by Richard Hine
It’s not pretty. Overstuffed folders stacked in precarious columns. Most of the carpet hidden, except for necessary pathways between chairs, window and door. More folders piled atop the desk, along with a seemingly random assortment of memos, clipped articles and half-filled spiral-bound notebooks.
To Henry, this office is a Horse’s stable, not a Unicorn’s lair.
“Barbara,” I say, leaning over the wall of her cubicle and acting as if I don’t notice the photograph of a porcelain farm boy figurine that dominates her computer screen. “I know you’re busy. But how soon do you think you could get a dumpster delivered to my office?”
I come home from work to find Sam on the couch, reading a magazine. Her bare feet are on the coffee table, with cotton pads stuffed between her shiny red toes. Taking off my coat, I almost trip over the brown leather turd-stool she’s moved close to the door.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Just hanging out,” she says innocently. “I’m testing a new nail polish. Which do you prefer? This one?” She tilts her left foot in my direction. “Or this?” She lifts her right foot off the table so I can see her toes better.
“I can’t tell the difference.”
“Come closer.”
“Let me get changed first. What’s this doing here?”
“I’m not really loving it anymore,” she says. “I was thinking I’d take it back to the store tomorrow.”
“You can’t take it back,” I say.
“Why not? Shila won’t mind. And you hated it anyway.”
“I’ve gotten used to it. It’s comfortable. It’s multipurpose. It’s so much more than a stool, but still not quite a chair.”
“It’s ugly. It doesn’t fit with the rest of our stuff.”
“Nothing fits with the rest of our stuff,” I say. “Anyway, you can’t take it back. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it to my office. I might be able to use it.”
“OK. Do that.” She looks back at her toes and sighs. “Well, Rainy Day Red, I hate to break it to you like this, but it’s over between us. I’ve fallen for Glistening Cherry.”
“What’s going on?” asks Cindy Lang.
“Just a little spring cleaning,” I say. I wipe the first trace of sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. I’ve been pitching files for about eight minutes, trying to ignore the slightly nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach and focusing instead on the positive: I’ve already cleared two patches of carpet.
“I was looking for a copy of the IBM presentation,” Cindy says.
“I’m busy now,” I say.
“It’s just that I have a meeting on it in ten minutes.” She knows that’s usually enough to make me drop what I’m doing.
“Which meeting is that?” I try and sound casual. I don’t know of any meeting. I step past Cindy and drop the files I’m holding face-down in the dumpster.
“Ellen called,” says Cindy. “She asked me to bring it to Henry.”
“I thought Pete was handling IBM.” I pick up some folders from the pile beneath the window and thread my way back to the door. Somewhere in the stack of papers I’m holding are the spare copies of the presentation she’s asking for. We’re standing close now. My armpits feel sticky, but I’m pretty sure any odor is being canceled out by her perfume. Cindy is looking at me with concern. My behavior doesn’t compute, and she can’t quite understand why.
“Excuse me,” I say and tip the pile of documents upside-down into the dumpster. The papers slither against each other and fan out in a pattern I find quite pleasing.
It’s been said that when two people of the opposite sex meet, they decide in less than four seconds whether or not they are in the presence of a potential marriage partner. And that the same thing happens in interviews, only faster. Within four seconds of meeting a potential recruit you have the chance to check for:
• A confident stride
• A firm handshake
• Appropriate eye contact
These are the initial warning signs. If present, you’ll need to pay close attention to the candidate’s verbal presentation, listening for:
• A thorough understanding of your company’s current business challenges
• A clearly articulated rationale as to why the candidate’s strengths will add value to your team
• An awareness of the potential career paths and roads to advancement your company offers
Once you have located a candidate with all these attributes, try to stay calm. It’s your job to ensure he or she exits the building as quickly, but with as little disruption to your department, as possible. For appearances’ sake, ask one or two more open-ended questions. These will allow the candidate an opportunity to bloviate as you assess the best way to escort him or her to the elevator bank. The key challenge is keeping the candidate away from even casual contact with a member of senior management. If necessary, ride with him or her to the ground floor in order to visually confirm that an exit from the building has taken place.
Looking back on the day I interviewed Cindy, I realize I should have followed my gut and shredded her résumé. If Henry wasn’t breathing down my neck and telling me to fill the position quickly, I could have kept interviewing until I found a suitable, more modest, more demonstrably competent recruit.
The next time I see Pete Hughes he’s heading down the hall, carrying a large, rolled-up sheet of paper—a layout from the art department.
“So, what’s new?” I ask him.
“Not much. Same old shit.”
I fall into step beside him.
“So, what are you working on these days?”
He runs through a list of projects he’s trying to get completed. I interrupt him when he mentions Travelocity.
“What are you doing with that one?” I ask. “Shouldn’t that be Cindy?” We cut through the hallway by the conference room.
“I’m helping her out,” he says. “She said she was a little jammed up.”
“Any new requests from Henry?”
