by Richard Hine
“Hold on, Ben,” I say. “That’s my other line.”
“Can you believe that?” says Hank Sullivan, our sales director. “How does Henry let a kid walk in off the street and talk to Dave like that? I mean, we all know Dave is inflexible and arrogant, but you can’t just come out and say it.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell Hank. “Dave will be all right. Henry will take care of it. He can’t afford to piss Dave and the production people off. He’ll take the kid aside, smooth out his rough edges. We won’t be seeing any performances like that again. But hey, let’s catch up later, can we? I’ve got another call holding.”
I click back to Ben and tell him the same thing—including the part about having another call, even though it’s no longer true. I hang up the phone and stare out my window for a second or two.
“I hear I missed a good meeting,” says Jeanie Tusa, our finance director. I swivel in my chair to see her leaning against my doorframe. Jeanie doesn’t enter my office unless she really has to. I’ve heard through the grapevine that she thinks I should “clean my room.”
“Hi, Jeanie,” I say. “You didn’t miss much. Just the usual horse hockey.”
“That’s not what I heard,” she says. “I heard Dave Douglas is really pissed at Henry’s new consultant.” Jeanie’s dirty blonde hair is curly in the way it gets when she doesn’t have time to blow it dry. She smiles, lips closed, her whole face scrunched up. It’s not her best look.
“Judd?” I say. “I guess he did ruffle a couple of feathers.” I immediately regret saying even that much. It’s a violation of one of my cardinal rules: never tell anyone from finance anything. People from finance have the power to fuck you over. And Jeanie is no exception, even if she devotes large chunks of time to acting like a pal to me, Susan, Ben and Martin. She’ll always be the person who meets with Henry behind closed doors each week, reviewing spreadsheets, catching up on office gossip and deciding when and how to cut our staff or our budgets.
“Who came up with ‘Diaper Boy’? I love it.” She smiles again to indicate how much fun this gossipy stuff can be.
I don’t take the bait this time.
“So how’s the budget reforecast shaping up?”
“Good news!” says Jeanie. “I was just coming to tell you. I found an extra hundred and twenty-nine thousand. I’ve put it into your trade advertising budget.”
“You just found it?”
“Not so loud.” She perches herself on my guest chair, puts an elbow onto the papers on my desk and leans toward me. She’s wearing a long-sleeved top with horizontal blue and white stripes. Most of the mothers in our office wouldn’t even attempt such a look. But Jeanie works out so much she can almost pull it off. “Let’s just keep this between us. There’s no need to tell Henry.”
I’m not sure what surprises me more these days—the amount of trust Henry still places in Jeanie, or the number of little secrets she manages to keep from him.
“OK,” I say. “But what if he notices we’re running a lot more ads?”
“Don’t book the ads yet. We may have some budget cuts coming.”
“So how much of the one-twenty-nine will I be giving back?”
Jeanie sucks air through her teeth. “We’ll probably ask you for three hundred.”
“So instead of being plus one-twenty-nine, I’m actually minus one-seventy-one?”
She looks confused. As if she didn’t know math was something you could do in your head. “Something like that. But it’s better than being minus three hundred, right?”
“I guess so,” I tell her. “Well, listen, thanks for bringing me the good news.”
Instead of leaving, Jeanie leans even further across my desk. “So,” she says, “did you hear about Ben’s bathrobes?”
“Bathrobes?” I’m trying to sound noncommittal. I know exactly what she’s talking about. I have one hanging in my closet at home.
“Did you know those bathrobes he ordered for Georgina’s spa day cost three hundred and forty dollars each?”
“Wow. They must be pretty good quality.”
“You don’t think that’s a little extravagant?”
