Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch

by Richard Hine

  “Can you do me one favor?”

  “Sure, Russell,” she says, even though she looks decidedly unsure about what might come next.

  “It’s just the nametags. Hank has a thing about nametags. He gets crazy if the first guest arrives and the nametags aren’t all laid out.”

  I head to the elevators, pleased at how well that worked out. At first I’m thinking I’ll treat myself to a couple of the new chocolate cookies in the cafeteria. But somewhere along the way I convince myself that a fruit salad is the healthier choice.

  Back in my office, I sit back and look at my orderly, well-filed office. Everything is in its place. But something doesn’t feel right. I look over to the building opposite. Basketball guy is putting on his coat and heading out of his office. I check my watch. It’s only four thirty.

  For the first time in days, I have nothing to do. No urgent emails. No crazy deadlines. No WIPs to chain me. Amid all this inactivity, there’s not even anyone bursting in to interrupt me.

  I stab at the fruit with my plastic fork. It’s mainly chunks of pale cantaloupe, anemic watermelon and flavorless honeydew, with a few sour-tasting strawberries, blueberries and grapes thrown in for color.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I schedule a lunch with Barney Barnes. His assistant gives me a date three weeks in advance and then calls me back at 12:25 the same day and asks if I can meet Barney at Crime in five minutes. Barney’s lunch date has canceled, and Barney, en route to the restaurant from another meeting, isn’t answering his cell phone.

  Crime is Fabrice de Monbrison’s new midtown concept. It’s one of those expensively chic places I would never think to go to. I’m aware it’s had mixed reviews for its spartan décor, stripped-down menu and inefficient service. Some people say the only thing criminal about it is the prices. Nevertheless, it’s one of the places to be seen right now, especially by younger media executives looking for a hipper alternative to the original Fabrice. When I walk in, I see prominent industry people at several tables—the kind of wannabe household names who strive to get written about in the trades and the tabloids as if they were bona fide celebs. Barney is sitting at a table in the corner, near the swinging doors to the kitchen.

  Barney is Burke-Hart Publishing’s version of a political animal. After failing to make the grade at Time Inc., Hearst and Condé Nast, he’s parlayed all his assets—an impressive academic résumé, airtight connections dating back to prep school, plus constant networking inside our company—into a series of ever more substantial management positions. He’s launched new products by shamelessly ripping off fashion and lifestyle concepts pioneered by his former companies. And he’s done all this while demonstrating zero ability to relate to or understand the work of the people who report to him.

  “Hey, Barney,” I say and offer my hand.

  Barney puts down his menu and smiles up at me. He’s as round and hard as a potato—a former jock whose muscle somehow didn’t turn to fat. I notice he’s had his hair cut in the youthful style that many middle-aged businessmen are favoring this year—a short, close-cropped ’do that needs very little styling. It’s the same ’do that swept through Hollywood a few months ago, and even though all the young male movie stars have already grown out of it, the look has found a new life on the East Coast.

  His smile disappears when he realizes who I am.

  “Russell,” he says. “Great to see you. What are you doing here?” As he shakes my hand, he’s looking over my shoulder to see if anyone else is coming.

  To Barney’s alarm, I sit at his table and grab a slice of focaccia from the bread basket, dipping it into the rosemary-seasoned olive oil.

  “Hey, Russell. Don’t get too cozy. I’m expecting someone.”

  “I’m subbing for your lunch date,” I tell him. “Annika called me when she couldn’t get hold of you.” Annika is Barney’s famously stunning Finnish assistant. She has striking blonde hair cropped around a perfectly shaped face and a fondness for wearing tight leather pants. Yolanda Pew’s division is home to the majority of the company’s most gorgeous women, but even so, Annika stands out.

  “Annika’s amazing,” says Barney. “You wouldn’t believe how organized and efficient that woman is.”

  “She’s great on the phone too,” I say.

