by Richard Hine
Jeremy is recapping his idea to make sure I fully understand it. I nod to give the impression I do. It’s a shame because his idea isn’t bad, and our operating methods could certainly use improving. But Jeremy still hasn’t grasped the basic truth: we can’t accept any of his ideas until we accept him. New employees are like organ transplants: if you’re not compatible, the body rejects you.
“Look, Jeremy, I can’t argue with you about your idea. We could be way more profitable if we could combine our resources in the way you describe. There’s only one problem: it’s way too logical.”
“Too logical?” I watch the excitement drain from his cheeks.
“Have you ever heard of the writer Christopher Finchley?” I ask. I open the drawer of my filing cabinet and bend down, skimming through the handwritten tabs of the manila folders haphazardly arranged inside.
“Finchley?”
“He’s actually very good. You might find him worth studying. He writes a column each month in Vicious Circle. It’s a magazine not many people have heard of, but it’s very well read in opinion leader circles. Ahh. Here it is.” I sit back up and lay a folder on the desk. “When I read this particular article, I thought I should make some copies. It was almost as if Finchley were speaking directly to me, talking specifically about our company.”
“‘History versus Logic,’” reads Jeremy. “‘Why Some Businesses Prefer to Repeat Their Past Mistakes Rather Than Risk Making New Ones.’”
“It’s a great article,” I say. “Take a copy. The basic gist of it is that all old economy companies like to talk about doing things differently. They yearn to stretch themselves in new directions. But when push comes to shove, they snap back into their old habits. They can’t quite combine their desire to create ‘a new paradigm’ with their corporate need to do things ‘a certain way’—i.e., the way they’ve always done those things before.”
“But that’s not how it is here, is it?” says Jeremy. “Everyone’s always talking about the need for reinvention and new ideas.”
“Talking and doing are two different things. Finchley points out that history and logic can be combined in only three ways.” I pick up one of the photocopied sheets and read aloud: “‘One: historical and logical. Two: historical and illogical. And three: logical and nonhistorical.’”
“But what I’m suggesting would be so easy to implement,” Jeremy protests.
“Hold on,” I say, scanning the article. “Here’s the part you need to understand: ‘Ninety-five percent of all corporate activity involves repeating historical mistakes that have become clearly illogical in the current business climate. Historical-illogical business practices represent a classic form of time- and money-wasting madness: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.’” I pause to make sure Jeremy’s paying attention and because the cell phone in my bag is ringing. I wait for it to stop. “Interesting, no? Here’s the last part. ‘Logical and nonhistorical.’ That’s how I would describe your idea. ‘Logical and nonhistorical approaches might be called commonsense in the real world but are likely to be labeled as radical and unworkable in the corporate sphere. New, more logical approaches to problems result in resources being applied where they can deliver the greatest return even if it means abandoning habitual yet obsolete procedures. At most companies, management has identified ‘resistance to change’ as one of the major problems holding their organization back. These companies often request bold new ideas to be presented that show them how they might overcome this resistance and reinvent themselves, reinvigorate their processes, and refocus their people. These proposals are usually rejected as impossible to implement by the same management teams who commission them. Why? Because they are a direct repudiation of the company’s existing culture and approach to business.’” I put the article down. “Pretty interesting, huh?”
“Is that meant to be serious?” says Jeremy.
“I hate to say it. But you can’t make this stuff up.”
Jeremy looks crestfallen. He means well, I realize. If only he were willing to suck it up and concentrate on the work we actually need him to do, he could really go places.
“Listen,” I say. “It’s a great idea. Thanks for bringing it forward. I’ll put it in my file.”
CHAPTER TEN
The message on my cell phone is from Fergus: “Russki, got your message. Lunch would be good. Julie packed me a sandwich if you want to sit outside. Of course, I could save it till tomorrow if your capitalist masters are paying.”
I call my favorite sushi restaurant to snag a reservation then call him back and connect with his voicemail: “Ferg, refrigerate your sandwich. We’re on for sushi. Twelve thirty. Usual place.”
Three hours later we’re munching edamame, throwing the husks into an elegantly handcrafted, multihued ceramic bowl. Fergus has just finished telling me how his publisher has negotiated the necessary financing to keep Vicious Circle afloat for another two years.
“We’re hoping that once we make it to 2008, with all the excitement of the Olympics and the presidential election, there will be more than enough advertising money sloshing around for us to reach break-even,” he says. “After that, smooth sailing.”
“That sounds like a really well-thought-out plan,” I say. “But I still think you’d be better off at Forbes. Things can only get better now that Bono’s invested.”
I watch Fergus think while he chews. He has strange, curly hair the color of dark rust. His skin, as always, is extremely pale.
“You know what?” he says. “I like where I am. We have all the usual bullshit. But at least we stand for something.”
“What? Financial insecurity?”
He makes a sound that’s part laugh, part snort. “That’s for sure. But we’re true to ourselves too. Just because our ideas aren’t in favor right now doesn’t mean we should throw in the towel. Not everything’s about money. Some things are still worth fighting for.”