Ben’s title is special events director. Before he joined us, the position was just called “events director.” But Ben won’t produce any event unless it’s special. Which means we’re hosting more lavish, more talked-about, more well-attended events than ever before. Jeanie spends so much time going after Ben it makes me wonder if she’s under secret instructions from Henry to build a file on him. It has nothing to do with Ben’s homosexuality, of course. Henry is a highly evolved executive and a tolerant individual. He would never be seen to discriminate against anybody based on his own personal phobias.
“Didn’t Georgina have a budget?” I ask. “I thought that her spa day was for twenty-five of our best clients. I heard it was a big success.”
“Well, it’s hard for us to judge how successful it was. We weren’t there.”
I sit back and clasp my chin in my hand, thinking how I might change the subject. Because now’s not the time to tell Jeanie that I was the person Georgina Bird called when a client canceled on her at the last minute. That I took a break from the stress of my day to enjoy a one-hour hot-stone massage, followed by a European facial, capped off with a hydrating body wrap. It was one of those company-paid thank-yous sales managers try to give their friends in marketing whenever they can. Taking home an imported designer robe in my gift bag seemed like the perfect end to my very special day.
“How’s Justin doing?” I ask, feigning concern for Jeanie’s obnoxious second child. “Did he get over that infection OK?”
After Jeanie leaves, I send Ben an instant message telling him to call me. I want to explain to him how important it is to keep Jeanie sweet, how she should always get a leftover robe if he has one, or even be added to the guest list for a special event once in a while.
I bump into Henry on my way to the kitchen area. He looks approvingly at the company-issued mug I’m holding, emblazoned with the purple and yellow Ghosh Media logo.
“What did you think of this morning’s meeting?” he says, following me into the kitchen area. He seems a little jazzed up.
I study the buttons on the machine and make my selections cautiously. Coffee. Caffeinated. Medium strength. Full cup. The machine whirrs into action. The display panel reads: PLEASE WAIT.
“Well, I think it was terrific,” says Henry. “A great exchange of ideas. I was really impressed with the way Judd articulated his thinking.” Henry seems a bit like his old self again. As if he believes having Judd around will actually help him get things back on track.
I try my best to smile and adopt a positive air while wondering if Henry has any hope of ever rejuvenating his career under the current regime. He’s still under forty-five, but his thick head of gray hair makes most people assume he’s older. The gray adds an air of maturity to his boyish features, his almost artificial blue eyes. I’ve seen photos from Henry’s first management training course. Back then, he was virtually indistinguishable from the other handsome Ivy Leaguers who used to dominate the company. If he hadn’t gone gray—people once suspected him of using some kind of reverse-Grecian formula—it would have been easy to dismiss him as just another pretty-boy lightweight. These days, no one questions the authenticity of Henry’s hair color. At work, he’s lived through three mergers. At home, he’s fathered three kids he still has to put through college.
“He certainly made a strong impression,” I say.
“Exactly,” says Henry. “He’s sharp. He’s confident. He’s aggressive.”
I put my mug on the counter and open the fridge to look for some milk. The only thing inside is a homemade sandwich with a note stuck on top that reads: DO NOT TOUCH. I’m baffled. There were about seven unopened quarts of milk in here on Friday. Someone must be taking it home. I close the fridge and turn back to Henry.
I sip from my steaming coffee mug. I’ve never liked black coffee. Since I gave up su
gar, it tastes more bitter than ever.
“Like I said Friday, I’m counting on you to look after him,” says Henry. “Take him around. Show him the ropes. Make sure he gets everything he needs to complete his project.”
“What exactly is the project?”
“Just some data gathering to start. Some analysis. Let’s see what he puts together before we decide where it leads us.” Henry pats me on the shoulder and walks away. He pauses at the kitchen door. “I’m counting on you,” he says then disappears.
