Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch

by Richard Hine

I glanced down at the label on the top file.

  “Is the code name ‘Focus Two’?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” he said. “The code name is WICTY.”

  “Interesting. What does that mean?”

  “Wish I could tell you,” said Henry.

  “OK. I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  “No,” said Henry. “WICTY is an acronym for ‘wish I could tell you.’ I came up with it myself.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Questions?” said Henry.

  “Who do I talk to about my phone?”

  “Ellen.”

  “Access to the network?”

  “Ellen.”

  Henry stood up and hesitated at the door. “By the way,” he said. “When I said the WICTY project was top secret, that includes even Ann Stark. I know you report to her, but don’t under any circumstances give her any idea what you’re working on.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’m trusting you with this.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Should I talk to Ellen about my ID card?”

  “Of course not. Call building services.” He opened the door. “See you in two weeks,” he said, and disappeared.

  The files Henry left behind contained transcripts from several focus groups conducted in different cities to gauge consumer reaction to our new product. According to the summary report, this product was a daily tabloid newspaper from the editors of the Chronicle designed to appeal especially to younger readers and urban commuters. Apparently this meant that most of the articles would be replaced by colorful photographs and graphics. I scanned the report and the transcripts, trying in vain to find a more detailed description. But all I could find was the name: the Daily Edge. After twenty minutes I had read all the material, and avoiding Ann Stark’s office, I walked the long way round to Ellen’s cubicle and asked her to make arrangements for my phone and computer.

  As soon as my phone was working, I called building services and scheduled my ID card appointment.

  I sat in the office that wasn’t my office studying the files Henry had given me.

  I tried to avoid Ann Stark, who worked in a two-windowed office down the hall.

  Several of my new colleagues in the marketing department and even a few salespeople introduced themselves and showed an interest in what I was doing.

  A typical conversation would go something like this:

  “So, you’re the new guy.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Russell,” I said. “Russell Wiley.”

  “It’s great to meet you, Russell. What do you do?”

  I told them what I did.

  “That’s great. Where do you come from?”

  I gave the name of my former company.

  “So. What do they have you working on?”

  “Just a project Henry asked me to look at.”

  “Really. Which one?”

  “Wish I could tell you.”

  I quickly gained a reputation for being arrogant and aloof.

  Each day I ate lunch alone in the corner of the staff cafeteria.

  Each night I worked till nine or ten o’clock, trying to write a presentation for a product I knew little about. To make matters worse, the people in the focus groups were all regular readers of the text-heavy, broadsheet Chronicle. They had nothing good to say about the eye-popping tabloid they were being shown.

  One night the phone rang at nine thirty. It was Henry from Atlanta. I told him I was having trouble articulating the new sales proposition. He told me he hadn’t expected to find me in the office and just wanted to leave a voicemail.

  “Shall I hang up?”

  “Of course not. Didn’t I give you the file marked YANA?”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “That’s right. I’m not allowed to show it to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “You are not authorized.”

  “That’s what YANA means?”

  “Yes, but forget I mentioned it. Just use what’s in the files I gave you.”

  “OK. But I’m not sure it’s the most compelling stuff.”

  “Be creative,” he said. “I’m relying on you.”

  He hung up the phone.

  Over the next few days and nights, I took Henry’s advice and developed some creative ways to use the quotes in my focus group files.

  When a lady in Philadelphia said, “I hate what you’ve done. It’s like you’ve taken an old friend and made him unrecognizable,” I simply selected the words, “It’s like…an old friend.”

  And when a war veteran from Minneapolis said, “I’ve never seen such a piece of shit. I want to read the Chronicle, not a comic book. Why couldn’t you leave a good thing alone?” I was able to spin the slightly more positive, “I’ve never seen such…a good thing.”

  I put these quotes under the heading, “Everybody needs an Edge!”