I glance around at the expensive surroundings, the power brokers at adjacent tables. Fergus never complains when I bring him here.
“Listen, Ferg, you know I admire what you’re doing. I just don’t know how you hold it all together.” I sip my green tea.
“What do you mean?” he asks, biting into an edamame pod and pulling it through his teeth so the peas pop into his mouth.
“The whole thing,” I say. “One job. Two kids. Four mouths to feed. And all the shit you have to look forward to. Guns in schools. Playground kidnappers. Child molesters. Paying for college.”
“Ha ha,” he says. “When you put it like that.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You’re looking at it from the outside. From the inside it’s not like that. You construct it differently in your head.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have to make decisions in life,” Fergus continues. “If you make the wrong choices, you’re trapped. If you make the right choices, you’re liberated.”
“And you’re liberated?”
“I love my wife, Russell. She loves me. We want to be together for the rest of our lives. We wanted a family. So we had one. We love our kids. We’ll do anything we can to care for them, keep them safe, give them a good education. It would destroy us if anything ever happened to them. But we can’t live in fear. The world may end tomorrow. Julie was pregnant with Angus when 9/11 happened, for God’s sake. You have to make the life you want and live it today.”
I chew on that silently.
“You know what?” says Fergus. “I am liberated. I’m free of torment. I’m committed to the path I’ve taken. When you’re single, you can do whatever the fuck you want. When you’re in a couple, you have to ask yourself, ‘Is this person, is this situation really right for me?’ You can still turn back. When you become a parent, that’s it. You can’t change it. There’s no fucking around anymore. And I mean that in more ways than one.”
“I don’t get it. How can you feel liberated? You need money. Y
ou’ve got a whole family to feed. Aren’t you trapped by that reality?”
“Hey, man,” says Fergus, “reality is where it’s at. You can only be trapped by unreality.”
“What does that mean?”
“I like who I am. You may think I’m a poor, fat fuck. But I wear the same clothes to work that I wear on the weekend. My wife puts love notes in my sandwiches each morning. My kids wrap themselves around me when I get home,” he says. “I’m fat and happy, Russell. That’s what I call reality. You don’t need to feel sorry for me. You’re the one who has to wear a corporate uniform. You’re the one with the secret identity. Does anyone get to see the real Russell Wiley anymore?”
Two miso soups are set in front of us.
“Arigato,” I say to the waitress, who doesn’t reply.
Fergus slurps some soup from the bowl-like spoon. “And how are you and Sam doing? Everything OK with you two?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “What’s OK?”
“OK is one level down from good.”
“Did Julie mention something? What did Sam say to her?” I pick the wedge of lime from the rim of my glass, squeeze it, then drop it into my sparkling water.
“Not much.”
I drink some water, wait him out.
“I guess she implied you guys were having problems. That you’re on her case about money and stuff.”
“Not everything’s about money,” I remind him.
While we work our way through a selection of eel, salmon, and tuna rolls, I bring Fergus up to date with the mishmash that constitutes my current state of mind. I feel uncomfortable sitting in a crowded restaurant and cataloguing my dissatisfactions. And talking about my sex life or lack of it doesn’t come naturally to me. But Fergus is a good listener. He lets me ramble. He seems to understand what I’m saying even when I’m at my most disjointed. The questions I had this morning—about what exactly I should expect Sam to contribute to our marriage—are now wrapped in with the burning issues of management incompetence, budget cuts and the arrival of Judd Walker. “This new consultant is a complete jerk,” I find myself saying. “But, of course, you’d think Henry had seen the Second Coming.” I remind him of the “huge, secret project” Henry assigned to me when I joined the company. “It’s exactly the same project he has this new guy doing. Only this time around the code name is D-SAW: don’t say a word.”
Once we’ve worked our way through our lunch specials, we order a few extra pieces of sushi. Fergus isn’t the best when it comes to marriage counseling. But at least he’s always sympathetic to stories of corporate stupidity and the way workers like me get exploited by management. Either that, or expensive raw fish increases his tolerance for my work-related whining.
I eye my tamago—the egg custard sushi I’ve saved till last. It’s a glistening yellow slab, flecked with white.
“Have you ever cheated on Julie?” I ask him.
“Whoa,” he says. “Where’s that coming from? You know I haven’t.”
“Would you, if the chance arose?”
Fergus laughs. The waitress comes to refresh our green teas, and I tell her we’ll take the check.
“First off, I resent the implication that a husky guy like me hasn’t had his fair share of chances. Second, the question I always ask myself in those situations is ‘What would J.C. do?’”
“Jesus Christ?”
“Jimmy Carter,” he says. “The best president you and I have ever seen. Just like him, I know what it feels like to have lust in my heart. But that’s as far as it goes.”
I hand my corporate credit card to the waitress as she brings the check.