I stare for a moment at the dark brew I’m holding, then pour it into the sink, wash and dry my mug, and head outside to treat myself to a triple-shot extra-foam latte.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’m on the phone with Sam when Judd arrives at my office. He walks right in, clutching a manila file folder, oblivious to the fact that I’m engaged in a conversation and fazed only for a split second by the clutter that surrounds me, the piles of folders that litter the floor, the layouts and printouts and spiral-bound presentations that cover every available surface. He takes the one clear path to my guest chair, sits, then holds his body tensely in a way that conveys his urgency and purpose. I hold up a finger to let him know I’ll be just a minute.
“Tell me again why we should do this,” I say into the phone. On the other end of the line, Sam repeats to me all the reasons why the patterned rug Shila has just brought into her store will work perfectly in the corridor between our bathroom and bedroom.
I sit back and size Judd up some more. For his first day at his new consulting assignment, along with his suspenders and cufflinks, he is wearing a bold, blue-and-white-striped shirt and a red tie with small blue dots. His curly brown hair is cropped short, and he wears thick-rimmed, fashionable-nerd glasses.
I try to imagine Judd 1.0, how he might have been in the days before he went to Harvard and earned his MBA. The picture I’m getting is of a shy wage slave failing to make a significant impression in the world of packaged goods, unsuccessfully trying to line up dates on Match.com. Judd 2.0 is someone completely different. Like a convict who’s spent two years working out obsessively in the prison yard, he has used his time at business school to re-create himself. In his case, the workouts have targeted the ego, arrogance and condescension muscles, which ripple impressively beneath his corporate attire.
“What kind of budget are we talking about?” I say to Sam, swiveling in my chair so I can gaze thoughtfully out the window.
“What do you mean?” she says. “I told you it was only two hundred dollars. I’m going to buy it.”
“It’s definitely an interesting concept. How soon do you need an approval?”
“What are you talking about? Is someone there?”
Judd is fidgeting in his seat, holding his folder toward me and tapping it lightly on my desk. He’s printed a label that reads D-SAW PROJECT and stuck it neatly on the tab of his folder. I have no idea how to print labels like that and no time to figure it out. It must be something they teach you at Harvard.
“Affirmative,” I tell Sam. “But I don’t think we need to rush into anything.” Even though I’m starting to grow curious about what Judd wants, there’s a principle involved here. He walked right into my office while I was on the phone. There’s a minimum time that must elapse before I can give him my focused attention.
“I’ll talk to you later,” says Sam.
“Just hold on,” I say.
I’m silent for several seconds, holding the receiver to my ear, avoiding Judd’s expectant gaze, instead looking thoughtfully at a corner of his folder. He’s a few years younger than me, but because of his MBA he projects a lot more self-importance. What he doesn’t realize is that while he went off to Beantown, he lost out on two years of real-world experience. He’s showing up at the Chronicle with an outdated knowledge of how to sell baby care and personal hygiene products and no real clue about how a newspaper operates.
“Stop playing your stupid games,” says Sam. “I’m hanging up now.”
“OK. Can we talk about this later? I have someone in my office.”
“Whatever,” says Sam and hangs up.
“Sorry about that,” I say to Judd.
He sits down, opens his manila folder, pulls out a sheet of paper and lays it on my desk. He starts describing the project Henry wants him to work on. He’s excited. It’s a launch opportunity—a brand extension that could herald a new era of growth for our stagnating division.
“Stage one is information gathering,” he says, pointing with a nail-bitten finger to the first column on the page.
“This is a nice looking table,” I say. “Did you do all this in Excel?”
Judd looks at me for a second and then carries on with his explanation. He tells me that Henry wants him to schedule one-on-one interviews with me, Susan, Martin and Dave. He doesn’t mention Ben, but I assume that’s an oversight.
Next, he pulls out a stapled black-and-white document I recognize immediately. I realize why Henry doesn’t want his full-time team working on this. We’ve all seen this project before. It’s a harebrained scheme that we’ve each been asked to work on at one time or another. If this is the best Henry can come up with, we’re in worse shape than I thought.