  After two weeks, I had assembled a forty-page presentation packed with benefit-oriented bullet points and enthusiastic quotes. I still had no idea what the Daily Edge actually looked like.

  Then Henry returned and told me the WICTY project was canceled and that Ann Stark had been fired.

  He walked me round the sales and marketing departments and introduced me to everyone. He joked with people that they may have seen someone who looked like me hanging around for the past two weeks, but that guy was an imposter and the real me was now officially starting.

  When the memo came out explaining that Ann Stark had left the company for personal reasons, Henry’s popularity soared and people viewed me with new respect.

  Henry grew more popular because, I discovered, the entire marketing staff had hated Ann Stark. They had given her the nickname S.R.M., which stood for Stark Raving Mad. Her departure meant they would no longer have to endure her instructing them to “let their creativity flow” with every assignment, only to insist later they change all the typefaces to her specifications and add a green border to everything.

  I gained respect because my new colleagues thought I had somehow played a role in getting Ann Stark fired. And if that were the case, it meant I possessed a power they might have cause to fear.

  I moved into my new office. Unlike the temporary one where Henry had left me, this one had a single window. Ellen showed me a catalog and invited me to select a potted plant. She informed me that I would not be allowed to water it because that task had been outsourced to a specialist company. I filed my work on the WICTY project into my new filing cabinets.

  Ann Stark was replaced by Colin Desmond, who lasted only seven weeks before being fired. Then came Barney Barnes, who was promoted to a more senior position reporting to Jack within six months. Then came Paula Davies, who lasted almost a year. After Paula was asked to leave, Henry did something surprising. He stopped looking outside for his next candidate. He promoted me.

  Last year, when we shuffled the deck chairs one more time, Jack Tennant became president of the Burke-Hart Business Group and publisher of the Chronicle, Henry outmaneuvered Hank Sullivan to become vice president of sales and marketing, and I was promoted into Henry’s old job as sales development director.

  Late in the morning, the day’s interruptions seem to have slowed and I somehow get absorbed in my work. I stick at it through the lunch hour, with an excuse at the ready in case Judd reappears. Suddenly, close to two o’clock, my hunger hits. I run down to our cafeteria to grab a cheeseburger and fries to go, then head upstairs with my hot food and plastic cutlery.

  I’m squeezing two packets of ketchup onto my burger when Roger Jones wheezes into my office, angles himself through the turns of my office obstacle course, perches unhappily on my guest chair and places a large plastic cup of soda on my desk.

  Roger is the smartest and fattest guy I know. If there were a contest to find the employee with the highest weight-plus-IQ total, Roger would win hands down. I brought him over from my former company as soon as Henry promoted me to dir
ector. Between my old company and this one, Roger and I have worked together for more than seven years.

  “Hey,” I say. I put the top half of my bun back on the burger, mushing it down to soak up some ketchup. But I don’t pick it up.

  “Well,” he says, “I’m finally fucking doing it.”

  “I heard,” I say. “When the fuck were you going to tell me?”

  “I wanted to make sure it was a hundred percent. I called the surgeon’s office this morning. They can take me two weeks on Wednesday.”

  “That soon?”

  “I’ve been sitting on a pre-approval for weeks. I don’t think I can wait any longer. Who knows what’s going on around here? Henry’s brought in a new fucking consultant. Everyone’s shit-scared there are more layoffs coming. I’ve got to do this while I still have the coverage.”

  “How long will you be out?”

  “Six weeks max. Four if the doctor says I can come back sooner.”

  “Jeez,” I say. “This is hardly the best time.”

  “There’s never a best time. So you didn’t deny it. I guess there are going to be layoffs.”

  I look into Roger’s intelligent eyes long enough to confirm his suspicion without saying anything. If he survives his operation, I’ll do all I can to protect his job. I’m sure he’s researched this gastric bypass procedure as thoroughly as anyone can. In one recent study, two percent of people were dead within a month of the surgery.

  “You don’t have anything to worry about,” I say.