“Whoever she is,” says Fergus, “don’t do it. Sam deserves better than that.”
I’m late back from the accepted two o’clock lunch hour cutoff. Just late enough that I’d be embarrassed if I were spotted by my boss. At the elevator bank, I bump into Cindy Lang. She’s wearing a short, expensive-looking raincoat and carrying a recyclable cardboard tray from our cafeteria. A small gym bag is slung over her shoulder. Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t let her heavy workload distract her from these more important commitments.
“Hi,” she says, without a trace of shame.
“Busy?” I say.
“Crazy,” she says. “But we’re teaming things. I’m trying to get a lot done before Roger deserts us.”
I can’t think of anything else to say to Cindy. She’s a dead weight holding my department down. But her politicking makes her loom larger in the eyes of management. Even more so since she persuaded Henry to add her to the team that won our company’s annual Gold Anvil Award last month. The judges didn’t even notice that she inherited this success—the winning program was executed months before she got here. Henry even sat her at Jack’s table at the awards luncheon. Now both Henry and Jack think she’s a star performer. It’s as if her predecessor, Alison Mead, who actually worked on the project and is now at home taking care of her newborn twins, never existed.
We ride the elevator in silence. Getting rid of Cindy won’t be easy. It’s something I’ll need to think about.
I walk down the hallway to my office.
One of the mailroom guys is leaning over the wall of Angela’s cubicle. I hear her laugh at something he says.
Barbara is busy uploading photos of various relatives onto Flickr.com. She doesn’t even notice me as I pass by.
I close the door of my office. Lucky Cat tries to cheer me up, but the mess that surrounds me is starting to feel oppressive.
I check my email. Ellen, Henry’s assistant, informs me the Livingston Kidd people have reconfirmed our partnership review meeting next week. Also, Judd’s sent a meeting request: he wants me to commit to a ten o’clock brainstorming session tomorrow.
I don’t see how I can put him off any longer. I click accept, then lay my head on the desk the way we used to do in grade school during nap time.
When I get home, the big brown lump of furniture Sam brought home on Monday is sitting like a huge turd beside the coffee table.
“I’m in the bedroom,” she calls out, so I go right in without even taking off my jacket.
She’s bending over, face down, palms flat on the floor, her ass presented toward me. She’s been doing yoga for three weeks now, learning the positions from the Yoga for Beginners DVD that’s playing on our bedroom TV. She wants to feel a minimal level of competence before performing in front of other people.
“What pose is that?” I ask. She’s wearing the company T-shirt I brought back from the last sales meeting in Florida, tucked into a pair of running shorts. Her feet are bare. The nail polish on her toes is chipped in places.
“Salutation to the sun,” she says.
“Can I take a picture?” I study her tilted head, the curve of her buttocks, her taut leg muscles.
“Shut up.”
“Relax,” I say. “Breathe.”
“Leave me alone.”
I hang my jacket and tie, then head to the living room. I sit on the turd-stool, sink into it, and reach for the remote. I flick through the TV channels, half-recognizing certain shows, celebrities and characters. People at work still talk about this stuff sometimes. But none of it grabs me. I guess you really have to watch every week to truly feel connected.
By the time Sam sticks her head around the door, I’ve turned off the TV and I’m skimming through one of her home design magazines.
“I’m taking a shower.”
“Want me to join you?”
“No thanks.”
“I could help you with those hard-to-reach places.”
“Don’t pester me tonight. I’m trying to de-stress. I have to shave my legs.”
While Sam showers, I experiment with ways to incorporate the turd-stool into some stretching exercises and faux-yoga positions—arching my back over it, then lying on my stomach, arms and legs stretched out in midair. After a couple of minutes, I roll off and sit on the floor. I lean back against the stool and close my eyes, waitin
g for the sound of running water to come to an end.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There’s a screen in my office elevator displaying the date and time alongside the latest headlines. I try to ignore the breaking news alert that says, “RUSSELL WILEY ENTERS THIRTIETH DAY WITHOUT SEX.”
The seconds tick by, confirming that this morning’s subway delays have left me running five minutes late. Not bad for a normal day. But this is a day when Henry’s called me into a meeting. Not a real meeting—an informal one.
The kind that gets scheduled late in the afternoon when Henry pokes his head around your office door—just far enough for you to see he already has his coat on—and says, “Come see me when you get in tomorrow. We should catch up.”
And you say, “Sure thing, Henry.”
And Henry pauses for an extra half second, just to let you know he’s holding something back, and says, “Great. Lots to talk about.”
And then he disappears, leaving you to wonder what exactly the meeting is about.
I step out of the elevator and turn right, dipping my body slightly to wave the ID card that dangles round my neck in front of the black security panel bolted to the wall. The panel’s red light turns green, and I pull open the door. Christine Lynch, the human resources director who oversees our division, steps through.
“Thanks,” she says and walks swiftly to the elevators. She stabs the call button with her index finger and steps back to wait, clutching a black leather folder at her side.