“Things okay on the home front?”
“Not bad,” I said.
“It’s a tough gig, marriage.”
I nodded.
“Important to take care of the home front,” he said. “If the home front isn’t in good shape, everything else suffers.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, so what happened to Doug Forsythe tonight?” Kurt said.
“I think we’re about to lose him to Sony.”
“Because of your hard-ass memo?”
“That may have been the last straw. Gordy’s obsessed with me trying to keep him. I twisted Doug’s arm, pleaded with him, but no go. There’s only so much I can do. The guy obviously wants to leave. And I can’t totally blame him. Gordy’s no fun to work for.”
“I’ll bet there’s a Gordy in every company.”
“I’d hate to believe that,” I said. “But what do I know. I’ve only worked for one company.”
“Listen,” Kurt said. “It’s none of my business, but you can’t let Trevor disrespect you.”
“It’s just a game.”
“Nothing’s just a game,” Kurt said. “If he thinks he can get away with that kind of disrespect on the ball field, it’s just going to carry over to the workplace.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Yes, it is,” Kurt said. “It’s a big deal. And it’s unsat.”
26
It was seven-thirty in the morning, and Gordy was on his third giant mug of coffee. Gordy overcaffeinated was not a pretty sight. He was bouncing off the walls.
“Rank ’n’ yank time,” he said, like he was a camp counselor and it was time for the white-water rafting. “Gotta tell ya, your performance reviews of some of these guys were awful generous. Don’t forget, I know these guys pretty well.” He turned to face me slowly.
I said nothing. He was right. I’d been generous in my assessments. I’d also given a boost to some of the outliers, like Festino and Taylor. I didn’t want to give Gordy any ammunition he didn’t need.
“Time for Taylor and Festino to hit the road,” he said.
So what was the point of the “performance review” exercise he’d just put me through? Rank everyone one to five on all sorts of things, when only one number counted?
“Cal Taylor’s two years from retirement,” I said.
“He retired years ago. He just didn’t tell anyone.”
“Festino just needs some more hands-on guidance.”
“Festino’s a big boy. We’ve been floating him for years. Gave the guy extra tutoring after school. Held his hand.”
“What about moving him to Inside Sales?”
“Why, so he can botch that too? Taminek’s been handling Inside Sales just fine. Festino’s been on life support for too long. Shoulda finished law school. Now it’s time to yank the feeding tube. Topgrade him out of here.”
“Gordy,” I said, “the guy’s a family man with a mortgage and a kid in private school.”
“You don’t understand. I wasn’t asking your advice.”
“I can’t do this, Gordy.”
He stared at me. “Why does that not surprise me? Why do I get the feeling you’re not cut out for the G Team?”
I’d never fired anyone before, and I had to start with a sixty-three-year-old man.
Cal Taylor cried in my office.
I didn’t know how to deal with that. I pushed a box of Kleenex across the desk at him and assured him that this was nothing personal. Though in one sense it was entirely personal. It was all about his inability to crawl out of the Jack Daniel’s bottle long enough to get on the phone and deal with the constant rejection that all of us salespeople face every day.
I won’t say it was more painful to me than it was to him. But it was pretty bad. He sat there in front of me wearing his cheap gray summer-weight suit that he wore year-round and had probably bought in a burst of deluded optimism during the Lyndon Johnson administration. His shirt collar was frayed. His white hair was Brylcreemed back, his nicotine-yellowed mustache neatly trimmed. His smoker’s hack was worse than ever.
And he wept.
Entronics had a “termination script” you had to use whenever you fired anyone. No ad-libbing allowed. After me, he’d have to go to HR and then outplacement counseling. They’d tell him about his health benefits and how long he’d continue to get his salary. Then a Corporate Security officer would escort him out of the building. That was the final indignity. Forty years with the company, and they shooed you out like you were a shoplifter.
And when the deed was done, he stood up, and said, “What about you?”
“Me?”