  Barney drinks a couple of glasses of wine with lunch while I nurse a nonalcoholic beer. We haven’t spoken for a while. Recently divorced, he updates me on his new single life. He’s back in the city in a furnished apartment, seeing his kid every other weekend. He implies that he’s getting laid a lot, but I don’t probe for details.

  “How are things with you?” he asks.

  “Things are cooking,” I say. “Business is tough, but we’re holding our own. I made a couple of great hires this year. My team’s really firing on all cylinders.”

  “Who do you have working for you these days?” he asks.

  “You know Meg Wilson? She’s great. Pete Hughes? He’s great. Just keeps chugging away. Gets it done. Roger Jones? He’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but he’s great too.” Barney’s eyes are glazing over. He’s not interested in the reliable and dedicated members of my team. They’re old news to him.

  “So who are the new guys?” he says.

  “I hired this kid Jeremy Stent back in June. He’s great. Smart. Enthusiastic. One year out of school. He’s like a one-man idea factory. And Cindy Lang? Have you met her? Jesus. She’s phenomenal.” I mention the school she went to and a couple of the leading companies where she used to pretend to work. “Henry loves Cindy. Just last week, we needed to pull together a two-million-dollar proposal for the Chicago office. Complete fire drill. They needed it overnight. But man, Cindy Lang. She made it look effortless.” I don’t mention that in Cindy’s world, making something look effortless means leaving at five o’clock while Pete and Kelly stayed late to do the actual work. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Henry over the past four years, it’s that it is entirely possible to tell the truth even when you want to mislead people.

  “That’s good to know,” says Barney. “It’s always tough to find talented people. We’re looking for a couple of folks right now. You don’t happen to know anyone who’s looking?”

  “Ha ha,” I say. “Thanks, but I’m happy right now. And hey, don’t come near my people. And Cindy Lang is not available. Henry would kill you.”

  Barney chuckles and picks up his butter knife. I sit quietly for several seconds, sending him telepathic signals to ensure the name Cindy Lang gets lodged deep into his brain.

  Until Judd drops by my office around three o’clock, I thought my biggest challenge this afternoon was going to be digesting the fifty-four-dollar hamburger I made Barney pay for. It tastes the same as the sixty-dollar burger at Fabrice, but with ten percent less meat.

  Judd’s clutching his copy of the D-SAW binder he created, plus a manila folder containing his project notes. Like a good consultant, he’s looking for more help on his project. What he doesn’t know is that since we last spoke I’ve turned into a Unicorn. I have no intention of getting involved in the actual work his project requires. He looks around my office. My two guest chairs are missing. Susan borrowed them this morning and hasn’t brought them back yet.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  “Isn’t it a fantastic piece? My wife picked it up at the store where she works. I told her it would look great in my office.”

  Judd turns away from the turd-stool. “I’ve already received two research proposals from companies here in New York,” he says. “And I’m heading down to DC tomorrow morning to meet with one more group down there.”

  “Excellent,” I say. “Will you get a chance to go to our event at the Intercontinental?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “That’s where I’m staying. I told Erika I could help out.”

  “That’s great. I’m glad you’re not too busy to pitch in.”

  “I was just hoping that while I’m teaming that event, someone on your staff could
keep this D-SAW work moving.”

  “Sure. What do you need? I’d be happy to do it myself, but I have a ton of other work here.” I gesture at the uncluttered expanse of my desk.

  Judd pushes his heavy glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “We still have a lot of analysis to get through and several deliverables,” he says. “Perhaps we can parallel-process.”

  I lean back in my chair and look up at Judd as he stands across my desk. I consider what he actually means by “parallel-process.” It’s a phrase consultants use when they want to hoodwink you into thinking that there are two approximately equal tasks that need to be undertaken in order to complete a given project. What the phrase actually means is this: “Hey, you look like a strong carthorse, why don’t we just load up all the heavy freight into these cars? Then why don’t you pick up this rope and drag the whole train by yourself to yonder station? Don’t worry about me. I’ll ride in the first-class, air-conditioned Unicorn Express that’s coming through on the next track over. We can meet up at the station when you get there.”

