Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch

by Richard Hine

  “It was just meant to be this tiny, small, inconsequential little piece about how Ghosh is screwing up the Daily Business Chronicle. You know, the kind of stuff you’re always telling me about.”

  “You mean the stuff that has nothing to do with Larry Ghosh?”

  “Well, anyway, when Ghosh Media announced the launch of the Daily Edge, we suddenly had a news angle to run with.”

  A chill runs through me. “What kind of news angle?”

  Fergus tells me all about the story he’s written. The inside story of Project D-SAW. How Larry Ghosh has been pressuring the Chronicle’s management to improve our financial results at any cost. With me as his unnamed source, he has concocted a story of corporate desperation, executive ineptitude and financial mismanagement. He thinks he’s blowing the whistle on how the Ghosh Corporation is putting the final nail in the coffin of one of America’s most respected newspapers. And what’s the big news he’s breaking? Where’s his smoking gun? I think I’ve already figured it out, but I want him to tell me.

  “You know that screwup on the business plan?” he says. “The ten-million-dollar mistake? How you told me the project would have never been approved without the fake numbers?”

  “You motherfucking cocksucker.”

  “I’m sorry, Russell, I had to put it in.”

  “You fucking asshole.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m a journalist. This is news.”

  “Did you use my name?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So how bad is it going to be?”

  “I don’t know. But I had to warn you. My editor has it in for Ghosh too. He decided the story was so big he’s put it on the cover. Our publisher wants to make as much noise as possible with it. We’re sending press releases everywhere. She’s tripled the print run.”

  “You fucking shit fucker.”

  “I’m sorry, Russell,” he says again.

  I resist the urge to call him a backstabbing Judas. I can’t tell Fergus this, but there’s a part of me that’s glad he’s done what he’s done.

  “Whatever.” I hang up the phone and rest my chin on my chest for a while. I’m shivering, sitting all alone in the empty apartment. I never did get the chance to tell Fergus about Sam.

  I don’t sleep. And then I do. I dream the Twin Towers have magically reappeared. I leave the Burke-Hart Building after dark, look downtown, and there they are. Lights twinkling on all hundred and ten floors as if they’d never been away. People around me are rejoicing, but I start crying instead. Even in my dream I understand this is a mirage, a falsehood—something even sadder than the empty sky.

  Eventually it gets light outside. There’s no point trying to sleep. I shave and shower. I get dressed. I sit on the bed. I feel too tired to think, to feel, to function in the world. I go to work.

  I rub Lucky Cat’s paw. I try Sam’s cell phone number again. I check my email and the corporate intranet. I call Christine Lynch in HR to tell her that I’m about to meet with Jeremy Stent. Barbara comes into my office with a manila folder that conceals the good luck card she wants me to sign for Angela, who is leaving today. I study the card, the bland words that others have already written. I can’t think of anything appropriate to say. I ask Barbara to leave it with me. I open the other manila folder on my desk. The one that contains Jeremy’s severance letter.

  “Hi, Russell. You wanted to see me?”

  The best way to handle these things is to get right to the point. No pleasantries or chitchat. No pretense that this conversation is anything other than what it is.

  “Sit down, Jeremy,” I say. “I have some bad news.”

  He looks at me blankly. I bite my bottom lip to let him know how hard this is for me. “I’m sorry, Jeremy, but we’re going to have to let you go.”

  “What?”

  “I said I’m sorry, Jeremy, but we’re going to have to let you go. We recognize that you’re an extremely intelligent and talented individual, but we’ve come to the conclusion that maybe this isn’t the right fit for you and maybe it would be better for all involved if you maybe left to pursue a different career path.”

  “What do you mean, maybe?”

  “Well, not just maybe. I didn’t do a good job phrasing that. Each time I said maybe, I probably should have said actually instead.”

  “You’re firing me?”

  “We’d prefer to announce that we’ve come to a mutual agreement. You are still within your probation period. We will set your exit date for two weeks from today, but we won’t need you to actually be here during that time.”

