Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch

by Richard Hine

  For the purpose of the experiment, I have instructed my staff not to accept any assignments directly from Judd or Cindy. And if any issues arise, they are to alert me immediately. One by one, my team members bring me the requests Judd leaves on their chairs while they are out at lunch or the assignment Cindy has tricked them into accepting by pretending the work is for a different project. One by one, I return these assignments to Cindy or Judd, with a note or a voicemail or an email reminder that we are all very busy and that I am confident that they, between them, can get this done.

  Judd comes to my office to let me know he and Cindy have made tremendous progress in defining the scope of the project and the necessary next steps. He shows me a sheet he’s formatted which describes the work required at each stage of the project. A second column shows the due date for each element. Next to that is a column of empty boxes under the heading “Owned By.”

  “Here’s where I need your support,” he says.

  “The sheet looks great,” I say. “I don’t have any changes.”

  “I need your help building a team,” he says. “We need people who are going to step up and take ownership.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Everything’s set up. The whole thing is mapped out. All we need now are the resources.”

  “Judd,” I say, “you and Cindy are the resources.”

  I visit Roger in his office to wish him all the best before his operation. He doesn’t want any kind of send-off before he departs for his medical leave. During my empty workdays, I’ve had plenty of time to research the surgery he’s having. It won’t be fun. He’s switching to a liquid diet tomorrow. Thankfully, his sister’s coming to stay with him. He’ll need her around for a few unpleasant days before the operation and for the uncomfortable first weeks of his recovery.

  “Good luck,” I tell him. “And seriously, think about the mustache too while you’re gone.”

  The battle of wills between Judd and Cindy continues. Despite the importance of the D-SAW project, neither one of them is willing to break down and do any actual work.

  Then Cindy disengages. She appears at my doorway, sheepish yet triumphant.

  “Russell, can we talk?” she says.

  I ask her to take a seat while I pretend to finish up an email. For once, I already know what’s going down. She’s here to tell me about the job she’s accepted in Barney Barnes’s group. The HR department alerted me yesterday that an offer was going to be made. The only surprising thing was that Cindy took a night to sleep on it.

  “OK,” I say. “Shoot.”

  “I don’t know how to say this.” She looks tired. There are lines around her mouth I haven’t really noticed before.

  I lean forward in my chair. “What’s up?”

  “Russell, I’m really torn about this. I haven’t even been here six months, and I know it’s not the done thing, but Barney Barnes approached me about a senior manager position and the offer was really too good to pass up. I’ll be working on a more female-oriented product, which I think is a better fit for me when I think long-term, and I do want to stay at the company, and it seems like a really great group—not that this isn’t, but I’ll have four people reporting to me, and I’ll manage my own advertising budget.”

  “Jeez,” I say. “You’re leaving us?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I hope there’s more money involved.”

  “It’s not really about that, but yes.”

  “And a bigger office, I suppose?”

  “One and a half windows.”

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say. It sounds like a done deal.”

  “They’ve asked if I can start on the twelfth.”

  “Gosh,” I say. “We’ll miss you.”

  I break the news to Henry. “Cindy’s leaving us. She’s accepted a job with Barney Barnes.”

  I try to conceal my elation. I’m well aware that Henry takes it hard when an employee—especially one he considers a star—departs to work for another part of the company. When the person is leaving to join Barney’s team, the blow is especially hard.

  My job is to guide Henry carefully through his grieving process. There are five stages: Denial (of the Situation), Anger (at the Person Responsible), Panic (That This Might Reflect Badly on Him), Nostalgia (for the Lost Employee), and finally, Acceptance (Mixed with a Hearty Blend of False Optimism). With Henry, the whole process takes about sixty seconds.

  “She can’t leave us now,” he says. “I absolutely won’t allow it.”

  “It’s a done deal, Henry.”

  “Shit. Didn’t you have her working with Judd on the D-SAW project? And what about Livingston Kidd? What are we going to do?”

  “You know how great Judd is. He can handle the D-SAW project. And I’ll put Pete on Livingston Kidd. I think we’ll be able to work through it.”

  “Thank God for Judd.”

  “He’s a real pro.”

  “That fucking Barney.”

  “Barney’s always had an eye for talent.”

  “What are people saying? Cindy’s been here less than six months.”

  “We can spin it that you did her a favor. Managed her out. Gave her a nudge before the re-org.”

  “Will anyone buy it? We would never have won the ExxonMobil business without her.”

  “I hate to tell you, but Roger Jones did all the work on that one. Plus, everyone got that campaign, even USA Today.”

  “Roger worked on Exxon?” Henry’s cheek twitches as he processes that information. “Anyway, she did a great job on Fidelity.”

  “Actually, I had to pull that one out of the fire myself. Don’t you remember? Cindy had worked so hard in her first couple of months. You gave her a couple of extra personal days.”

  I worry that I’m pushing too hard. That Henry can’t update his hard drive this quickly.

  “I don’t know,” says Henry. “Can we afford to lose her?”

  “It’s a loss,” I say. “But I think the rest of the team can step it up.”