“Nothing new,” he says. “Ellen asked us to pull together some of our recent projects so Henry can see what we’ve been working on.”
“Did you do that yet?” We’re standing outside Rachel Felsenfeld’s cubicle.
“I haven’t had time yet. Didn’t seem like a rush. Ellen said Henry needed them by the end of the week.”
We stand in silence for a while.
“Anything else?” says Pete, tapping the rolled-up paper in his palm.
“No,” I say. “That’s all.” He disappears into Rachel’s cubicle, and I meander slowly back to my office.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
By Tuesday, the dumpster is gone and I’m embracing a new potential. It’s reflected in the clutter-free work environment I’ve created. This morning I will rid myself of four piles of folders stacked beside my desk. After that, not a single piece of paper will be visible—not on the floor, not on the desk, not anywhere. Not even a sticky note on my computer screen.
My goal is to maintain my office as if it were a minimalist art installation. Central to my new artistic vision is the turd-stool now nestled, Zen-like, in the corner, surrounded by a vast expanse of freshly exposed gray carpet. I’ve also kept a few personal mementos on the credenza, spaced apart like props for a photo shoot. Lucky Cat now stands alone, waving bravely, on an otherwise pristine windowsill.
Cleaning out my office is only the first step. To fully achieve my new potential—to establish myself as the kind of Unicorn my company needs right now—I must also undergo an internal transformation. I must commit myself to a new philosophy of work. My job is no longer to spend energy. It is to release energy. My future success will not be based on my own hard work and sweat equity. It will be built, cartload by cartload, through the exertions of my team.
How will I measure success? When I know without a doubt I can enter my installation each day, move comfortably around within the environment, even invite others into the space for some focused dis
cussions, and then, at five o’clock, simply leave. As the door closes behind me, the imprint of my ass on the just-vacated chair will disappear and not a single trace of my workday presence will be left behind.
The key to achieving this is simple: delegation.
One by one I call in my direct reports—Meg, Pete, Roger and Cindy. I have a brief discussion with each about the projects they’re working on, future workflow and the need for them to take one hundred percent responsibility for each of their assignments.
I explain to each of them the concept of one hundred percent responsibility. It means that they can’t blame anyone else if their work doesn’t get done. None of that fifty-fifty crap where you can always blame the other person for not holding up their end of the deal.
“When you take one hundred percent responsibility, it doesn’t matter if someone else lets you down, or gets struck by lightning, or simply doesn’t give you what you need,” I tell them. “If that happens, you find another solution, a new way to get it done, a workaround.”
At the end of each meeting I pick up a stack of files, push it across my desk, and instruct the relevant person that I am now making them one hundred percent responsible for the projects these files contain. Also, I tell them that I will be amending their performance goals to reflect their responsibility for these assignments.
Once each member of my team assumes one hundred percent responsibility for the work I need them to do, I will, by definition, have zero percent responsibility for actually getting things done. My job will be to motivate, cajole, nurture, coach and encourage my team while saving time to polish the Unicorn horn growing out of my head. Beyond that, I will have ample time to communicate internally the great work that my team is producing and to position myself as someone with the 360-degree vision we need to move this company forward.
The conversations with my staff members start off well enough. I sprinkle each conversation with sporting metaphors. Pete reacts positively to this chance to step up to the plate. Meg tells me she is happy to swing for the fences. Even Roger, wheezing in at a biscuit under four hundred pounds, is looking forward to running with the ball when he gets back from medical leave.
Cindy Lang looks at me quizzically.
“I thought you told me I would be a manager.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Managing is a key part of your role. But like I said, we’re raising the bar, shooting from three-point range.”
“You want me to do filing?”
“Cindy, I think you’re missing the point here. It’s not a question of filing, though of course I’ll be more than happy to sign the requisition form if you need another filing cabinet. The important thing is that we need to put some more points on the board to show we’re getting the job done.”
“Isn’t it already getting done?” She looks puzzled.
“Precisely,” I say. “But we still need our A players to raise their game, be the ball, stay in the zone, block and tackle, hit it out of the park and slam-dunk with nothing but net. That’s why I’m making you personally responsible for the Livingston Kidd proposal. It’s super-urgent. We’re expecting a call from the client any day. So it would be great if you can get something ready for Henry and Randy Baker within the next couple of days.”
“This isn’t what I signed on for,” she says. She stares at me defiantly, and I realize she’s afraid. If she takes these files, accepts these assignments, she will be committing herself to doing actual work of the kind she’s never done before. There’s a lot at stake. Her reputation. Her self-image. Her ability to sneak out for manicures in the middle of the afternoon.