  I stand up and roll my executive chair around my desk, toward the brown lump of furniture I’ve placed by the window. I plant myself in my chair and gesture for Judd to do the same. “Sit down,” I say. “Let’s take a look. See what’s going on.”

  “You want me to sit on this?”

  “Try it. You’ll be amazed.”

  Judd positions himself above the stool, hovering a second before sinking slowly into it. There’s a gentle hissing sound as air is forced out. Judd stabilizes himself, feet set apart on the floor. His cuffed pants are riding up his legs, exposing his pale, almost hairless shins.

  “It’s not so bad, is it?” I tell him as he looks up at me. “Let’s run through these and figure out some next steps.”

  I look at what Judd is expecting someone to do for him while he’s out of town, starting with a complete analysis of the competitive landscape and followed by a review of our rivals’ “best practices.” This is exactly the kind of work Henry’s hired Judd to produce as part of his exorbitant day rate. I read slowly while he squirms in his seat.

  “Hold on.” He gets up, drags the stool a couple of feet, and sits again, leaning his back against the wall. He still looks unsure about the situation, but he’s going with it.

  “Maybe we can work something out,” I say. “Tell me your deadlines again.”

  Judd rattles off a few dates and the details of all the work he’s expecting me to do over the next few days. As he talks, I glance over at the notepad and pen I’ve left on my desk and wonder if he was expecting me to be writing any of this down.

  “Jeez,” I say. “This timing’s really working against us. I’m backed up on a couple of things for Henry. This Livingston Kidd proposal is really getting out of hand. Plus we’ve got Roger going out for his gastric bypass next week.”

  “Henry promised me the support I needed,” Judd says, a little desperation creeping in. “I actually asked one or two of your guys already. They told me that I need to be a hundred percent responsible for my work just like they are for theirs.”

  “Well, they’re all so swamped,” I say. I pause to let him know I’m thinking of how best to work this. “Tell you what. You might be in luck. Cindy might have some time. I just reassigned several of her projects to Meg and Pete.”

  “Cindy?” says Judd. “Henry said I could work directly with you.”

  “Don’t worry. Cindy’s my best person. She works on all of Henry’s top projects. She’ll be a hundred percent responsible for getting at least fifty percent of this work done. If the two of you can’t figure this out, I don’t know who else can.”

  I stand up and offer my hand, pulling Judd out of the position he’s sunken into.

  Thursday’s a quiet day. Erika, Sally and Judd are all in DC. Meg, Roger and Pete are hard at work on their projects. Cindy is still reeling from Judd’s request for help. I decide to relocate before she comes to complain.

  I call Fergus from my cell phone and invite him to meet me for coffee at the Starbucks that marks the halfway point between our offices.

  While we’re waiting for our nonfat lattes to be prepared, I tell him how I’m investing myself completely in the preparation for my next Vicious Circle column.

  “I’ve become a Unicorn,” I tell him. “It’s amazing. Frees up so much of your time.”

  We sit with our drinks on the high stools by the window. It’s midmorning, but there’s a long line of people at the street vendor’s coffee and donut cart outside. These are the consumers who still cling to the belief that coffee is a commodity product. I sip my latte, happy in the rationalization that I’m doing more than drinking coffee. I’m pampering myself. I’m not wasting money recklessly—I’m treating myself to a small but affordable luxury that, goddammit, I deserve.

  Fergus updates me on the reaction to the latest issue of Vicious Circle. I convinced him a while back that he needed to count the total number of reader letters and emails the magazine receives each issue. If ever the number is impressive or shows signs of increasing, they could use it to show advertisers that at least some readers are engaging with the publication.

  So far the numbers aren’t creating much of a story.

  “Forty-five this month,” he tells me. “But six of those were people asking to cancel their subscriptions.”