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “Can you at least get that Tiffany proposal out before you go?” I say. “I don’t want you to leave that for Cindy.”

  “Fucking Cindy,” he says with a snort. “Will you make sure she’s the first to go? Anyway, don’t worry. She didn’t go near Tiffany’s. The whole thing’s done. I emailed it to Georgina and Randy yesterday. I’m just waiting for comments.”

  “OK. Well, fuck. Good luck, man.” I stand up.

  “No fucking hugs.”

  “OK.” I sit back down.

  Roger stands, waves his soda cup at me. “This was diet, by the way.”

  “I didn’t say anything.” I take a second to select a french fry and pop it into my mouth.

  “You know what? I’m just sick of all the fucking looks I get.”

  “I keep telling you. The mustache doesn’t help.”

  “Well maybe I’ll fucking lose that too.”

  I chew and swallow my fry as he wades to the door.

  “Roger,” I say, and he turns back to me, still scowling. “I’m giving you a mental hug right now.”

  “Whatever,” he says and walks off down the hall.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  At three o’clock Susan, Martin, Ben and I gather again in the small conference room. Judd’s not here. But Jeanie is now sitting on Henry’s right.

  I glance around the room again, wondering if the others were also given advance word that budget cuts were coming. Henry and Jeanie often confide these things to each of us individually to cut down on the possibility of surprise or dissent being shown in group meetings.

  Henry never likes to deliver bad news directly. As soon as we’re all seated, he suggests we “get right into it” and hands off to Jeanie.

  “Given the revenue picture, corporate finance is asking everyone to reduce controllable expenses,” says Jeanie, staring straight at Henry as she speaks. “They asked us to cut as deep as possible. But Henry and I really pushed back. We told them we could only squeeze out another three million.”

  “How are we expected to find that?” says Susan. “The third quarter’s done. All of my projects are already committed.”

  “We’ll be looking everywhere,” says Henry. “For example, as of today, there’s an immediate freeze on nonessential travel.” He glances at Jeanie, from whom the idea obviously originated.

  “We’ve had that in place for six months,” says Susan.

  “OK,” says Henry. “We’ll freeze all travel.”

  “Even essential travel?” asks Ben. “I’m supposed to be in DC next week for the dinner Hank’s hosting for ExxonMobil. Stan Lyford’s speaking,” he adds, dropping the name of our deputy managing editor.

  “OK,” says Henry. “Communicate to your staffs that the freeze on nonessential travel now includes all travel, with the exception of essential travel.”

  “So should I go to DC?” says Ben.

  “If it’s essential,” says Henry.

  “What about Erika?” says Ben. “She was supposed to be coming with me.”

  “Let’s not get too granular,” says Henry. “The purpose of today’s meeting is to discuss broad strokes.”

  “Precisely,” says Jeanie, immediately getting granular and handing out some spreadsheets. “I’ve tried to make this as painless as possible.” She wiggles her shoulders to convey how much fun this might be. “I’ve isolated a dozen projects where we are underspent. The first question is how many of these we can cut completely and how many we can defer till next year.”

  We look down the list of projects Jeanie wants to cut. Five in Ben’s group; four in Susan’s; two in Martin’s; only one in mine. Jeanie gives me a little wink. As I always do when Jeanie hands out a spreadsheet, I eyeball the numbers to look for obvious mistakes. It looks like the total in her year-to-date column is off by about two million, but I file that for later. Maybe the cuts we need won’t actually be that bad.

  “What the hell is this?” says Susan.

  Henry stands up, walks away from Susan to the far end of the conference table, then turns to face us.

  “Look,” he says. “We’re all grown-ups here. This is serious stuff. The fact is, Susan, that Jack wants our primary focus to be on generating revenue, and we just don’t see that kind of immediate return on most of what you do.”

  “What I do supports the entire business,” says Susan.

  “Don’t think we don’t respect that.”

