The latter didn’t happen, but the former did. As the kids came out of the school they dispersed in their usual fashion; some heading up the street singly or in groups to walk home; others meeting parents who were waiting at the curb or in parked cars nearby; others waited for the traffic to die down, looking carefully both ways before they stepped off the curb to cross the street. I didn’t take my eyes off the screen and neither did Cathy. When she saw her daughter—I’m not sure which child she was since there were half a dozen crossing the street in a group—she broke down and started sobbing in relief.
I felt Kelly and Bernie’s grip on my arms and shoulders loosen. I was pulled to my feet and the screen went blank.
Donald’s features were grave. “It’s Friday and it’s time to go. Go home to your daughter, Cathy. You’ve put in a long week and I think you’ve learned your lesson.” He turned to me as Barbara let go of Cathy, who remained slumped over the table. “As for you, consider it part of your employee training. Your handbook has been placed on your desk by HR. Pick it up on your way out and read through it over the weekend.”
“I’m calling the police,” I said. I was so angry I could barely speak.
Donald frowned. “I’d hate to have Kelly and Bernie hurt you some more.”
“Fuck you!” I yelled.
“Jesse!” I started at the sound of my name and looked up. Cathy was looking at me, wiping her eyes. She was shaking her head. “Don’t. It’s okay.”
“Are you out of your mind?” I yelled.
“Go home, Mr. Lopez,” Donald said, his voice soothing. He was standing beside me now, his fat hand rubbing my left shoulder. “Kelly and Bernie will escort you to the company nurse to have your side looked at and if Mrs. Murray deems it necessary, she will fill out the necessary paperwork for you to be out on temporary disability with pay. It won’t go against your work record as it was a work-related injury. In the meantime, the days off will provide you with enough time to read the manual and become acquainted with how we do business.”
As much as I wanted to say I resisted Kelly and Bernie’s efforts to lead me away, I didn’t. I did glare back at Donald as they led me out of the conference room, and I hoped he read the fury in my face. Beyond that, I was too stunned to offer resistance. Bernie and Kelly were silent as they led me back to my cubical and allowed me to gather my things. Then they led me to the elevator. They ignored me on the ride down to the lobby when I tried to get them to tell me what the hell was going on and why they were going along with it. When I tried to make a beeline for the front door, they pulled me away and led me forcefully down a hallway that went behind security to the nurse’s office.
Mrs. Murray had no doubt been alerted prior to my inevitable arrival. She nodded at Kelly and Bernie, who left quickly. Mrs. Murray led me to an examining room and looked over my bruised side, poking it tenderly and asking where it hurt. I winced and tried to be as completely honest as I could on what happened, letting my mouth run as I told her I was going to sue the hell out of this company Monday morning. Mrs. Murray nodded and kept silent on my threats, then handed me a plastic cup. “If you can step into the bathroom, I’d like to take a urine sample.”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure your kidneys weren’t damaged,” she said.
I did as asked and thankfully my urine was free of blood. Mrs. Murray labeled the sample and set it aside. “You might want to monitor your urine for the next few days. If you notice blood, call your doctor.”
“I will, after I call my lawyer,” I said.
Mrs. Murray ignored that comment and handed me a slip of paper. “I’m putting you on temporary disability until Thursday,” she said.
I took the slip of paper, grabbed my briefcase, and headed out.
I CALLED THE police from my cell phone and met the arriving officers in the lobby. After I explained what happened and showed them the visible bruising along my left side, I led them inside the building, up the elevator, and down the hall to my department.
Most of my co-workers had already departed for the day, but Donald was still there. When Donald saw who I was with, he frowned. "Is there a problem?"
"You bet there's a problem, you sonofabitch," I said, my voice raised. One of the officers tried to calm me down as I again related my story. "He encouraged it," I said, pointing at Donald. I was so shaken, so angry, I didn't care if I was fired. "He led Kelly and Bernie and had them forcefully restrain me, and he subjected Cathy to psychological abuse that is just horrendous and outrageous!"
One of the officers approached Donald. "How about we go somewhere else where I can get your side of the story?"
Somebody must have called building security because a moment later two members of the security force arrived. They conferred with the officer who led Donald away, and a moment later the two officers compared notes. Donald glowered at me but I ignored him. One of the officers looked at me. "You willing to file a formal complaint?"
"You're goddamn right!" I said.
The second officer faced Donald. "Mr. Robertson, you're under arrest for false imprisonment and second-degree assault." The officer took out a pair of handcuffs and I grinned. The pressure was coming off me now; I felt invigorated.
That grin stayed with me and grew larger as I followed the officers and a hand-cuffed Donald Robertson out of the building.
I WISH I could tell you there’s a happy ending to this story, that the company investigated my charges and conferred with the local law enforcement finding that Donald Robertson broke serious laws in the name of the company, and that he was fired because of it. I wish I could tell you I had such a strong case that the company caved in and settled for a large sum of money. That didn’t happen. In fact, what happened in the days and weeks following that incident are so hazy in my memory now, so distorted, that I find it hard to relate to the kind of person I was back then.