  “Well, there’s still time. You may get more. How many of those were in response to my poopie column?”

  “You mean apart from the cancellations?”

  “Ha.”

  “I guess a couple of people said they liked your poopie, Russell.”

  “Just knowing that makes it all worthwhile.”

  We sit quietly for a minute. I tell Fergus that I finally got to see the contents of the YANA file I’d been denied access to for so many years.

  “Really? Any big revelations?”

  “It was a confidential report from one of those companies specializing in brand marketing and research. Divided into two parts. The first part was all about why brands die, and other optimistic stuff.”

  “And the conclusion was that your brand is dying?”

  “The conclusion was that our customers are dying. The Chronicle has huge strength with seniors, but we’re not relevant to younger consumers. To them, we’re a boring business newspaper filled with stuff they can always get free on the internet. We’re not a brand that stands for something they care about.” I sip my five-dollar latte. “Unless we transform that perception, we’ll keep losing customers, along with our ability to charge a premium price to advertisers.”

  “And the second part?”

  “That was the most important section. They called it ‘brand permission’ research. They looked at all the different ways we might expand our product into new markets or create new brand extensions that might allow us to succeed in the future. It was a pretty thorough analysis. Unfortunately, the conclusion was that our brand didn’t have permission to do very much. People have a very fixed view of us. We’re associated only with business. We would fail if we tried to compete in the major lifestyle segments. It’s a vicious circle. You can appreciate that. If we do nothing, we’ll be trapped in an unstoppable, accelerating decline. But anything we do will probably make things worse. This D-SAW project is our last chance to turn it around.”

  “How reliable is this company’s research?”

  “I don’t know. I did a search on them. Seems like they went out of business two years ago.”

  “And what exactly is this D-SAW project?”

  I tell him what it entails. How we’ll be doubling down on a new newspaper product at a time when everyone else is moving rapidly online.

  “That’s it?”

  I nod.

  “Jesus. You guys are in worse shape than I thought.” Fergus sips his coffee. I sip mine.

  We’re quiet for another minute. Then Fergus says, “So, we didn’t even discuss the most important topic. Did you fuck that other chick or not?”


  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Erika, Sally and Judd travel back from Washington together. Erika reports the event was a success. Judd tells me the same thing. Neither of them gives any indication if their flirtation is blossoming into romance.

  Meanwhile, I’m adapting to the Unicorn lifestyle. I’ve asked the managers on my team to start emailing me weekly reports so I can package these and deliver them to Henry.

  It takes a few minutes to edit out all the duplication contained in Cindy’s report. But even after I do that, I’m sure Henry will get the sense that a large volume of work is getting done.

  Sometimes I walk the floor and peer over people’s cubicle walls. Other times I sit and do nothing. When I’m really bored, I staple pieces of paper together, then take the staples back out with my staple remover.

  I leave work at five each day. Which means I’m jammed in with other straphangers at the height of the rush hour. With frequent stops between stations, I have plenty of time to reflect on the carefree, subway-free, cubicle-free life my wife is leading. While I’m busy not working, she’s finding new ways to spend all the money she’s not earning.

  “Do you notice anything different about me?” She’s posing on the rug where our turd-stool used to be.

  “Are those colored contacts?”

  “Shut up. Be serious.”

  “I am being serious. Were your eyes always that color?”

  “So you don’t notice anything different?”

  “Turn around at least.”

  She twirls slowly. She’s had her hair cut and highlighted again. With tip the process runs about $260. I look beyond her at the thin, spiderweb cracks in the wall. We live in a prewar building. The painter told us this would happen.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Liposuction?”

  Teaming Judd with Cindy proves to be an interesting experiment. I can only observe from a distance, but it is obvious that from a productivity standpoint their collaboration is a complete disaster. They hold regular meetings, outlining the scope of the project, discussing timelines and deliverables. But then—without access to anyone willing to do the actual work—they reconvene and discover no further progress has been made.