  “You and Jack don’t even have a clue what I do, do you?”

  Henry doesn’t respond well to confrontation. Sometimes he doesn’t respond at all. In the silence, Ben pipes up: “You’ve cut the budget for Hank’s holiday party by fifty percent?” He’s looking at Jeanie.

  “I think we could be creative and find ways to economize,” she says, throwing a glance at Henry.

  “Who’s going to tell Hank?”

  “Listen,” says Henry. “We don’t have much time. Jeanie and I need to get back to corporate by Wednesday. Take this list. Use it as your starting point. If you don’t agree with the specific cuts we’ve identified, you’ll need to come up with alternative savings by end of day. I’ll review the details with Jeanie tomorrow.”

  “That’s it?” says Susan.

  “Not quite,” says Henry. “There’s one more thing we need to discuss.” He pauses to let the gravity of what he’s about to say sink in.

  “Jesus,” says Susan.

  “What is it?” says Martin.

  Henry sighs meaningfully and says, “We’ve been asked to implement another twenty-five percent reduction in force before year-end.”

  We sit quietly for a minute, translating Henry’s words and doing the math in our heads: Reduction in force means firing people. Twenty-five percent means six of our people will have to go.

  Based on the size of our respective departments, Martin and Ben will each have to cut one person, and Susan and I will need to fire two.

  “Why isn’t Hank here?” says Susan. “Do these layoffs apply to sales too?”

  Jeanie looks at Henry, making it clear that she’s not going to answer that one. Eventually, Henry says, “There are no plans for layoffs in the sales department. We need to keep as many feet on the street as possible right now.”

  “Well, the salespeople are already complaining that they’re not getting all the support they need,” says Ben.

  “What can I tell you?” says Henry. “We’ll just have to keep our eye on the ball, work smarter,
maintain our intensity and keep our heads down.”

  “If our heads are down, what balls are we supposed to be looking at?” says Ben.

  “Christ,” says Susan. “I can’t take this place anymore.”

  I’m curious to see what kind of temporary work quarters Henry has asked Ellen to set up for Judd. But I wait until five fifteen before heading up to twenty-six to check out his digs. On a slow first day, there’s a good chance he cut out at five, in which case I’ll leave him a note to prove I didn’t blow him off completely. I look into a couple of vacant cubicles but see no sign of recent activity.

  Further down the hall, just three doors down from Henry, is the only spare office on the floor. It’s a two-windowed space Hank Sullivan has been trying to move Randy Baker, his star sales manager, into for quite a while.

  As I approach, I hear Judd’s voice and realize that: a) Henry has given him this office, which means: b) even if it is only temporary, Judd is working in a director-size space as big as mine.

  He’s on the phone when I arrive, looking very much at home. “Hey, buddy,” he says into the receiver as he waves me in. “Gotta go. I’m meeting right now with one of the majordomos here.”

  I glance around the freshly painted office. It looks like Henry took some extra steps to ensure Judd’s comfort right from day one. He even authorized one of the new executive chairs recommended by our ergonomic consultants. I guess Henry wants to send a message to Hank and doesn’t care how much this pisses off Randy Baker.

  “Definitely. We’ll do that,” says Judd. “Call me when you get into town.”

  I sit in his guest chair as he hangs up the phone. The upright cover of his laptop is facing me, the screen hidden from view. It’s not a company-issued machine. Interesting. It shows that Judd lacks the confidence to start his new assignment from scratch. He’s not comfortable working with a PC whose hard drive has been wiped clean. Judd needs his pretested, B-school approved templates. He wants the ability to reduce, reuse and recycle all the ideas and presentation formats he’s been taught elsewhere. It doesn’t matter whether or not his prepackaged ways of thinking offer the best solutions to our specific challenges. He’ll tailor his recommendations to whatever he thinks Henry wants to hear. And because Judd’s tired language will sound new to Henry’s ears, he’ll value Judd’s work even more highly.