I’ll try to explain, though.
Jennifer, my wife, wasn’t as pleased as I thought she’d be. She was worried about my injury, of course, but she was equally worried this would present a financial setback for us, that I would eventually be fired and we would be ruined financially. She had a reason to be concerned; at the time this happened we were in dire financial straits from my last layoff (it had taken me twelve months to get this job at Braun and Meyers). We had a huge fight that evening over my actions that day at work. “I understand this company isn't what you thought it was going to be and you should probably look for another job. But...well, couldn't you have just towed the goddamn line for a while until another opportunity arose instead of playing Superman to the fucking secretary? I understand they were complete assholes to her, but...really, Jesse, this isn’t the time to endanger our livelihood for somebody else! Especially now, when you have nothing else lined up and no fall back plan. What the hell were you thinking? We need you to have this job! Don’t you get it?” She was right. I needed this job; my salary brought in half the income needed to house, feed, and clothe us. What was left over went to bills accumulated during my layoff. If I lost this job now I was ruined.
We argued about this all night until I caved in. She was right, of course. Unless I could find a job with similar pay and benefits, we did need this job. The job market was still in the dumps, and I knew my chances of landing another position if I lost this one were slim to non-existent. Employers don’t like to hire somebody who has been fired from their job after having only been at it for two weeks.
I stayed home until Thursday due to my 'work-related injury', but when I finally showed up I had a meeting with Donald and HR. I wasn’t that surprised to hear that the criminal charges against Donald were dropped. I was given an ultimatum—three days suspension without pay (which would most surely lead to termination) or I could apologize to my supervisor and co-workers and keep my job. I chose the latter, of course. The company had me by the balls and they knew it.
I needed to provide for my family. And that meant I had to show up to work every day an
d do a good job and abide by the company rules and policies and procedures, even if they went against my basic grain of ethics. I had to pretend to stomach what went on; I had to become another person when I was at the office. I had to leave my humanity at the door.
I had to do this for my family.
So I did.
The weeks passed into months, which passed into a few years. It was amazing how buckling down and putting my nose to the grindstone changed everything. When I was at work I didn’t think about home, about the fights Jennifer and I had over what had happened to almost get me fired. Instead I just did the job, did what I was asked without question, got paid, and went home. If there was a special project, I stayed late to get it done. I began to realize in the first few months of my employment at Braun and Meyers, for the first time in my life, that this happened everywhere; this was what most people do. They work jobs they don’t really like until they either drop dead or retire. They make these sacrifices not for themselves, or their well-being, but in order to help support themselves and, in many cases, their families. They feel no special joy in the duties they perform, no sense of obligation, self-worth, or satisfaction whether they are Accountants, Systems Administrators, Secretaries, or whatever. Oh, I imagine some people feel fulfilled by their work. Doctors, Lawyers, Engineers, people that go into some kind of business for themselves maybe. But not the majority of working people. Most of us fall into it because...well, because we have to survive.
Things at work stopped bothering me as the months went by. When Cathy was forced to stay late at the office one night, leaving her young daughter at home alone by herself, I didn’t complain or stick up for her. When Rex, one of the computer operators, began complaining of chest pains one morning after having worked exceptionally long hours on a project, he was reminded that the work came first as long as he was physically in the building. Rex continued working, something in his gaze not right when I saw him that morning, as if he was afflicted with a sense of doubt. He dropped dead at his terminal that afternoon of a massive heart attack. Perhaps if he'd allowed himself time off to rest he would still be alive today.
I could go on but there’s no reason. What happened to those people didn’t concern me. And what happened to my family during the hours I was at work didn’t concern me either, so long as I was at work. I began missing parent-teacher conferences, after school activities. Work had to be done. The company had to meet its financial goals for the year. We had to top last year’s sales. We had to be the top company in our industry. We had to all work together, for the betterment of the company.
I had to put my nose to the grindstone to help meet my team's goals which, in turn, works for the overall company's goals and objectives.
My wife filed for divorce three months ago. I don’t understand why she did. When she left me, taking Ray with her and packing most of our things, I wasn’t even aware of it. I had just been handed the IRC project—it was a big deal, the biggest account we had ever handled—and would lead to incredible growth both for the company and my job, which was important to me because it would lead me to a very visible position within the firm. So I worked as hard as I could on it, staying at the office until 9:00 p.m. and later every day and working weekends. I do remember Jennifer leaving me during this point, saying something ridiculous like she never sees me anymore, that I’m always working. Well, what did she expect? We needed this job. I only did as she asked.
I think back on our last big fight before she filed for divorce...something about what she said then cuts through to me, makes me feel somewhat sad and melancholy. “What happened to you?” she said, through tears. “You were never like this. You were never so into your job the way you are now. It’s almost like you’re a different person now! I can’t even talk to you! Whenever we do talk, all you talk about is your goddamn job!”
I think back on what she said and Donald’s voice comes through, repeating what he said during my first few days at the company. This is what you do. It is what we pay you to do and it is what you are.