I sit back and listen as Judd describes the project in as much detail as he feels comfortable sharing, detailing the marketplace analytics, the key revenue drivers and the performance metrics he’ll be building into his model. I pretend all this is new to me, paraphrasing back what he says so he knows I’m not intimidated by his B-school jabber.
“Maybe we can take some time now,” says Judd. “Get started. I’d love to pick your brain. Jack speaks very highly of you. Henry tells me you’re the smartest person in the building.”
I look at my watch to camouflage any reaction to the news that Judd has already had face time with Jack. I haven’t talked to Jack since he moved up to the thirty-fourth floor.
“You know, I’d love to,” I say. “Trouble is I’m cranking on a Livingston Kidd proposal for Henry. I’ve got a lunch I really can’t get out of. Then we’ve got that big budget meeting this afternoon. Maybe I can swing by at the end of the day. If not, call Barbara and have her slot you into my schedule.”
I stand up to let him know the meeting is over.
“It’s great to have you here,” I tell him. “I’m really looking forward to working with you. Whatever you need, I’m here to help. My department is at your disposal.”
I don’t tell him that he’s wasting his time, that the project he’s been asked to work on was ludicrous when I started at the company four years ago. Today, unless someone somewhere comes up with a whole new approach, it’s even more certain to fail. Knowing Henry as I do, I’m not optimistic. So far, the only thing I can see different is the code name he’s dreamed up for the project.
The day I started at the company, Henry Moss met me at the elevator.
“Welcome aboard, Russell,” he said. “We’re excited to have you on the team.” He walked me to a small interior room, which I thought at first was a supply closet.
“This is not your office,” he said, switching on the overhead light. “But I think you’ll find it has everything you need.” He left and closed the door behind him.
I walked around the desk, looked at the computer, the telephone, the tape dispenser and the stapler. The room was small, the walls undecorated. There was a swivel chair behind the desk and a straight-backed chair with fraying upholstery on the other side. Two vertical filing cabinets stood against the wall. Beneath the desk were a short, circular wastepaper basket and a tall blue trash can with a recycling symbol on its side.
I sat at the desk and swiveled in the chair, noticing the pinholes and pockmarks on the beige colored walls.
I picked up the phone. There was no dial tone.
I switched on the computer and waited for it to boot up. A window appeared asking for my name and password.
I pulled off a strip of scotch tape and dabbed for lint on my bl
ue suit jacket.
I rolled the tape into a tiny ball and flicked it toward the wastepaper basket.
I bent down to pick up the tape from where it landed on the floor and placed it into the basket.
I checked my watch.
I stood up from my chair and looked inside the filing cabinets. Each drawer was empty, save for one or two paper clips and the dust and human hair that had gathered in the corners.
I sat back down and pressed the button to adjust the height of my seat. The chair made a whooshing sound and I sank gently toward the floor.
Henry walked back into the office and closed the door behind him. He placed a stack of files on my desk and sat down opposite me. In those days Henry was the director of sales development. His hair was thick and brown, with flecks of gray just starting at his temples. He was the boss of my new boss, Ann Stark.
“Listen,” he said, “I hate to do this to you on your first day, but I’m heading out to brief our Chicago, Detroit, Dallas, Atlanta, LA and San Francisco offices on a new product launch we’re planning for the third quarter. It’s top secret and I don’t have time to tell you about it. The details are in these files. Everything’s completely hush-hush. We won’t even announce it internally till the twenty-ninth, so you can’t mention this to anybody. But we need to have a PowerPoint on every salesperson’s laptop by the first of next month. I’ll be back in two weeks. Can you have it written by then?”
While he said all this, I was fumbling with the button on the chair, trying to get myself back to a normal sitting position. So I wasn’t really focused on what Henry was saying.
“No problem,” I said. “Everything I need is right here?”
“Everything,” he said. “But if you need anything else, call my assistant Ellen. She’s the only other person on the floor who knows about this project. Even when you speak to her about it you must use the code name.”