by Richard Hine
In my office I hang my jacket behind my door, drop my messenger bag by the side of my desk, and search among my papers and project folders till I find a reasonably fresh legal notepad. There are no pens in sight, so I hunt around in the assorted junk of my top-right desk drawer before finding a slightly mangled yellow pencil. There are teeth marks up and down its surface that gross me out—I don’t think they’re mine—and the stubby pink eraser that the pencil came with has long since disappeared, but it’s the best I can do.
Seeing Christine Lynch on the floor is never a good sign. I rub Lucky’s paw and make a nonspecific wish that things will be OK. Then I’m out the door.
I’m heading back to the elevators when my fingers remind my brain of something: lately, every time I’ve looked in my bag for a lost item of any kind, the only things I’ve found are pens.
I hurry back to the office, grab seventeen assorted ballpoints from my bag, spread them across my desk, and choose the most expensive-looking one. As he waves me off for a second time, something in Lucky’s smile suggests he’s trying to take credit for helping me find the pens.
I’m on twenty-six outside Henry’s office by ten after nine, which is close enough to nine o’clock that I don’t feel too bad, but Henry’s door is closed. Ellen shakes her head in an almost imperceptible way that somehow communicates in the clearest possible fashion that NOW IS NOT A GOOD TIME TO GO IN THERE.
Then I hear a raised female voice and I know exactly why. Susan Trevor is inside, reacting to some new corporate injustice. When she’s finished shouting, I hear an indistinct yet reassuring mumble that can only belong to Henry. After that, Susan starts shouting again.
“I’ll call you when Henry’s ready,” Ellen says.
I decide to go back down to my office while I wait. It’s the best way to avoid running into Judd. Stepping off the elevator, I head to the kitchen to grab a sugar-free hot chocolate. As I pass through the creative department, all is quiet. No one’s around, but that doesn’t surprise me. Except for Mondays, when Henry holds his nine a.m. meeting, Martin rarely shows up before nine thirty. His timekeeping sets the tone for the rest of his department. They usually drift in around nine twenty-five.
Ben’s office is on the other side of Martin’s. As I glance over, I see that both of Ben’s event managers—Erika Fallon and Sally Yun—are standing in front of his desk, focusing intently on what Ben, out of my line of sight, is telling them. Sally unfolds her arms so she can raise a hand to her mouth. Erika Fallon keeps her hands on her hips. But sensing my eyes upon her, she turns to shoot me a blank, impersonal look.
I duck into the kitchen and hunt in the cupboards for the box that contains our single-serving packets of hot chocolate. I rip open a packet and pour the powder into a disposable cup. I press the hot water button on our vending machine, then hunt around for a spoon or a stirrer as the water spurts out. I find a discarded spoon in the sink, rinse it quickly, then shake it dry.
I head back to my office. The hot chocolate tastes good. I should drink it more often. I need to remember it’s a year-round option—it’s not just for winter anymore.
I keep talking to myself like this to keep any thoughts of Erika Fallon from creeping back into my head. Though I do wonder why she looked so angry. With Erika Fallon, there’s always something new to obsess over. One day last week I got a jolt when I saw her walking half a block ahead of me down Forty-seventh Street. It wasn’t till she turned onto Broadway that I realized it wasn’t even her.
My phone is ringing when I get back to my office. Ellen says Henry can see me now.
Carrying my hot chocolate, I take a necessary detour on my way to the elevators. I need to retrieve the notepad and pen I left on the kitchen counter.
I’m moving quickly, but the sight of Erika Fallon standing by the water cooler makes me stop abruptly. She’s wearing a mauve top and gray checked pants. She’s already poured water into a waxed paper cup, but now she’s just standing, staring at the wall.
I move past her in slow motion and pull my notepad toward me, trying to roll the pen into the crook of my thumb so I can grab both without putting down my mug of chocolate. The pen clatters to the floor and rolls toward the water cooler, coming to rest by the point of Erika Fallon’s right shoe.