  I slide the severance letter across the desk. He reads it quickly.

  His face collapses. “What have I done wrong?”

  “You haven’t done anything wrong. Like I said, you’re obviously smart and talented. It’s just that maybe this isn’t the right fit for you. Actually.”

  “Just tell me what I’ve done wrong. I can fix it.”

  “Jeremy, I think we’ve decided that actually your talents will be better suited elsewhere.”

  He tells me he doesn’t want to leave because he loves it here and he loves the people and everyone has been so nice to him and says, “Please, Russell, don’t do this to me. I need this job.” His voice cracks and he starts sobbing.

  I stare at the colorful spines on the book jackets on the shelf behind his left shoulder, aware of the type but not reading the printed words, and say, “Sorry, Jeremy. It’s nothing personal. There’s nothing I can do. We just think it’s better for all concerned if you leave immediately. Please hand your ID and company credit card to Tony from security, who is waiting in the corridor and can help you carry any boxes you might have down to the street.”

  Jeremy stops sobbing and still doesn’t move, so I say, “Or maybe we can ship them to your home address in a day or two if you prefer.”

  “I want to talk to Henry,” he says.

  “I’m sorry. That won’t be possible.”

  “And what about the fire drill?”

  “What fire drill?”

  “There’s a fire drill today. I’m filling in for Roger as fire warden. I’m supposed to check the bathrooms.”

  “I think we’ll manage.”

  A minute later I get up and open the door and ask Tony if he could help escort Jeremy out.

  Jeremy says, “I’m OK.” He finds a tissue in his pocket, blows his nose, and walks out of my office and down to his cubicle with Tony following a few steps behind.

  I shut the door, sit down, grip the arms of my swivel chair, close my eyes, and breathe slowly. My brain feels like a bowl of mashed potatoes. Someone knocks at the door, but I don’t say anything and the person goes away. I hear a siren in the street and the blaring of horns. I imagine an ambulance trapped in midtown traffic as a heart attack victim lies dying on the sidewalk two blocks away. I concentrate on my breathing and start counting each breath. I tell myself to count from one to fifty. To block out the world. To focus only on the numbers in my head. I wonder if Jeremy learned anything useful here. I wonder if I could have helped him more. I wonder if I should have told him how annoying he was. I stop wondering and focus only on my breathing and counting. By the time I reach thirty-five, my body has stopped trembling. I am calm. And Jeremy is someone else’s concern.

  I stand up and notice a slip of paper that someone has slid under my door. It looks innocent enough. But it still feels ominous. It’s a two-word message from Randy Baker. Call me.

  He picks up immediately.

  “It’s official,” he says. “My year is in the crapper. Livingston Kidd’s agency just called. They’ve done a deal with the Times. Print. Online. Events. You name it. Sucking up their entire budget. They’ve been working on it for weeks. We didn’t even get a look in.”

  “Shit,” I say. “Fuck. That sucks.”

  “Yep,” says Randy. “Do you think this day can get any worse?”

  I hang up, spend a few minutes gazing over at the empty office where basketball guy used to sp
end his days.

  I didn’t say it to Randy. But to me this doesn’t feel like a day when the market opens down and bounces back. This feels like a day when the bottom falls out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  By ten thirty, Fergus’s Vicious Circle story is being picked up, analyzed and interpreted by business websites, bloggers and irate investors, all the way from wsj.com to the Yahoo! Finance message boards.

  On mediaweek.com, the story is the day’s main news item, complete with a PDF of the magazine cover. The Vicious Circle art director has had fun with this. The cover art shows a picture of a battered grocery cart sporting a Daily Business Chronicle license plate. The magazine’s headline reads, “Exclusive: Ghosh Pushes Chronicle, Wheels Fall Off.”

  Barbara knocks on my door, holding an orange fire-resistant vest.

  “Jeremy asked me to give this to you,” she says.

  I ask her to leave it on my chair, then turn to the article on my screen.

  “Can I take Angela’s card?” Barbara is still hovering near my desk.

