The phone rang. “I apologize, Ken.” Rob paused. “No, I can’t leave, Maddy. I haven’t been here in days.” He paused again. “I’ll hold. Kenny, this’ll just take a second.”
Then again, why feel sorry for Rob? He’d made his own choices; he wasn’t a victim.
Rob hung up. “As I was saying, Kenny, we have a few candidates, but the pay is too low, so I want to talk to Rosa about retention incentives. Something simple; escalators based on service and goals for data entry—” His phone rang again. “I’ll tell you what. Hold on—yes, Maddy, you hold—Kenny, I’ll put this in writing. Our Honda just died, and we need a new car, so I’m making a mental note to transfer money . . .”
When he paused, Kenny stood up. “Sounds great, Rob. Don’t sweat it.”
Out in the hall, Kenny wondered if he should tell Rob he was getting axed. This way he could start reaching out to his contacts, hold off dropping money on a new car. But if Rutherford found out, he’d never trust Kenny again, and Kenny wanted to leave on good terms; who knew how things could end up down the line? Still, he hesitated. In Sarge’s world, you never leave any man behind.
“Hey, Rob.” Kenny stuck his head back in. “You should hold off on buying a new car.”
Still talking to Maddy, Rob stopped mid-sentence. His head swung in Kenny’s direction. “Why?” Suddenly, the air in the office felt charged. Seeing the wild look in Rob’s eye made Kenny’s stomach twist; he scrambled to find a plausible answer.
“Quarterly earnings were just released. The numbers improved, so car prices will shoot up. If you can hold off a little while, until, say, next quarter, you might find a better deal.”
Rob nodded slowly, absorbing this. “Kenny said to wait before buying a new car,” he told Maddy. “Prices are too high.” He thanked the younger man for his advice.
“No problem.” Kenny wasn’t sure if Rob believed him, but it wasn’t his problem. He’d done what he could, given the situation. If Rob were a buddy, Kenny would’ve told him the truth, but he wasn’t. So why risk his reputation for a guy he barely knew?
AFTER CHURCH ON Sunday, Kenny drove to Allentown to see his parents. “Kenny!” his mother, Glenda, said as she gave him a hug. She glanced outside, toward the car. “Where’s Janine?”
“Last-minute change. Her mom wanted her to look at a couch.” Kenny turned to Sarge, and the men shook hands. As they settled in the living room, Glenda ferried out a cheese plate, fresh fruit, and snack mix. “Look,” she told Kenny, raising a Heineken. “Got it special for you.”
“Thanks, Ma, but please sit down. I’m exhausted just watching you.”
Shushing him, she sat down next to her husband on the faux velvet couch.
At seventy-six, Glenda was a delicate woman, and so slim she could’ve slipped through the cushions. Beside her, Sarge, four years older, but still robust and healthy, rested a protective hand on her knee.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked Kenny, who was helping himself to a cube of Swiss.
“No occasion. Just wanted to check in on you.” In fact Kenny was also here to pick up his old Wharton notebooks, which he could use for reference when he started at SCA.
“We’re doing fine.” His father sounded insulted.
Kenny shifted his position. He usually avoided the wingback chair, which forced him to sit with his back ramrod straight and shoulders squared off.
“So work’s good?” Sarge asked.
He often felt his father expected him to say something of import, which left him feeling tongue-tied. “Yes,” he said finally. “Work’s good.”
