!
Complete your WIPs. Set yourself a deadline and don’t start new projects till your current WIPs are finished!!
Reward yourself. Do something fun to celebrate the completion of each proje
ct before moving on to the next!!
Not everyone found the seminar worthwhile. “Do you realize,” said Susan Trevor, “how much progress I could have been making instead of sitting through that shit?”
Maybe Susan was right at the time. But today, this shit is the best I’ve got. I’ve accomplished nothing today. I’m still wearing the clothes I slept in. I need to start AntiCrastinating…immediately!!
I list my WIPs. I circle my top priorities. I give myself a deadline for each.
THIS AFTERNOON: Finish new Christopher Finchley column…Email to Fergus!!
BY WEDNESDAY NIGHT: Seduce Sam…Code Red Status: 27 days and counting!!
BY NOON ON FRIDAY: Livingston Kidd…Deliver finished presentation to Henry!!
That was productive. I’ve finished my WIP list. To reward myself, I click on my Netflix bookmark and spend the next fifteen minutes rearranging the movies in my queue. As soon as I’m sure I’ve listed all my Ingmar Bergman movies in order of their original release date—safely in the mid-300s, with no chance they’ll ever rise to the top—I feel ready to attack my first project with gusto.
By five thirty I email a draft to Fergus.
“Is this a joke?” he says.
“Not at all,” I say. “Don’t you like it?”
“What happened to the Unicorns?”
“I need more time for that. This came out better.”
“‘Look at My Poopie!’” Fergus reads aloud. “‘Tracing the Origins of Workplace Competitiveness to Your Early Childhood Years.’”
“What can I tell you? Beryl inspired me.”
“OK. I’ll read it and call you back.”
I reread the article myself. A thousand words on our childish need to please our workplace mommies and daddies. How some of us never get beyond the need to be overly praised for every symbolic bowel movement we produce. How the most needy among us rush to our bosses once, twice, three times a day looking to be acknowledged for the unimpressive brown pellets we’re cupping in our trembling hands.
“This is great,” says Fergus, calling me back.
“You like it?”
“Yes, Russell. You did good poopie.”
I hang up the phone. For my reward, I crank up the volume on my iPod speakers and do a funny little dance to a couple of Rilo Kiley tunes.
I stop when the neighbors below start banging on their ceiling. I take a shower before Sam gets home, then put on real clothes for the first time today. A clean T-shirt and my favorite relaxed-fit khakis. I plan to work on my next priority when Sam gets home.
“What the hell happened here?” she says.
“I was working. I had a creative burst. Wrote a whole new article today.”
“So when where you planning on picking this shit up?”
“No problem. I thought maybe I would ravish your sexy young body first.”
“Don’t start with that the moment I walk through the door. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m just excited to see you.”
“This isn’t your office, Russell. If you can’t file all this away tonight, it’s going in the basement tomorrow.”
CHAPTER SIX
Before I walk into Henry’s nine a.m. staff meeting, I already know the three main obstacles Judd Walker has to overcome on his first day of his new assignment:
He’s a consultant. Years ago I claimed an old book from my dad’s collection called Up the Organization. It’s packed with handy advice for navigating the corporate world, including a warning about consultants: They will borrow your watch just to tell you the time. Then they are likely to walk off with it too.
He’s arriving at a bad time. Henry’s already tipped me off that more layoffs and budget cuts are coming soon. When the rest of his team hears what’s going on, any shred of motivation they may have to help Judd will evaporate.
It’s my twenty-eighth day without sex. And I’m not in the best of moods.
At least I thought those were going to be Judd’s main obstacles. But when I walk into the small conference room on the twenty-sixth floor, I immediately see three more:
He’s sitting at Henry’s right hand. Henry’s in the dad seat at the head of the conference table. But Judd’s right next to him. In my usual spot.
He’s wearing suspenders. Not a good fashion choice. Not on the first day. Not when you’re the youngest person in the room. It makes people suspicious, even before you open your mouth.
He’s planning to present. The projector is set up in the middle of the table. Connected to a laptop PC. Just waiting to be powered up.
I nod in Henry’s direction and walk around the table to sit on Henry’s left, opposite Judd. Dave Douglas and Susan Trevor are already entering. Susan sits next to Judd, with Dave on her right. None of us speak. Henry only wants to go through the formalities once. Hank Sullivan arrives, then Ben Shapiro hurries in, apologizing for being late.