“Listen, Cindy,” I say. “This may not be exactly what you signed on for. But let me tell you something in confidence. You cannot breathe a word of this, but there are going to be some significant layoffs in this department in the very near future. I’m telling you this now because I don’t want you to be concerned. You know how highly everyone thinks of you, so trust me, there’s no need to worry about your job. Just understand, this is roll-up-your-sleeves time. We’ll all have fewer resources to support us. We’ll all be working harder than ever. And Henry and I will be relying on you. We’ve got a massive, monumental challenge ahead of us. It’s not just about managing anymore. It’s about digging deep, pitching in, soup to nuts, start to finish. But that can be fun too. You know how it is. Those long days when you’re the last one in the office. You’re trying to get the binding machine working normally with one hand, filling out the shipping label with the other. The clock’s ticking. You don’t even know if you’re going to make the deadline for overnight delivery. And when you do—always with just a minute to spare—it’s the most exhilarating, satisfying feeling. It reminds you of what got us into this business.”
Cindy looks at me with disgust.
“Thanks, Cindy, I knew you’d understand. Why not take these files just for starters. The Livingston Kidd proposal should really be in the art department already. If you could, make it your top priority. I’ll be sure to let Henry know I’ve made you one hundred percent responsible for this.”
I close my door and walk around my office, counting the number of steps it takes me to get from one side of the room to the other, from my desk to the door, from the door to the window. Apart from a few small stains, my carpet is a uniform gray. The large areas that were previously covered with files are no different in shade than the areas that have been exposed to sunlight every day. The turd-stool in the corner is somehow comforting and motivational. It reminds me to stay focused on getting more done by doing less.
I think of the work my team is producing in their offices and cubicles down the hall. I feel powerful and in control. Directing things the way a director should. I realize this is exactly how my days should be. Uncluttered. Unobstructed. A blank canvas filled with potential.
I stare out of my window for several minutes. In the building across the street, on the same floor as me, there’s a guy about my age sitting in an office just like mine. His door is closed and he’s shooting a small basketball into a hoop he has set up behind his door. When the ball bounces beyond his reach, he gets out of his seat to fetch it. When he makes a shot he’s pleased with, he raises his arms triumphantly.
He answers the phone twice while I’m watching him. But the conversations are brief, and he quickly returns to his game. When he gets bored with one shot, he wheels his chair to a new position to change the angle.
My own phone doesn’t ring. When I get bored watching basketball guy, I walk down the hall. I want my team to know I’m here for them. Maybe someone needs some input or feedback.
Meg, Pete and Roger are all in their offices, working on their computers or talking into the telephone headsets recommended by our company-funded ergonomics expert. Barbara is working in iPhoto, removing the red-eye in some pictures of her grandkids. Randy Baker is leaning over the wall of Angela’s cubicle. Randy’s one of those cheerful salesman types. He’s a devoted family man, with a house in the suburbs and a small boat that offers him a weekend escape. His eldest daughter is just a couple of years younger than Angela.
I pass Kelly and Jeremy, working in their cubicles. It’s hard to tell what anyone is doing, but I decide not to interrupt.
Cindy’s is the only empty office.
I stride purposefully through Susan’s department, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead. I’ve got nothing to do and I’m headed nowhere in particular, but I still don’t want to get accosted by Susan right now.
I pass through the creative department. Martin’s office is empty. Rachel Felsenfeld is staring at a large image of what looks like wrinkled paper on the flat screen that dominates her cubicle. Liz Cooke is comparing some layouts with Kiko at the table in the middle of the art department.
I pause outside Ben’s office. The furnishings haven’t been touched, but all traces of Ben’s personality and presence have been erased. I try to convince myself that I’m standing here to compare the space and the view. But there’s no r
eason for me to covet Ben’s office. It’s smaller than mine, and the view’s equally unspectacular.
“Hey, Russell Wiley.”
Maybe that’s the real reason I’m standing here. To say good-bye to “Erika Fallon.” She not only works for me, she’s also attracted the amorous attentions of Judd Walker. “Erika Fallon” and I had some good times together. But they don’t really count because they were all in my head. Now it’s time for our relationship to end.
I turn to her as if she were just an average coworker and say, “Hey, Erika. How’s it going?”
She looks at me for a second. Just long enough for me to have a mental image of Judd creeping up behind her and nuzzling her neck.
“Everything’s going great. Sally and I are all set. We’re heading to Washington tomorrow. We just went over everything with Meg. Hank’s happy. Eighty people have RSVP’d. We only expected sixty.”
“That’s great. So you’re staying two nights?”
“Yeah, and Judd’s coming too. He set up his research meeting for Thursday, so the timing worked out.”
“That’s great. Sounds like you guys have it all figured out.”
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s all good.” She looks at me in a way that lets me know that, in truth, it isn’t all good. She knows that dating Judd will be a minor detour on the road to finding her one true everlasting love. She realizes that somewhere in an alternate universe—a universe where Russell Wiley wasn’t married or her department head—things could have worked out different. We could have had a chance. She wouldn’t have wasted time with a self-important, overconfident, high achiever like Judd.
“Great,” I say. “Let me know how it all turns out.”
We walk off in opposite directions.
“Hey, Erika.”
She stops and turns. I notice she’s wearing brown suede boots. They look soft, comfortable, soothing to her feet.