He looked at me with injured eyes. “You happy? Being Gordy’s hatchet man? His chief executioner officer?”
That didn’t require an answer, so I didn’t give him one. I felt as if I’d been kicked in the balls. I could only imagine how he felt. I closed my office door and sank down in my desk chair and watched him walk, slope-shouldered, across the expanse of the cube farm to his cubicle.
Through the gaps in the venetian blinds, I could see him talking to Forsythe and Harnett. My phone rang, and I let Franny get it. She intercommed me and asked if I wanted to take a call from Barry Ulasewicz at Chicago Presbyterian Hospital, and I told her I was in a meeting. She knew I wasn’t on the phone or with anyone, and she said, “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine, thanks,” I said. “I just need a couple of minutes.”
Someone had brought Taylor a stack of white cardboard cartons and was setting them up for him. A few people gathered around his cubicle as he began putting his belongings in boxes. Trevor was shooting baleful glances in my direction.
It was like a pantomime of bereavement: I could see but not hear. The word had spread like ripples on the surface of a pond. People came up to him and said brief, consoling things, then walked rapidly away. Others were passing by and making broad gestures but not slowing their stride. It’s funny the way people act around someone who’s been fired. Getting terminated is sort of like having a serious communicable disease; for every one who stopped to share his sadness there were two who didn’t want to get too close and catch it. Or didn’t want to seem to be in league with poor Cal Taylor, conspiring with him. They wanted to demonstrate their neutrality.
As I picked up my phone to ask Festino to come in, there was a knock at the door.
It was Festino.
27
“Steadman,” Festino said. “Tell me you didn’t just shoot Cal Taylor.”
“Sit down, Ricky,” I said.
“I don’t believe this. Is it the body snatchers? The merger integration team? That who gave the orders?”
I wanted to say, It wasn’t my idea, but that was too weaselly. Though true. I said, “Have a seat, Ricky.”
He did. “How come Gordy didn’t do it, huh? I figured he’d want to do it himself. He enjoys that kind of thing.”
I didn’t reply.
“I gotta tell you, as your friend, that I don’t like what’s happening to you. You’ve gone over to the dark side.”
“Ricky,” I tried to interrupt.
But he was on a roll. “First there’s that ridiculous Queeg Memo. Now you’re Gordy’s executioner. This is not good. I’m telling you this as your buddy.”
“Ricky, stop talking for a second.”
“So Taylor’s the first to swim with the fishes, huh? The first guy voted off the island? Who’s next, me?”
I looked at him for a couple of seconds before looking away.
“You’re kidding, right? Don’t kid a kidder, Jason.”
“The lower thirty percent are being let go, Ricky,” I said softly.
I could see the blood drain from his face. He shook his head. “Who’s going to go over your contracts if I’m gone?” he said in a small voice.
“I’m really sorry.”
“Jason,” he said, a note of wheedling entering his voice, “I’ve got a family to feed.”
“I know. I really hate this.”
/> “No, you don’t know. Entronics covers my wife’s and kids’ health plans.”
“You won’t just be cut off, Ricky. Your benefits will be continued for up to eighteen months.”
“I’ve got school tuition to pay, Jason. You know what that school costs me? It’s like thirty thousand bucks a year.
“You can—”
“They don’t give financial aid. Not to guys like me, anyway.”
“The public schools are great where you live, Ricky.”
“Not for a kid with Down’s syndrome, Steadman.” His eyes were fierce, and they were moist.
I couldn’t talk for a couple of seconds. “I had no idea, Ricky.”
“Is this your decision, Jason?”
“Gordy’s,” I said at last, feeling like the coward I was.
“And you’re just following orders. Like Nuremberg.”
“Pretty much,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I know how much this sucks.”
“Who can I appeal this to? Gordy? I’ll talk to Gordy if you think it’ll help.”
“It won’t help, Ricky. He’s made up his mind.”
