“Why, thank you, Scott,” she said, setting her umbrella aside on his front porch. A puddle of water started to form around the tip.
He thanked the timing gods that Grace was at work. When she learned Scott had been fired, she wanted to personally help Kathy Becker empathize with the pain other employees felt after lay-offs. Had she been here this morning, she would surely have told Kathy where to store her umbrella.
He took her raincoat and hung it on a hook in the front closet. As he suspended the voluptuous overcoat, he noticed his hands were shaking. It was unusual for the boss who just fired you to show up in your living room.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked, an effort toward politeness to the woman who had just laid him off. “I was about to pour myself a cup,” he lied. He seldom drank the stuff when he didn’t go into the office, but Kathy didn’t know that.
“That sounds good,” she said. “With cream and sugar, please,” smiling in a pudgy way like a kid asking for an extra scoop of ice cream. “Two spoonfuls of sugar, please,” she added.
Scott threw Gumby a chew treat and poured two cups, hers with cream and several spoonfuls of sugar. His, black. He returned to the living room where Kathy sat on the sofa, browsing a recent edition of a magazine.
“What brings you out on such a nasty day?” Scott asked, handing Kathy her cup. He hoped she had some questions about some paperwork, or about the last employee meeting or about where to find a stinking file on his stinking hard drive. He knew she wasn’t visiting to invite him back to work.
“I’ve got terrible news,” she said. She lowered her double-chin to her chest and looked at him with puppy dog eyes.
He took a deep breath wondering what might have happened. Did one of the supervisors file a lawsuit against the company on the way their dismissal was handled? Did some wacko call in a bomb threat? The irony of a disgruntled former employee making a telephone call to a telephone call center almost made him smile, but he suppressed it. He swallowed and awaited the bad news, whatever it was.
“Frank Johnson shot himself last night.” She watched him like a seasoned hunter might watch a deer, observing his reaction.
Pain, guilt, fear knotted the pit of his stomach. Scott took a sip of coffee. “Is he all right?”
“No, he passed away before paramedics could arrive.” She took a sip of her coffee. “You don’t seem surprised.”
Scott said, “I was afraid something like this might happen to Frank.”
“What do you mean?”
Scott felt like he was being cross-examined. He knew Kathy’s job was to obtain all the details so she could speak intelligently during the inevitable investigation. But he didn’t like being interrogated.
“Frank was obviously upset about the layoffs. He has been under a lot of pressure since his wife died.”
“Security said they saw you and Frank arguing in the parking lot. Is that true?”
Scott shook his head. “We weren’t arguing.” He slurped the hot coffee, hoping a shot of caffeine would help him think.
Kathy took out a pad of paper and a pen. “Do you mind?”
Scott knew the routine. He shook his head. “Frank was standing by my car after you…when I left the building,” he said. “He was obviously angry. He asked why we chose him and what he would do now, given his age and circumstances.”
“Did you say anything to anger him?”
“Of course, not. I played it strictly by the book.” Scott hated such questions, but knew she was just trying to cover her rather large ass. She was the queen of ass-covering.
“You were pretty upset yourself,” she said in an insinuating tone.
He took a deep breath. “Given the circumstances, I’d say I handled the entire day quite professionally. I told him to go to the outplacement center. I said things would get better. I encouraged him. Nothing else.” He stared at her, challenged her.
Kathy defended herself. “Understand that we’re not suggesting that you did anything wrong.”
“His daughter is pregnant,” Scott said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“After his wife died, his daughter moved back in with him. Now, she’s pregnant, and her boyfriend has skipped town. Frank told me he didn’t know how he would make ends meet after losing his job. That’s a lot of pressure dumped on one man in a very short amount of time.”
“Oh.”
“Layoffs have consequences,” Scott said, allowing one little dig. It felt good.
“Yes, they do,” Kathy said, standing as if to leave. Scott assumed she didn’t want to give him time to dump his own complaints on her. “I’ll have my assistant call you when I have information about the funeral.”
“Thank you,” Scott answered. “I want to be there.” It was one of the last things he wanted to do. He felt too close to the situation. The funeral would bring back painful memories. He also dreaded seeing executives from Bell Intelliservices who would attend, ignorant of how hypocritical it might appear. He had nothing but contempt for those corporate assholes.
Kathy and Scott said their goodbyes, and he helped her drag on her soaking wet raincoat at the front door.
“You do understand that this is all about the business,” she said, half asking.
“It always is,” he said.
As she marched away in her high heeled shoes to her car, Scott raised his eyes to see a black BMW parked across the street. He couldn’t make out the driver in the rain. Kathy drove away, then the BMW started up and drove off in the other direction.
It started to rain much harder.
***
Two days later, Scott and Grace attended Frank Johnson’s funeral service along with Brittany Johnson and thirty or forty members of their church. Kathy Becker and several executives from Bell Intelliservices sat, staid and sincere looking, in the tiny sanctuary. Scott didn’t claim to be spiritual, but he did respect faith, at least enough to be in church during the important times—Christmas, Easter, and funerals. Long work hours, health issues, and time with Grace left little room in his life for anything else. Maybe now that he wasn’t working he could find a little more time for religion.