  “I guess it saves someone else’s job,” he says.

  I nod reflectively.

  “You think we can do this?”

  I nod sagely.

  “We can do this!”

  I nod eagerly.

  “You and I did just fine before Cindy got here, didn’t we?”

  “Cindy?” I say, acting puzzled. “Cindy who?”

  Henry slaps me on the back, squeezes my shoulder. He feels my body tighten, relaxes his grip slowly, then lets his hand drop back to his side.

  Judd is hovering near my office when I get back from Henry’s. He’s wearing his casual Friday look—black turtleneck, black jeans—and looking slightly panicked. He follows me inside. I sit behind my desk and say, “What’s new, Judd?”

  “I just spoke to Cindy,” he says. “She tells me she’s accepted another position.”

  “It’s a great move for her,” I say. “Things are really happening over in Barney Barnes’s group. It doesn’t make it easy for us hold on to our stars.”

  “That’s great,” says Judd. “But frankly I’m concerned about D-SAW.”

  “You’re worried she might say something to Barney?”

  “No. I’m worried that Henry’s expecting to see a presentation next Wednesday, and Cindy hasn’t produced anything.”

  “That’s surprises me,” I say. “She’s normally so reliable.”

  Judd starts pacing around my office. It’s fun to watch. I wait to see how he tries to shift responsibility for the actionable items.

  “How can I help you move this along?” he asks.

  “That’s up to you,” I say. “It’s your project.”

  He sits down opposite me. He takes out the document he created delineating the project timeline and takes me through the “actionable items” and “deliverables” he and Cindy had previously agreed on.

  “Hen—” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “Henry said I could rely on you.”


  “You’ve put a lot of thought into the process,” I observe. “What about the content?”

  “I completed all my internal interviews,” he says, as if that matters.

  “That’s no help now. Where are you with the P&Ls?”

  “Jeanie’s given me a first pass at the distribution, production and admin costs. I’m just waiting for Susan and Dave to sign off on their numbers,” he says. “But Jeanie said Henry said I should get the marketing numbers directly from you.”

  Judd hands me a spreadsheet and looks at me expectantly. His blatant use of the double-name-drop technique is a clear sign of desperation. I study Jeanie’s bogus numbers and understand why. Susan and Dave have been dragging their feet too. Someone who knows what they’re doing is going to have to help him out soon.

  “OK. Email this to me. Give me a copy of everything you gave Cindy. Come back on Monday. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks, Russell,” Judd says. He smiles. The tension he’s been holding releases visibly from his body. I realize there are two sides to Judd. There’s the pain-in-the-ass, full-of-himself, unstoppable-force-of-nature side that we all know and dislike. But behind that mask there’s also a helpless doofus—an innocent man-child who’s just longing to be accepted into the grown-up world. It’s a sensitive, vulnerable side that Judd doesn’t show to many people. Probably because it’s even more off-putting.

  I work on the spreadsheet Judd sends me. He’s one of those guys who really knows how to use the software. There are a lot of hidden formulas in his file. Every time I type in a new number, all the columns get recalculated. This is the kind of stuff that really impresses Henry. When the spreadsheet’s this well formatted, it doesn’t even matter that the underlying business assumptions are bogus. Every budget season guys like Judd produce sheets like this, altering numbers in little boxes to create the fictional view of our business that management wants to see. This fiction would be fun to read if it didn’t create the kind of unrealistic expectations that are sure to make the lives of people like me slightly more miserable. Expectations that, when not met, will ultimately cost people their jobs.

  I delete a number and something goes wrong with Judd’s formula. A whole column of numbers gets replaced with the message “VALUE!!!!!###.”

  I give up and go home for the weekend.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It’s already been more than three weeks since Sam and I last had sex. But I’ve decided to tough it out. If I’m a Unicorn at the office, I can be one at home too. It’s her turn to take the lead, to demonstrate some interest. Of course, she hasn’t cracked yet. Saturday comes and goes without any fireworks. On Sunday, in a burst of AntiCrastination, I finish a draft of my next Christopher Finchley column. I’ve titled it “Sometimes a Unicorn Points You in the Right Direction (and Sometimes He’s Just Turning His Head).” I think it’s good. But I don’t send it to Fergus yet. I’ve still got another week to refine it based on additional workplace observations.

  On Monday, I summon Angela into my office. I’m pleased to see she’s wearing a sweater.

  “Did you need me for something?” she says like an actress in a bad porn movie.

  “Close the door,” I say, vaguely aware that I am ignoring certain advice in the human resources manual.

  Angela shuts the door and stands facing me across my desk. She is breathing deeply through her nose. I lean back in my chair and grip the armrests. I clear my throat and say, “Angela, do you know how to use Excel?”

  “I think so,” she says, swaying slightly from side to side. “Is that the spreadsheet one?”

  “Great. Perhaps you have time to take on an additional project?” I say, opening a manila folder on my desk.