“You can talk to him for me, then. Right? You’re his golden boy now. He’ll listen to you.”
I was silent.
“Jason, please.”
I was silent. I was dying inside.
“You of all people,” he said. He stood up slowly and went to the door.
“Ricky,” I said. He stopped, his back to me, his hand on the knob.
“Let me talk to Gordy,” I said.
Melanie stopped me outside Gordy’s office. “He’s on the phone with Hardy,” she said.
“I’ll come back.”
She glanced through Gordy’s venetian blinds. “His body language tells me he’s almost off.”
Melanie and I talked for a bit about her husband, Bob’s, plan to go in with some guys to buy a franchise for a Chilean sandwich place that was really popular in downtown Boston. I didn’t know how he’d scrape together the money. Bob worked for an insurance company.
Finally, Gordy was off the phone, and I went in.
“I need to talk to you about Festino,” I said.
“Guy freaks out on you, you call Security. He could do that, you know. Go off the deep end. I can see it in him.”
“No, it’s not that.” I told him about Festino’s child and the special school, which we’d all assumed was some hoity-toity prep school where the boys wore little blue blazers and beanies.
Gordy’s eyes grew beady. I stared at his pompadour, because I couldn’t look into his eyes. It seemed puffier than usual. He looked like he’d had his hair colored recently. “I really don’t give a shit,” he said.
“We can’t do it.”
“You think this is a charity? Some frickin’ social services agency?”
“I won’t do it,” I said. “I won’t fire Festino. I can’t do it to the guy.”
He tipped his head to one side, looked curious. “You’re refusing?”
I swallowed and hoped it wasn’t audible. I had the feeling I was about to cross some kind of office Rubicon. “Yeah,” I said.
A long, long silence. His stare was unrelenting. Then he said, slowly and deliberately, “Okay. For now. But after TechComm, you and me are going to have a talk.”
TechComm was the huge trade show, where we always threw a swanky dinner for our biggest customers. Last year it was in Las Vegas. This year it was in Miami. Gordy was always the master of ceremonies at the dinner, and he liked to keep the theme a secret until we got there. “I don’t want any disruptions before TechComm.”
“Sure,” I said.
“You know something? I don’t think you have what it takes.”
For once I didn’t answer.
28
I wanted to get out of the office on time today. Kurt had Red Sox tickets. I had to get home and change out of my suit and kiss Kate and get over to Fenway Park by seven.
I was packing up my fancy leather briefcase when I saw Doug Forsythe standing at my office door.
“Hey, Doug,” I said. “Come on in.”
“Got a sec?”
“Of course.”
He sat down slowly, with a tentative look about him. “You know, what you said yesterday? I really took it to heart.”
I nodded. I had no idea what he was getting at.
“I’ve been thinking. And—you’re right. Entronics is my home.”
I was stunned. “Really? Hey, that’s great.”
I noticed an instant message pop up on my computer screen. It was from Gordy. CALL ME NOW, it said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I just think it’s the right thing.”
“Doug, I’m so happy to hear that. Everyone’s going to be psyched that you’re staying.”
Another IM. WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? GET OVER HERE!
I swiveled around to the keyboard, typed, IN MEETING, GIVE ME A MINUTE.
“Yeah, well,” he said. He didn’t sound happy, that was the strange thing. “I guess it’s for the best.”
“Doug,” I said, “say it like you mean it.”
“I mean it. It’s the right thing. So…So that’s it.”
“You want us to match Sony’s offer,” I said, taking a stab at it. “And I told you we would. Forward the e-mail to me, or the letter, and I’ll get right to it.”
He inhaled slowly, deeply. “No need,” he said. “I don’t want to hold you guys up for more money.”
No salesguy in the history of Western civilization has ever said that. Or at least said it and meant it. I was immediately on alert. What was going on?
“Doug,” I said, “I gave you a promise. Now, don’t make me beg.”