  I look at it again. We—the people saying good-bye—are depicted as a sad-looking bunch of cartoon animals. The messages inside are variations on the usual entreaties to “Stay in touch!” and “Come back and see us!” Though maybe they seem a little more heartfelt this time around. Angela has made friends throughout the building. I can’t send Barbara away again, so I scribble, “Thanks for all your efforts! Best wishes for a successful future.” As soon as I sign my name, Barbara snatches it away. She’s in a hurry to whisk it to its next signatory.

  “Just a second,” I say. I take the card back.

  I write, “P.S. Don’t forget to rent The Godfather sometime soon.”

  Barbara reads what I’ve written, gives me a worried look, and is gone.

  I turn to my computer and begin to read.

  “Chronicle Crisis: New Revelations May Push Struggling Title Over the Edge. Burke-Hart insiders are already panicking amid steep readership and advertising declines at the Daily Business Chronicle. Latest hopes to impress new boss Larry Ghosh are pinned on upcoming launch of tabloid dubbed the Daily Edge. New edition to be distributed as a supplement for current subscribers and as stand-alone newspaper for commuters in top twenty metro markets. Free distribution ploy marks last-gasp effort to connect with ‘lost generation’ of eighteen- to thirty-four-year-old readers. As Chronicle rushes Daily Edge to market, Vicious Circle quotes ‘well-placed Burke-Hart source’ who reveals devastating flaws in business plan. Among the problems: Prototypes of Daily Edge fail to excite current or prospective readers; advertisers refuse to commit additional funds; and most devastating of all, Chronicle insiders presented wrong version of business plan to management. Contrary to optimistic statements by Chronicle publisher Jack Tennant, Vicious Circle asserts the Daily Edge will be a financial drain on money-losing Chronicle for three-plus years. New revelations unlikely to please investors or impatient management at Ghosh Corporation. Meanwhile, Burke-Hart spokesperson claimed to be unaware of either Vicious Circle magazine or specific problems cited.”

  I leave another message on Sam’s cell phone. As I’m doing that, my other line starts ringing. I cut my message short and pick up.

  It’s Susan Trevor. “Turn on your TV. Right now. CNBC.”

  I reach for the remote. Fergus’s face fills the screen. He’s being interviewed about his article.

  “What I think is most sad,” says Fergus, “is that before Ghosh took over, the Daily Business Chronicle was one of those rare brands that actually stood for something.”

  “Can you believe this shit?” says Susan. “Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.”

  “Susan, I’ll call you back. That’s my other line. I’m expecting a call.” I hang up on Susan. As I pick up my other line, the fire alarm starts sounding.

  “Hi.” It’s Sam.

  “Hi.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “You tell me.”

  “What’s that noise? Is this a bad time?”

  “It’s just a fire drill.”

  “Do you have to go?”

  “I can wait a minute.”

  “I can call back.”

  “Just tell me one thing.”

  “Let me call you back.”

  “Are you and Greg fucking up there in Springfield?”

  The fire alarm keeps ringing.

  “I get the sense you don’t like Larry Ghosh,” says the CNBC interviewer to my best friend, Fergus Larner.

  The fire alarm stops. A muffled voice starts giving instructions over the sound system.

  “…destroys everything he touches…” says Fergus.

  There’s a knock at my door.

  “…polluting our culture…”

  It’s Erika Fallon, wearing her orange fire warden’s vest.

  “…in the event of a real emergency…” says the disembodied announcer on the building’s intercom.

  “…the consequences could be devastating…” says Fergus.

  “I’ve come to rescue you,” says Erika.

  “I’ll be right there,” I say, one hand over the receiver. I pick up the remote and mute my TV. The fire drill announcement stops. The alarm stops ringing. Suddenly everything is silent.

  “Are you still there?” I say to Sam.

  “Yes,” she says. “And yes.”

  There’s one last close-up of Fergus, then the CNBC show cuts to a commercial. I’m holding the phone to my right ear. I pick up the remote with my left hand, turn off the TV. My chest feels tight, but I’m not feeling any emotion. Is this shock? I wonder. And then I stop thinking. My head feels heavy but hollow.