Sarge and Glenda Verville had tried for years to have children; by the time Kenny arrived, they were both in their forties. Sarge was strong and athletic, as well as a bona fide hero, with a Silver Star for catching mortar fire decades before in Pusan. As a boy, Kenny had worshipped his father, and Sarge loved Kenny with a warrior’s ferociousness. Being a soldier’s son, however, wasn’t easy. By his eleventh birthday, Kenny had lived in nine different places. While many of his schoolmates moved just as often, he lacked their intuition for grasping inside jokes and forging alliances, and felt like a perpetual outsider. Thankfully, Kenny had Sarge as a steady companion. They played street hockey on Friday nights and football on Saturdays; both were quick on their feet and able to throw long, elegant passes; they also loved adventure stories, which they read side by side in the living room. But as Kenny got older, his feelings toward his father changed. Other parents joked around with their kids, but Sarge and Glenda were shy and reserved, content to stay home and play cards. To Kenny, their lives were boring and mundane, every day the same as the one before. Though he had birthday cakes, Halloween costumes, and Christmas trees, just like other kids, he still felt unsatisfied. He wanted a bigger, more stirring existence, one filled with the drama and pageantry in his books. Kenny was a gifted student, but inclined toward arrogance; and this concerned Sarge, who felt his son’s motivation to be the best could prove harmful. (Even so, when Kenny got the full ride to Wharton, Sarge strutted proudly.) Once he left for school, he saw his parents only for the long breaks, and after graduation, the big holidays. They didn’t like Philly—too crowded, too crazy—so they rarely drove in, and he was always studying or working, so he rarely went home. By the time he married Janine, Kenny felt closer to her folks than to his own. Her people wowed him, indulging him with boozy parties and trips to far-flung places. By expanding his horizons, they helped shape his perspective. Wealth, he came to understand, was a means to change the world. Bankers like Fez and his wife were visionaries; they created new markets where none previously existed. They had more money, but were also more deserving; higher risk brought greater reward. Although it only took an hour and change to drive from Allentown to Short Hills, once he and Janine had moved into their new house, Kenny saw his mom and dad less and less; and while he loved them, of course, it seemed the gap between them kept widening.
This afternoon, Kenny didn’t have much to say to his parents. He didn’t stay long—maybe ninety minutes—but kept wishing Janine were there to carry the conversation. During dinner, when Glenda brought up grandchildren, Kenny held up his hands, as if warding her off. Mostly he sat silently, like a bratty adolescent, and when he did speak, he was short. Sarge was curious about Ellery, and while his questions were innocent—Busy these days? What projects are you working on? Tell us about Janine’s new company—his tone, like Glenda’s, sounded judgmental. As coffee was served, Kenny blurted out, “I may have a new job with a hedge fund. Money’s great, and so is the opportunity.”
“Well.” Sarge folded his wife’s hand over his forearm. “You sound fired up.”
“Have they offered it yet?” his mother wanted to know.
Kenny shook his head. “But they will. The CFO told me as much.”
Sarge considered this. “Maybe you should slow down. Hate to see you disappointed.”
Oh, please. Kenny had been hearing this his whole life. Suddenly anxious, he jumped up. “I should get on the road. Janine’s probably home by now.”
Although Sarge frowned, he said nothing. It took him a few beats to stand upright and then a few more to help Glenda. Watching them, Kenny felt guilty. “I don’t mean to rush off, Sarge; just wound up. Lots going on.” He shook his dad’s hand, bent to kiss his mother’s cheek, and headed out. He drove home quickly, feeling both relieved and guilty to escape. His parents were so cautious, so fearful of life; God help him if he ended up like them. It was only later, when he was getting ready for bed, that he realized he’d forgotten to look for his notebooks.
16
When Kenny was in high school, he found out that Sarge earned thirty-seven thousand a year as an army PX inventory manager. He was aware that this was low, and the number made him uneasy, as if he’d unearthed a shameful family secret. Although he knew his parents weren’t wealthy (his mom, a nurse, worked part-time), Sarge’s number recast the economics of their situation in harrowing terms. Kenny figured he’d be earni
ng millions by thirty; comparatively, his parents were barely hanging on: thirty-seven grand was as close as you could get to being poor without being poor.
On Tuesday afternoon, Kenny was in Rutherford’s office, updating him on the severance packages he and Hal were putting together. Rosa had another meeting, so the two men were alone. Tomorrow marked a week (!) since he’d heard from SCA. He should’ve gotten an offer by now. On the other hand, hiring decisions always take longer than expected, especially when you’re the one waiting. Besides, why would they tell him he’d be hearing about the job “within the week” if an offer wasn’t imminent? Companies like SCA never show their cards unless they want you to know their intentions.
“So Kenny, I’m curious,” Rutherford said, pausing their brass-tacks discussion. “Why did you choose compensation as a career? Don’t most MBAs go to Wall Street these days?”