I put my mug down, and keeping my eyes on the floor, I bend and scoop in a single motion. By the time my fingers touch the pen, my body is already moving away from her mannequin-like presence. The whole action takes only a second, but in that time I can’t help noticing the toe cleavage that’s being revealed by Erika Fallon’s dangerously fashionable shoes. Her toes look delicate and slightly mangled. Three of them are sporting small, skin-toned adhesive bandages.
She makes a sniffing sound as I grab my mug, but I don’t look back. I’m almost through the door when she says, “I guess you know already.”
I turn slowly. “Know what?”
“About Ben.”
I look into Erika Fallon’s luminous, watery eyes. Her lips are trembling.
“What about Ben?” I’m scared now. Maybe he’s sick. Erika Fallon says something back to me. But I can’t focus on that. I’m fighting an urge to hold her in my arms and comfort her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m late for a meeting with Henry.”
I turn and flee.
I walk into Henry’s office clutching my pen and notepad in one hand and my hot chocolate in the other.
Henry looks up from behind his mahogany desk and smiles when he sees it’s me.
“Russell,” he says. “Come on in.”
Henry always wears expensive white shirts with wide-spread collars and French cuffs. Today his tie is predominantly pink, a softer color than he usually prefers.
“Good morning, Henry.”
“Sit down. Close the door.”
I’m distracted by my still-fresh experience with Erika Fallon. I take two steps towards Henry’s studded leather couch before realizing I should reverse his instructions and close the door first.
I sit, place my cup on one of the marble coasters on Henry’s coffee table, and wait while Henry files a manila folder in his desk’s cabinet drawer.
Just being in Henry’s space helps shift my focus away from my water cooler encounter. I sip my hot chocolate, reflect on its attributes as a beverage, and try to concentrate on living in the moment. Henry’s office is unlike any other in our department: its nine-windowed corner location offers southern views that overlook the bustling energy and illumination of Times Square, plus a western vista which, although partially obstructed, carries across the Hudson to the most sought-after apartment buildings in New Jersey. The décor is predominantly dark wood, creating a comfortable, lived-in feel. Henry researched and ordered all the pieces himself, shunning the generic furniture options that are recycled and mismatched throughout the rest of our offices and cubicles.
He locks the filing cabinet and tosses the key in his top desk drawer. He sighs, stands up, walks over to where I’m sitting, and eases into his usual spot—the matching leather armchair that sits catty-corner to the couch—so that our knees are almost touching.
“How’s everything?” he says.
“Great,” I say.
“You helping Judd settle in OK?”
“I sat down with him Monday end of day.”
“Good meeting?”
“Highly productive.”
“Judd’s a great guy.”
“Extraordinary.”
“I think he’s going to be a huge asset.”
I flirt mentally with the word Titanic but change tack just in time.
“Major,” I say.
“Excellent,” says Henry. “And everything OK with you?”
“Everything’s great.” It’s hardly true, but just being in Henry’s office has already perked me up a little.
“Now…” Henry pauses to prepare me for a change of topic. “I guess you’ve heard about Ben.”
“No, I haven’t heard anything.”
Henry pauses and bites his lip to simulate concern. “We let Ben go this morning,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, finally understanding why Erika Fallon was so upset.
“These things are never easy.”
“No.” I sip my hot chocolate and try to stay focused on the conversation.
“But he took it well, all things considered.”
“When’s he leaving?” I ask, resting the warm base of my cup in my left palm.
“We’re trying to do this the right way,” says Henry. “I’ve asked him to move out of his office today, just to make it easier for everyone.”
I raise my cup slowly and take a longer gulp. I realize that when Henry says “easier for everyone,” he means everyone other than the talented and hardworking Ben, who has just been fired.
“You know how these things work,” says Henry. “This has nothing to do with Ben. He was doing a great job. We’re giving him a spot on forty-one through the end of the year.”
“That’s good,” I say. The forty-first floor is where many fired executives sit, making and receiving calls, pretending they still have a job while they search for another.