“Let’s wait a minute to see if Martin gets here,” says Henry. We sit in silence for thirty-five seconds more.
Susan makes a fuss of dunking her teabag several times in her milky tea before getting up to deposit the bag in the wastebasket.
“I told Jeanie to skip this meeting. She’s got a lot to prepare for the budget review this afternoon,” says Henry. A few moments later he leans close to Judd and whispers something that makes Judd nod in a serious manner. Judd is wearing cufflinks, I notice. I score that as another point against him.
Twelve more seconds tick by.
“OK,” says Henry. “Let’s get started.”
He introduces Judd. Gives a glowing overview of his academic and business credentials. Then he suggests we go around the room and each tell Judd our name and our role at the Chronicle. I start the ball rolling. As I speak, Judd draws an oblong shape on his notepad. It represents the table we’re sitting at. He writes my name near a corner of his oblong to indicate where I’m sitting.
The baton passes quickly. By now, we all have our thirty-second intros down pat. We reach Susan, who sighs and says simply, “Susan Trevor. Director of ad services.”
“Great,” says Henry. He explains that he has brought Judd in to assist him in developing a new strategic plan for the Chronicle. Judd will likely have questions for each of us, and Henry expects us to give Judd all the help he needs.
As Henry is talking, Judd goes through a discreet warm-up routine, adjusting his cuffs, clearing his throat softly, sipping from his premium-brand bottled water. I glance around the table. Hank and Dave are professionally blank, waiting to see what happens. Ben raises his eyebrows and purses his lips at me. Susan is staring at Judd with open hostility.
Henry tells us that Judd has recently completed an analysis of the newspaper industry. A white paper, if you will. It outlines the challenges facing our whole industry.
Martin enters quietly and takes his seat. Henry continues speaking, choosing to downplay the interruption.
“I thought it would be useful if Judd were to summarize his analysis and add a few initial thoughts on the specific obstacles facing the Daily Business Chronicle,” says Henry. “Judd?”
Judd takes another sip of water, says, “Thank you, Henry,” then reaches over to power up the projector while telling us how much he’s looking forward to working with us all. Even though the room is small, he stands to present.
His title slide appears:
MACRO TRENDS IN THE NEWSPAPER INDUSTRY: THE FUTURE OF PULP IN A PIXEL-BASED WORLD
Susan groans aloud.
I walk down the corridor with Dave, Martin and Susan.
“Asswipe,” says Dave.
“Dickwad,” says Martin.
“Fuckheel,” says Susan.
I sense ears pricking up within a six-cubicle radius.
“Fuckheel?” I say. “He wasn’t that bad.”
We reach the doors to the elevator bank. Dave punches the security panel with the side of his fist, pushes hard on the door so it bounces back off the wall.
“Business school bullshit,”
he says.
“Don’t let him get to you,” I say. “He’s just some upstart consultant. He’s here on a project. He’ll be gone as soon as he files his report.”
“Don’t be so sure,” says Susan, who sees the downside to everything. “This is how Henry operates.”
“Do we even know how long he’s officially here?” says Martin. “Or did I miss that part?” Martin prides himself on his constant curiosity. But he’s never quite curious enough to get to Henry’s nine o’clock meetings on time.
“You didn’t miss much,” says Susan. “Henry played up the new boy’s credentials. Told us he first met Judd when he was still in diapers.”
Martin looks at me for clarification.
“He started out in packaged goods,” I tell him. “Not just diapers. Detergents and air fresheners too. Then Harvard for his MBA.”
“Major Bloody Attitude,” says Susan.
“Fucking Harvard fucking MBAs,” says Dave.
“Couldn’t he get a real job?” says Martin.
Dave’s up elevator arrives, but he lets it go, waits for the next one. He’s still mumbling to himself as Martin, Susan and I get on our elevator down to twenty-five.
The phone in my office is ringing.
“What the hell was all that about?” says Ben Shapiro. Ben runs our events department. Hank Sullivan pulled him aside after Henry’s meeting to discuss plans for his next big client boondoggle. “I thought Dave was going to throttle the cute new consultant. And Henry just—”