Despite his agitation over SCA, this thrilled Kenny, to be asked about his personal life by the CEO. “At first, the math interested me, then it was the theory,” he began. In fact, it was Sarge’s number that drew Kenny to the discipline. He was intrigued by the concept of job valuation; that is, how to measure a job’s worth and, by extension, a man’s. Was Sarge worth thirty-seven grand in 1992? Was Kenny worth eighty-five in 2010? Was Janine worth a million? Was Fez worth one-point-five? “As an undergrad, I studied how America’s job pricing changed from colonial times to the present day through the lens of capitalism, unions, and globalization. I had no idea what I’d do afterward—teach, probably.”
“So what happened?” Leaning back, Rutherford rolled up his sleeves.
“My girlfriend, now wife, was getting her MBA and suggested I do the same. She ended up on Wall Street, and I ended up here.” He smiled. “I’m a salary man; Janine’s the alpha.”
“But you like it here?”
Kenny decided not to bring up SCA. With no formal offer (yet!), anything he said would be premature. “Ellery’s a great company—strong leadership, solid infrastructure. I mean, there are some redundancies, but those are easy fixes. If we could raise capital, maybe make a few acquisitions, we could increase our market share significantly.”
“You interested in moving up the HR ranks?”
“All due respect, I’m not an HR person. I’m a numbers guy, a money man. Comp theory is rooted in higher math, so to my mind, it should be rolled up into Finance instead of HR.” If Compensation was an organization’s cool, rational masculine head, then HR was its flighty, bleeding feminine heart. At Wharton students mocked HR, the way med students mocked dermatology (zits and Botox). While it was true that HR had undergone a shift in philosophy and branding (now it was Talent Management, Human Capital, or some other nonsense name), Kenny would always consider it a lesser business function.
“Greg Dwyer leads Finance. I can’t see him taking over Compensation. He can be”—Rutherford stroked his tie—“difficult is a word that comes to mind.”
“I like Greg; he’s a smart guy. He can’t be any more difficult than Rosa.” Stroking his own tie, Kenny smirked. “Right?”
“How so?” Rutherford stood and ambled to his couch. “How is Rosa difficult?”
The couch easily sat four, but Kenny didn’t know if joining him would be a bad move. However, he did know it was wrong to shit-talk Rosa behind her back, and to her boss. That said, the CEO had asked him an honest, direct question and therefore deserved an honest, direct answer. Moreover, Janine was right: Rutherford should know the truth about Rosa’s mental state. “I don’t know what Rosa was like when you first met, nor do I know much about your relationship—”
“I’ve known Rosa for decades. I consider her a mentor, personally and professionally.”
Then he’ll understand that her time has come, Kenny reasoned; he’ll want her to leave of her own volition. “I heard she used to be a powerhouse, a real maverick. But . . .” Kenny cleared his throat; he had to get this right. “Sir, I’m concerned Rosa is having cognitive issues. Of course I’m no doctor, so I can’t offer anything but cursory observations.”
Rutherford rolled his hands, as if to say go on.
“She’s present in body, but not always in mind. In meetings, she’ll go off on irrelevant tangents or zone out—”
Rutherford cut him off. “I haven’t seen this at all; we’re frequently in meetings together.”
Kenny backpedaled. “It doesn’t happen every day.” He assumed Rutherford had no idea about her erratic judgment or misguided loyalties, which, as Janine pointed out, had real potential to hurt Ellery. “Rosa has lost touch with the business. For instance, I agree with your decision to let Rob Hirsch go; he wasn’t performing up to task. But because of Rosa’s feelings for him—or her, I don’t know . . . condition—she can’t see that it’s better for Ellery, and in the long term for Rob, if he leaves. Instead she has me scrambling to find ways to restructure HR solely to keep him on staff. She asked me to do six or seven permutations! It’s a Hail Mary play that’s eating up my time and keeping me from truly important initiatives—like the severance packages.”
Rutherford snapped a rubber band in his fingers. “How much time are you spending?”
“Twenty-five, thirty hours a week?” Kenny exaggerated. “Her heart is in the right place, but she has no objectivity or boundaries with her staff. HR is pretty chaotic these days.”
Rutherford checked his watch. “I have five more minutes.” He paused. “So there’s no one in HR you feel is a competent manager?”
“Lucy is competent.” Kenny chuckled. “Sorry . . . Lucy has a nickname for Rosa. She calls her ‘Ozzy.’” Rutherford’s lips curved, as if he too had a secret, which Kenny took as a sign to continue. “Like Ozzy Osbourne, the musician with the reality show? He used to be a hard-core rocker, but now he’s this oblivious dad. So he wanders around his mansion, bedeviled by simple things, like the TV remote.” Kenny cracked up, picturing the singer perplexed by all his devices.