“We’re going to help him out if we can. There’s a strong possibility he’ll find something in the lifestyle group.”
“That’s good,” I say again. After he’s established them as rejects, Henry doesn’t mind when people from our division go to work for Yolanda and Barney.
“I’ve already heard it from Susan Trevor,” says Henry. “Jesus. Don’t repeat this, but she needs to know she’s skating on thin ice.”
“I won’t say anything.” When we’re alone, bonding like this, Henry often makes negative remarks about someone in the company. Stuff that I never repeat outside his office. On the rare occasions he singles out someone on his own staff for criticism, it’s usually Susan Trevor.
“I don’t care what you tell her. Just make sure she knows I’m sick of her bad attitude. But don’t say you heard it from me.”
Henry sits back and squeezes the arms of his chair as if they were stress balls. In the brief silence, I look over to the large antique mirror that hangs on the north wall of his office. From where I’m sitting, I see a reflection of the building across the street and a sliver of sky. When Henry is sitting behind his desk, he only has to look up to see an image of himself with the lights of Times Square behind.
“Why is Ben leaving?” I ask, remembering to phrase the question in a way that sounds most empowering to Ben.
“It’s a strategic decision,” says Henry. “Jack wants our primary focus to be on generating revenue.”
“OK,” I say, even though this answer tells me nothing new. Every time our company starts firing people, we call it a strategic decision so the people who are let go don’t take it personally. And every time Jack Tennant talks to our department, he tells us that our primary focus needs to be on generating revenue.
“Don’t events drive revenue?” I ask.
“That may be true,” says Henry. “But events are tactical. We’re de-emphasizing them from a strategic standpoint. Which means we no longer need a dedicated events department.”
“We’re not doing events anymore?” I’m concerned about what will happen to Erika Fallon. And Sally too.
“I didn’t say that.”
“The salespeople love them.”
“We’ll still be doing events. We’ll just be looking at them differently.”
“From a tactical basis?”
“And from a cost-containment perspective. Which is where Ben let us down.”
“The big show in Miami?”
“We’re still doing Miami.”
“And San Diego in February?”
“We’re still doing San Diego.”
“What about Hank Sullivan’s holiday party?”
“We’re not canceling Hank’s party.”
“How can we do it all without an events department?”
Henry leans forward and locks me in the beam of his almost-artificial blue eyes. He smiles without parting his lips and raises and lowers his eyebrows a couple of times. This is his way of signaling he’s about to tell me the best part.
“How long have we worked together, Russell?” It’s a question he asks me at least three times a month. Usually when he wants something.
“Four years, two months, five days.”
“Really? That long?”
“Uh-huh.”
“We’re a good team, aren’t we?”
“Oh yes.” I add a series of small, rapid nods to emphasize the point.
“You trust me to make decisions that are good for you?”
“Sure,” I say. But I stop with the nodding. I’ve seen enough movies to know you can never really trust the person who says trust me.
Henry sits back again. This time, instead of squeezing the arms of his chair, he runs his hands slowly along them, from front to back and back to front, savoring the feel of the well-worn leather. The sleeves of his shirt are so wrinkled they look ruffled, while his cuffs are starched white slabs, held in place by brown, cigar-like cufflinks wrapped in the middle with a thin gold band. “Do you remember the conversation we had about you taking on some additional responsibility?” he says.
“Not exactly,” I say. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but I know this is not a good turn in the conversation. When Henry talks about “additional responsibility,” it usually involves the dumping of a crippling workload on an unsuspecting schmuck like me.
“I remember these things,” says Henry. “I even said it to Jack: ‘We’ve got a good man in Russell Wiley,’ I said. ‘We need to treat him right. Make sure he’s challenged. Keep him motivated.’ Those were my exact words.” Henry has a way of looking at you when he says something meaningful. It’s an imitation of sincerity so convincing it can easily catch you off guard.
“I’m already extremely challenged,” I say. “And motivated.”