Forsythe stood up. “Really, it’s fine,” he said. “Here I am, and here I’ll stay. I’m fine with it. I’m cool, I really am.”
He left, and I sat there for a few seconds, baffled. I turned back to the screen and saw another IM from Gordy. NOW! it said. WHAT THE HELL??!!
I IM’d back: ON MY WAY.
As I escorted Forsythe out of my office, I noticed Trevor Allard in his cubicle, darkly watching me. The background on his computer desktop was a photo of his beloved Porsche Carrera. I wondered how much Trevor knew about Forsythe’s job offer, how much he’d been urging Forsythe out of here, pouring poison in his ear. And what he knew about Forsythe’s decision to stay.
Gordy was leaning all the way back in his office chair, arms folded behind his back, beaming like a lunatic.
“What took you so long?” he said.
“Doug Forsythe just came into my office,” I said. “He’s staying.”
“Oh, is that right?” he said archly. “Now, I wonder why that is.”
“What are you talking about, Gordy?”
“All of a sudden Forsythe’s lost interest in defecting to Sony? Like all of a sudden?”
“It’s strange,” I said.
“I wonder why that could be,” he said. “What in the world would make a high-test guy like Doug Forsythe back out of a job offer that’s at least thirty percent better than what he’s doing here, huh?”
“Didn’t want to move to New Jersey?”
“Did he ask you to match Sony’s offer?”
“No, in fact.”
“You didn’t think that was bizarre?”
“Yeah, it was.”
“You ask to see Sony’s offer?”
“What are you saying, Forsythe made the whole thing up or something?”
“Oh no. He’s not a devious guy.”
“Then what?”
He tipped his chair all the way forward, planted his elbows on his desk, and said triumphantly, “The goddamned offer dried up.”
“Dried up?”
“Sony pulled it.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I kid you not. I just got a call from a buddy of mine at Sony. Something happened. Some hiccup. Somewhere way up in the hierarchy, someone got cold feet about Doug Forsythe. Higher than Crawford’s level, I suspect
. He was notified early this afternoon that they were revoking the offer.”
“But why?”
He shook his head. “No idea. No one knows. Something must have come up. I have no idea what. But it’s over and done with. Forsythe returns to the mother ship.” He cackled. “Love it when shit like this happens.”
I wasn’t really listening to General Patton on my Business Is War! CD as I drove home. I was remembering Cal Taylor being escorted out of the building by a security guy, not Kurt. Thinking about Festino. About Doug Forsythe, wondering why Sony had revoked the offer, which was unheard of.
The narrator was saying, “A sand tiger shark usually produces only one pup during breeding season. Why? Because in his mother’s womb, the biggest shark devours his brothers and sisters. Or take the spotted hyena. They’re born with fully erupted front teeth, and if two litter-mates are of the same sex, one will kill the other at birth. The golden eagle lays two eggs, but often the stronger chick eats the weaker sibling within the first few weeks after hatching. Why? Survival of the fittest!”
I switched it off.
By the time I got home I was fairly calm. I entered the house very quietly. Kate had taken to coming home early and taking a late-afternoon nap in the front sitting room. Her morning sickness had gone away, but she was getting tired a lot.
The floor of the entry foyer was antique travertine, and it echoed when you walked on it. So I took off my shoes and went past the sitting room in my stocking feet. The air-conditioning was on full blast.
“You’re home early.” Kate was sitting on Grammy Spencer’s hard sofa. Finally, Grammy Spencer’s furniture looked at home.
I came up and kissed her. She was reading a book, a black paperback of Alice Munro stories. “Hey, babe. How’re you feeling?” She had changed out of her work outfit into her sweats. I slipped my hand under her T-shirt and caressed her tummy.
“I don’t know. A little funny.”
“Funny?” I said, alarmed.
“No, just queasy. Heartburn. The usual.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Hey, Jason, can we talk?”
“Uh, sure.” Can we have a talk is up there with We’ve found a lump as the scariest words in the English language.
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