The minister did his best to comfort Brittany and the others in attendance, but Scott could tell there was very little to say. Frank had been depressed and despondent and couldn’t see any other way out. The fact that he and others in attendance that day may have contributed anything to cause Frank’s state, or had failed to prevent his death, added a sense of hopelessness to the affair. Stained glass windows throughout the sanctuary encouraged parishioners with images of Jesus healing the sick, Jesus walking on the water and Jesus rising from the tomb. But in truth, everything seemed quite hopeless.
Church, religion in general, was supposed to give hope. People were supposed to come away feeling good, like someone or something was in control and was working to make life better. Without the positive, the facility seemed old and cold, void of meaning. There was no spirit.
The recent hallucination made no sense to Scott. How could he envision such an event with such clarity? The images were so frightening and inexplicable he and Grace had sworn to keep them as solemn secrets. They could never explain them. After a while, they didn’t want to.
Scott struggled to find something, anything he could have said to prevent this tragic and senseless end. He replayed the conversation with Frank. He recalled the hallucination he had that night. He told himself if he had a re-do, he would’ve acted the same, would have done the same things he had done that day. He couldn’t change things, no matter how much he wanted to.
After the service, everyone returned to their cars, to their own lives and to their jobs, if they had them. Talk was brief and solemn.
When he and Grace reached their Prius, Scott unlocked the passenger door and opened it for her. Looking up, he spotted a BMW parked off to the side and beyond most of the other cars in the parking lot. Its black surface glimmered even though the sky was dark. He wondered if the car was t
he same one parked in front of his house when Kathy Becker visited him. He wondered if she had put him under surveillance or if the Beemer have anything to do with Frank Johnson’s death.
“Wait here, just a moment,” Scott told Grace and started to walk toward the car.
The driver gunned the engine and sped away before he could get closer.
***
Four days after Bell Intelliservices laid him off, Scott woke up, showered, put on a suit and tie, and drove to the offices of Baker, Grigsby, Landry, and Spicer, the outplacement firm contracted to help those who had been a part of the reorganization. Their offices occupied much of a new multi-floor office building in an office park of similar office buildings. As he drove there, Scott imagined each one housing its own army of outsourcing specialists, laying off hundreds of employees each day, and reassigning them to other offices in other parts of the city. Rearranging furniture on the Titanic.
Organizations like this are a necessary evil. Scott hated them even though he had used their services many times before. They helped some folks find new jobs in tough times. But they also profited on the misfortunes of former employees who were hurting. Most of all, they existed to appease the personal guilt executives felt about causing such layoffs, helping those people feel better about their poor decisions. Besides, Scott knew more about the firing and hiring process than any of the former legal, sales, and operations personnel who had found new careers in outplacement firms.
Scott ducked his head and kept his eyes low as he entered the lobby, which was filled with former employees from Bell Intelliservices. He recognized most of the faces and knew several of the people in the lobby by name. He had always been on the other side of the fence, sentencing countless employees to these offices, but now he was one of the condemned.
The receptionist welcomed him as he signed his name on the register at the front desk. He took a seat in a cloth-bound metal-framed chair next to a young man whom he didn’t recognize to await his turn. Sitting with a stranger was easier than trying to explain his situation to employees he had laid off a few days previously. He wanted to blend in.
“My name is Chris Azorin,” the man sitting next to him said, extending his hand. He was just a kid—couldn’t be more than twenty or twenty-one. His jet black hair curled over his ears and his smile disarmed the most protective. Goatees were a fading fad these days, but Chris sported his like a medal.
“Scott Moore,” he said shaking Chris’ hand. “Were you from Bell?”
“No, man,” Chris said. “You?”
“Me and just about everybody else in this room,” Scott said, motioning with his hand.
“Recent layoffs?” Chris asked.
Scott detected a slight, well-hidden Hispanic accent. “Yeah. Four days ago.” He looked around the lobby again, recalling the recent changes.
“That’s tough. I heard HR over there was pretty ruthless,” Chris said.
Scott chuckled under his breath. To his knowledge, “ruthless” was a word that had never been used to describe him.
“So what did you do there?” the talkative young man asked.
“I was the Assistant Director of HR,” Scott replied without emotion.
Chris said nothing for a second and then added, “Sorry, but you just don’t look that ruthless to me.”
Scott chuckled again. “Not all of us are.” Then, as an afterthought, added, “Maybe that’s why I’m here today. I guess I should have been meaner.”
The two sat in silence while others came in and out of the buzzing lobby. One or two former workers nodded to Scott but most thumbed through magazines, or sat, looking nervous and impatient while awaiting the next step.
Scott examined his new acquaintance. Chris was of Hispanic descent. He was wired—cocked and ready to go, leaning forward and tapping his foot or his knee or his fingers. “What brings you here,” Scott asked, out of curiosity and in an effort to stop the constant, irritating tapping.
“A program with Tech,” he replied. “I just graduated last month. The university works with this firm to help place some of its graduates.”
“Some?”