“This will be good for you,” says Henry. “Your empire is expanding.”
“My empire?”
“You’ll have two extra people to manage. A lot more visibility with sales.”
“Two more people? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“That’s right. I’m putting you in charge of events and moving Erika and Sally into your group.”
“Henry. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure I can handle it.”
“Russell, I know you can handle it. Jack knows you can handle it. You just need to trust yourself a little more.”
“Henry, it’s not that I don’t appreciate being considered for an opportunity like this. But I’m already swamped. Roger is going out on medical leave any day now. This will be a major distraction.”
“Russell, I know it’s extra work. And Jack and I really appreciate it.”
“Henry, it’s not just the work. There are other factors involved.”
“Russell, just trust me on the money thing. You know how tight things are with the budget right now. Do a good job. We can get to the money later.”
“Can I at least think about it? There may be another way we could do this.”
“It’s effective immediately. Check your email. The memo’s already gone out.”
Henry stands up. The meeting’s over. He’s holding out his hand. I give him mine. Despite the lack of negotiation, it’s a done deal.
“Congratulations, Russell. This will be good for you.” When Henry smiles, a web of tiny wrinkles appears under his eyes.
As we get to the door, I turn and am surprised to see how close to me he is standing. He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. It’s a simple paternal gesture that feels awkward and overly familiar. My body tightens, but Henry’s hand lingers for a couple of seconds before it drops back to his side.
“Russell,” he says, “you’re the best.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I’m in my office. Door closed. I don’t want any
interruptions. I’ve printed Henry’s memo, and I’m reading it through for a second time.
Ben’s out.
I shouldn’t be surprised, even though I didn’t see it coming. Ben’s dismissal is one of those shocking, random things that happen all the time. I’ve gotten used to the ax falling on other people. I try not to get caught up in the sadness or guilt, focusing instead on the dread that such a thing could one day happen to me. This dread is what sustains me. Today it’s mingling with a new kind of apprehension: a stomach-constricting anxiety that accompanies my new management challenge. I’m Erika Fallon’s new boss. Somehow I have to integrate her into my team and treat her as if she were not just a regular employee, but also a normal human being.
I call Ben’s number and leave him a message, tell him the usual stuff about how sorry I am, how I’ll help him any way I can, how I’m here if he wants to talk. Then I pick up my pen and start doodling in the margins of Henry’s memo. I start with a shape that looks like a penis, but I decide that it’s really a nose. I add two round eyes that float above it and slightly parted lips below. I draw more faces—a series of squiggly, surprised-looking caricatures with alternately drooping or pointy noses, gaping mouths, big ears and wrinkled foreheads.
“Knock knock,” says Susan Trevor. Without waiting for an answer, she steps into my office, closes the door behind her, and marches to my guest chair. I crumple the paper containing Henry’s words and my scribbles and toss it casually into my wastebasket.
“So what do you think?” she says. “Has Henry finally lost it?”
I shrug but don’t say anything. I’m not in the mood to get into it with Susan, nor to share any of Henry’s comments about her attitude and the fragile ice on which she’s skating.
“This is such bullshit,” she says. “Everyone knows that Ben is the best events director in the company. So what does Henry do? He fires him. Meanwhile, I’ve got that fucking know-nothing Judd knocking on my door every five minutes expecting me to tell him everything I know. Do you know what I’m saying?”
I grunt sympathetically.
“This never would have happened five years ago,” she says, and she’s right. But what’s her point? Five years ago we lived in a different world. Everything has changed. If Ben’s abrupt firing signals a new way of doing business, so what? Maybe Henry’s trying to prove that he’s changed his DNA. That his corporate blood transfusion is complete. In the old days, Henry might have been the kind of boss who preferred to ease people out—telling them privately when he thought they should be looking for something new, eventually alerting colleagues to the employee’s plans to move on, and only when absolutely necessary, if the targeted employee was seriously dragging his feet, putting an end to the situation by announcing a mutually agreed upon departure date at a respectable point in the future.