  As I spread out my papers, Angela skips around the desk and stands next to my chair, so close I can smell her deodorant. I hand her a typed list of line item cost estimates and explain how and where I need these data points added into Judd’s more complex spreadsheet. As Angela leans forward to study the numbers, her breast hovers inches from my face.

  “You understand what I’m looking for?” I ask, not looking up from my desk.

  “Oh yes,” she says.

  I rearrange the papers back into the folder.

  “That will be all for now,” I say. “Perhaps you can have that ready by lunchtime?”

  “No problem,” she says, picking up the folder. She walks slinkily to the door as if she expects I would be watching her.

  “Angela,” I say.

  She turns and smiles again.

  “If things ever get slow, please come and see me. I’m sure we can find something to keep you busy.”

  After Angela leaves I stare out of my window for several minutes. Today, basketball guy’s office is empty. From the position of his door, I can’t even tell if his hoop is still there.

  Susan Trevor interrupts my reverie. She wants to warn me about Judd. She wants me to know he’s got Henry duped. She wants to inform me he had a one-on-one breakfast with Jack last week. She wants to reiterate that he doesn’t know anything about our business, that he’s picking our brains one by one, that if we tell him everything we know he’ll end up smarter than any one of us.

  “Plus, he’s already told Sally he’s planning on being around for a while. He thinks Henry might hire him full-time.”

  I nod and make a small huffing sound. I’ve no idea why Judd would share this information with Sally, but I don’t want to get into any long discussions with Susan.

  She leans forward just enough to show some cleavage and reminds me that we’ve all looked at the D-SAW project before. We already know it makes no sense. It’s a waste of time for everyone.

  Worse, she reminds me, bringing an outsider like Judd in creates more work for everyone, especially her. We have to lead him by the nose, hold his hand, wipe his ass the whole way.

  Worse still, we now know he’s trying to dress up all the information we give him to sell Henry on the project, to create a full-time job for himself.

  And then, if he does get the project approved, God help us. We’ll be the ones who have to do all the work. We’ll all be held accountable because we’ve all had input. We’ll be expected to make the project succeed even though we know in advance it’s doomed to fail.

  “That’s the art of Rainbow Painting,” I remind her, glancing discreetly at my watch, wondering if I’ll have time to complete and email my weekly report to Henry before catching another lunchtime movie.

  Judd comes in five minutes after Susan. He’s concerned she’s not fully invested in the success of the D-SAW project. That she doesn’t realize how committed Henry is to making this work. That perhaps she doesn’t quite “get it.”

  I wonder what Henry has told Judd about each of us—and what personal observations Judd will be delivering back to Henry once the project is over.

  “Susan likes to speak her mind,” I tell him. “She’s got strong opinions. But she’s been doing this a long time. She’s definitely committed to the best possible outcome for this project. Trust me.”

  Half an hour later, I check in with Angela, who’s crying in her cubicle. Her face is puffy. I realize there’s a bruise on the left side of her face. She’s tried to hide it with makeup, but it’s starting to show through.

  “Is everything OK?” I ask.

  She tries to compose herself, straightening in her chair, wiping the snot from her nose with a pink tissue.

  “Yes, Mr. Wiley.”

  “Russell.”

  The cell phone on her desk starts to play a loud, jingly tune.

  “Do you think you could email me that spreadsheet by eleven thirty?”

  “Yes, Russell.”

  “That’s great,” I say and walk away.

  “I’m at work,” she whispers into her cell phone. “I told you to stop calling me here.”

  At eleven thirty, Angela appears at my door. She’s still visibly upset. Nervous. Vulnerable.

  “I just wanted to check that the spreadsheet
I sent you was OK.”

  “Oh yes,” I say. “The spreadsheet was fine.”

  She hovers in the doorway, needing something more. She’s taken off her sweater. The white top she’s wearing has half sleeves that reach just below her elbows, so her dark-caramel forearms are bare. I realize I have no idea about her family history, no knowledge of the ethnic combinations that have produced her.

  “I’m sorry about before,” she says. “It was unprofessional.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, thinking this will set her mind at ease. “There’s certainly nothing to apologize for.”

  I wonder for a moment how she has constructed this six-week internship in her mind. How much it means to her that she’s been working at such a well-known company. Perhaps for the past five weeks she’s drawn something meaningful from her walk-on part as an office worker.

  If I were playing my own role better, I would have discovered more about Angela’s goals and aspirations. I would have taken her under my wing, imparted some adult wisdom, guided her toward her most appropriate career choices.

  But I’ve been distracted. I haven’t taken the time to get to know her. After five weeks, my knowledge of Angela begins and ends with her supple body and her glowing brown skin.

  “Angela,” I say, “are you interested in photography?”

  I open the email Angela sent me. I download the spreadsheet onto my desktop and print out two copies. I study the numbers on the page, feeling strangely excited. Angela and I have arranged to meet in the downstairs lobby at twelve thirty.

  The data it contains may be suspect, but the spreadsheet Angela has created looks highly professional. I turn back to the open document on my computer, changing a number randomly and watching all the totals recalculate. I’m impressed. Angela has formatted the file as expertly as an accountant. I try again. It’s perfect.