I think back on those days and remember how I used to think my co-workers weren't human. A silly notion, really. They were just very dedicated, very driven people, that's all. If they weren't human, what were they? Aliens masquerading as people? Corporate zombies? Or were they simply possessed by some dark force that manipulated them like puppets, all to serve and feed something none of us could see. Such thoughts are asinine and counter-productive to the company's goals and objectives and do not reflect professionalism. They are rooted in fantasy; they are not part of the business world, the real world, and therefore do not belong in my realm of thinking.
It's funny I used to even think all that.
Still, at times, some small part of myself, maybe it’s my old identity, squirms somewhere deep down inside me. It almost sounds like it's screaming to be let out.
And then the feeling passes and everything is fine again.
All is fine.
After all, this is what I do.
Story Notes
Readers of my novel The Corporation will recognize where this came from. If memory serves, the idea for this story came first. Back in another lifetime, I worked for a large corporation that was actually a great place to work at...unless you worked for a certain middle manager who was pretty much like the guy in this story. I heard the horror stories about him from his secretary, his analysts, even fellow middle managers. The guy lived and breathed his job. I think if the higher ups would have allowed it, he would have moved his bed and personal belongings into the building and taken up permanent residence.
Corporations are people, right? 2012 U.S. Presidential Candidate Mitt Romney said they were during his campaign, and, in a way, he’s correct (the use of the word “person” in the 14th Amendment of the U.S. Constitution has been interpreted to include corporations, since corporations comprise of a group of people and people should not be deprived of their constitutional rights when they act collectively). In my younger years I used to see corporations as these giant, lumbering things. The people that worked for them performed vital functions that kept the corporation alive and healthy. The people, the workers, were kept alive and healthy through the paychecks they drew and the fringe benefits the corporation gave them like health benefits, pension, 401k, and vacation time. It was a symbiotic relationship, much in the way the bacteria that lives in your skin or your digestive tract feeds off various parts of you but also help benefit you in some way (bad analogy, I know, but bear with me).
Occasionally a sickness can emerge – a minor corruption in the accounting department for the corporation, and a nasty flu bug for the human. When this happens, the head of the company takes care of the problem and order is restored. The patient (the corporation) is healthy again (and for the human, we take antibiotics until the flu bug is gone).
One day I started to think that if corporations were really people, suppose one was run by folks who were so completely soulless that the corporation as a singular entity took on their essence? This story grew from that thought. Using a similar theme, I explored the idea that if a person can become possessed by a demon or an evil spirit of some kind, why can’t a corporation? Many religious belief systems hold to the idea that people can become possessed by evil spirits or demons. And corporations are people too, right? Wouldn't it make sense that corporations can become possessed by evil spirits and demons?
That’s what led to me writing The Corporation. The seed for both came right around the same time but both turned into different things, riffing on similar themes – the theme of the individual being slowly taken over by the hive mind. Astute readers will recognize this is a theme that has been utilized by many of the SF greats – John Wyndham, Robert Heinlein, Jack Finney. Stephen King explored a similar theme with his 1987 novel The Tommyknockers. I wanted to move the theme away from the SF roots and bring more of a supernatural, suburban horror element into it.
Contrary to what some readers may think, I actually like corpora
tions. I like capitalism too. When properly applied, under the right conditions, both work well. This story (and The Corporation) explore the extremes of globalization and corporatism from both sides of the political spectrum.
Thankfully, I’ve never held jobs under circumstances depicted in this story. I hope I never have to.
Home
"GINA, IT’S TIME."
Gina Peck sighed and picked up her backpack. She slung it over her shoulder. With a sense of trepidation, she rose from the kitchen table and turned to face her father, who was standing in the living room.
Dad was wearing that old robe grandma had bought him—how many years ago was that now? Three? Five? The robe hung on his bony shoulders, covering his frame like a blanket. His stringy hair hung in his face and he brushed it away. Despite the severity of their situation, he smiled at her. And, like always, when Dad smiled at her, it made her world. "That's my girl."
"Are you sure you want me to do this?" Gina asked.
Dad nodded. "We need you to, Gina." Dad turned to look back at the living room where her mother lay on the threadbare sofa, a blue wool blanket pulled over her. The TV screen flickered in the background, the sound muted. Mom wasn't watching. She had slipped back into one of her dozes again.
Gina felt a lump in her throat as she looked at her mother. "I wish I didn't have to."
"I know, honey," Dad said, his voice soothing. He shuffled into the kitchen, not looking at her. "But you know it's the only way. You've got a gift. If it wasn't for you, we'd be worse off than we are now. I can't do what you do—the people out there, they ignore folks my age even if I hang pictures of your mother around my neck with signed affidavits from her medical team. But when they see her daughter, a little girl..." He shook his head. His eyes sad, haunted. "Well, that's the game changer. They'll help a kid. Even after all the shit that's gone down, they'll still find it within their rotten hearts to help a kid."
Screaming to Get Out & Other Wailings of the Damned Page 8