“Actually, the nickname is from the Wizard of Oz.” Rutherford was still smiling.
“Oh . . . I . . . didn’t realize . . .” Kenny tried to sober up, but he was, literally, bent over, laughing. A minute passed before he realized that Rutherford wasn’t laughing with him. Kenny wiped his eyes. “I apologize, sir. Don’t know what got into me . . .” He knew it was awful, that he’d burn in hell, but the vision of Ozzy Osbourne’s befuddled face shattered him. “I’m fine.” He gritted his teeth to calm down. “I should probably get going.”
“You probably should.” Rutherford stood up to usher Kenny out.
Kenny couldn’t read Rutherford’s expression. “I hope I didn’t speak out of turn.”
“No problem.” The CEO shook his hand. “You’ve given me quite a bit to think about.”
HOURS LATER, KENNY fell asleep watching ESPN in his living room. Jolted awake, he worked the kinks out of his neck. Janine had gone out for dinner, so the coffee table was littered with his empty Heinekens and congealed sweet-and-sour pork. Looking around, Kenny noticed his wife’s cashmere coat heaped on the floor, where she must’ve dumped it when she got home. “Janine?” He called upstairs, but it was silent. That’s odd, he thought. Why didn’t she tell me she was here? When he picked up the coat, her phone fell out. He noticed a text from Les that referenced him (Is Kenny sleeping? Can I call u?) and his blood froze. What the . . . ? Alarmed, he unlocked the phone (password: LOVEDOG) and scrolled backward in time until he found an earlier exchange between Les and his wife:
put your money where your mouth is. Come work for me. XOX
ps—I love your mouth. Have I ever told you that?
pss—delete this
you know where you can put YOUR mouth,
ya big dumb bunny
xoxo 4ever Jeannie
Thunderstruck, Kenny sat down, still holding the phone. What did this mean; what should he do? He wasn’t sure; he didn’t know. Think, he told himself. He tried, he tried, but nothing made sense, so he slipped his wife’s phone back into her coat,
and headed for the stairs.
“You home, sweet Jeannie?”
ON HIS WAY to work the next morning, Kenny retrieved a voice mail message. “Hey, Kenny! Scarlett Raynes. Just wanted to circle back about the comp director spot. Unfortunately, we offered the job to another candidate who accepted this morning, but we’ll keep your résumé on file. Thank you so much for your time; sorry it didn’t work out. Oh, and by the way: Donald Kwon doesn’t go by ‘Donald Lee.’ Lee is his middle name. I’m afraid my assistant Rory may have confused you. She kept calling him ‘Donald Lee’ too! Just thought you might want to know in case you cross paths again.”
Part II
LUNCH TRUCK
17
ROBERT HIRSCH, IN TRANSITION
APRIL 2010
When Rob finally realized he was being laid off, he thought of his father. Before retiring, Jerry Hirsch was a hard-charging lawyer with a brutal streak, a natural raconteur who loved to entertain dinner guests with his courtroom shenanigans. To Rob, Jerry was a world-class asshole whose humor came at everyone else’s expense. To Jerry, Rob was a sulky teenager who refused to grow up. To the rest of the family, their acidic asides (Jerry) and petulance (Rob) made meals a trial. But two years back, Rob’s mother had died unexpectedly, an event that cracked open his father’s crusty shell to reveal a soft pink interior. Then the month before, Rob’s elder daughter, Alison, got a kidney infection and spent a week in the hospital, with Rob and Maddy trading off nights so someone could stay home with Jessie. Allie recovered, but while she recuperated, Maddy had to fly to San Francisco on gallery business, leaving Rob behind with both girls, a dead Honda Civic, baskets of dirty laundry, and piles of work, all of which (except for the girls) he ignored. Jerry had moved to Cape Cod, and when he suggested he drive down to Brooklyn, Rob reluctantly agreed.
On Jerry’s first night in town, they were standing in Rob’s kitchen, making small talk while Rob threw dinner together. Although Jerry was sitting at the table, there wasn’t much extra space to move around, so Rob felt like his father was on top of him. But just as he was about to ask Jerry if he might be more comfortable in the living room, his father started to speak.
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