  “That’s it?” says Sam. “You’re not going to say anything?”

  “What is it you want me to say?”

  I hang up the phone, put on the bright fire warden’s jacket, and head down the hall to make sure no one’s trapped in the men’s bathroom.

  At her good-bye party, Angela is wearing a white hooded sweatshirt with a glittery red letter A over her left breast.

  The conference room table is covered with a paper tablecloth. On top of that are plastic cups and a selection of sodas, along with an ice cream cake that most people will try not to eat. Next to the cake are plastic plates and napkins. Plastic forks are also provided. But it will take at least twenty minutes for the ice cream cake to melt sufficiently for these forks to serve any useful purpose.

  Angela may not know it, but this is the standard setup we use for every office party. I’ve instructed my team to make sure that all birthday and farewell celebrations are equally lame. It’s the best way to ensure we don’t play favorites—that no one gets upset when their own celebration comes around. Only gifts under twenty-five dollars are allowed, along with any suitable premium items we can dig out from the storage closet.

  Kelly Gardner helps Angela cut her ice cream cake and distribute pieces to the assembled group. A couple of guys from the mailroom have shown up, as well as that bald guy Bryan from corporate finance. Jeanie and Judd are nowhere in sight. They’ve been keeping a low profile all day.

  Sally Yun presents Angela with a bag filled with Chronicle merchandise. There’s a baseball cap, a T-shirt, a sports bottle and a zero-gravity pen. People don’t usually get emotional at these events, but Angela seems close to tears as she opens and reads her card.

  “Thank you all,” she says, and the room goes quiet. “I’ve really enjoyed working here. I can’t believe my time here is over already. I’ve learned so much. Everyone’s been great. Thank you so much for your help. It was especially great having such a friendly and understanding boss. Thank you, Mr. Wiley. Sorry—Russell.”

  She smiles at me sweetly, and everyone waits for me to say something. I’m expected to sound enthusiastic, steadfast and bland. While saying good-bye to one person, I’m supposed to reassure the rest of my team that life goes on, the work routine continues, it’s OK to be left behind.

  “Well, Angela. It’s been great hav
ing you,” I say a little louder than I’d intended. “Be sure to come back and see us! Stay in touch!”

  I’m pouring myself some more ginger ale when Barbara appears at my side and informs me that I’m wanted in Jack Tennant’s office immediately.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I enter Jack’s office. He’s sitting behind his desk with the Project D-SAW business plan, a copy of Vicious Circle, and assorted printouts of the day’s news reports spread in front of him. Jack’s always been known for his energy and enthusiasm. But today he seems subdued.

  There are two empty chairs to choose from. I sit in the one on the left. I sink into it a little, realizing immediately the other one might have been a better choice. Because this is the moment I finally start losing my grip.

  “Well, Russell, this has been quite a day,” he says.

  I hear wind rushing in my ears. I close my eyes. I’m about to be fired. I always wondered if I could handle my own execution with dignity, but I fear I’m about to fail the test. I open my eyes. I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale slowly.

  “Are you OK?” says Jack.

  “No,” I say. Even though it’s only a single syllable, I can’t say it without my voice cracking. Then suddenly I’m sobbing. My body’s shaking and I’m clinging to the arms of the chair, tears running down my face, trying not to look like too much of a baby in front of the publisher of the Daily Business Chronicle.

  This is embarrassing. But I can’t help myself. I’ve been betrayed by my wife. And by my best friend. I’ve screwed everything up at work. I’m a failure. I’m a traitor. And a sham. Plus, I’m scared. When Jack is done firing me, I’ll walk out of this office all alone in the world. With no job. No one to turn to. And nowhere to go.

  “This…hasn’t…been a…good day…for…me,” I manage to say.

  Jack pushes a box of tissues across his desk. I don’t want to let go of the chair, but there are bubbles of snot emerging from my nostrils. I grab some tissues and blow.