“Yeah. I had a special scholarship. I’ll go back to start my doctoral work next term, but the school wants to place us with local companies in a joint work/share program in between terms.”
“Like an internship?”
“Yeah. You could call it that. But it’s supposed to be more like full employment, with pay and benefits.”
“Sounds nice. What did you study?” He was somewhat interested. One day, such knowledge might pay off for Scott were he to implement a similar program in another company.
“Electrical Engineering, with an emphasis on photovoltaic cell design.”
Scott felt his eyes grow wide. This kid sounded amazing. “That sounds sophisticated.”
“I don’t know. They’ll probably stick me in some local electric company and I’ll be hanging from a telephone pole stringing cable.”
“Photovoltaic cell design?”
Chris brushed off his surprised look. “The sun. It always interested me. I grew up in East Texas and sunlight was about all we had.” He resumed his tapping.
The two sat in silence for a few more minutes. Their interaction piqued Scott’s interest and challenged him to do something for another when he, himself, was struggling. “Look, Chris,” he offered. “I may know someone you could contact. He works with Solar Ventures or Soltech or something like that over in Duluth. Give me your contact information and I’ll try to arrange a meet up for you.”
“Wow, man. That would be great.” He dictated his name, cell phone, and email address and Scott jotted them down in his notebook. He didn’t know if he could help the kid, but he always took the view that it never hurt to lend a hand when possible.
Then the receptionist called Scott’s name and the two exchanged friendly goodbyes.
The rest of the afternoon was an endless litany of things he already knew; things he had been paid to know, things he had taught others in previous roles. Because of his pay grade, he received special one-on-one treatment. They talked about resumes and target companies and career goals. He listed every name of every person he knew and even some that he didn’t know, but were friends of friends of his. They gave him a large, handsome, loose-leaf notebook with charts and graphs and exercises, lots of exercises.
He knew the routine as well as his advisor—connect with as many people as possible and use those relationships to connect with more. Find the invisible jobs that weren’t posted. Find the ones that weren’t even vacant yet, then, be ready with a customized resume and the right elevator pitch to seal the deal. And most important, stay busy. Stay hungry. Keep working on getting work. He now was a full-time job hunter.
Scott wrapped up the session for the day, confirming appointments for later in the week, and headed out the front doors of Baker, Grigsby, Landry, and Spicer. It was a welcome relief to get outside in the fresh air.
Grace was working the late shift again and Scott felt wound up, so he decided to spend an hour or so burning energy at his local gym. No one was exercising, except a handful of guys here or there lifting heavy weights or riding stationary bikes. Despite the air conditioning, the stale scent of sweat emanated from a nearby basket of damp towels. Gary, the night trainer greeted him after signing in.
“Haven’t seen you around much lately, Scott.”
“Yeah. Been busy.”
“Looks like you haven’t been eating. You’ve lost weight.”
And he had. Severe stress, as he had just experienced, tended to have that effect. In just a few days his waistline had shrunk and his weight had dropped. He assumed both would increase again in the near future—a stress-induced roller coaster.
After stretching, he climbed aboard an elliptical machine and set an aggressive course, pumping his legs and thrusting his arms.
Forty-five minutes into the routine he felt a pang of nausea. He punched a few buttons, lowering the intensity leve
l of the machine. Seconds later, the room spun around in a circle and he struggled to hang onto the arms of the apparatus. His knees buckled, banging against the steel foot pedals and he went down, bouncing off the base of the elliptical and sliding to the floor. The fluorescent overhead lights stabbed his eyes. People shouted far away. Some sticky, burning hot liquid slid down the back of his throat and everything went dark.
CHAPTER THREE
Someone said something, but he couldn’t make out the words. They became louder, more insistent.
Scott listened and waited for the image to come into focus.
The words weren’t in English, but Spanish. He tried to translate but they spoke too fast.
Light came in through a small window on the wall at the back of the house. A man and a woman were chattering as they threw some items—shoes, underwear, and a couple of t-shirts—into an old knapsack. A car horn blared outside.
The sun had gone and he found himself in the back of an old pickup truck, packed with several Hispanics, that rocked and bounced through the night. Dust, thrown up from the dirt road they travelled on, caught in his throat making him cough.
One of the men, the one who had been in the room packing, turned to face him and said, “Esto es emocionante. Vamos a América, donde todos tendremos más oportunidades.”
“Hablar en Inglés. Él tiene que acostumbrarse a Inglés,” the woman said.
The young man nodded and said, “This is exciting. We’re going to America where we will all have a better life.”
The woman smiled and leaned in through the out-of-focus haze and said, “We are so excited.”
In a flash he was older and out of the truck and in the back seat of a car, bare skin of his ass rubbing against vinyl seats. The blonde, who couldn’t be more than sixteen years old, rode him like a cowgirl. His hands were up her sweater and under her bra and his fingers squeezed and twisted her nipples. Her squeals became more intense.
The girl leaned forward, blonde hair falling into her face and placed her hands on his bare chest so she could grind herself into him harder. “Ooohhh, shit. Fuck me you Goddamn Dago.” She leaned forward farther and kissed him. He tasted strawberry lipstick.
2nd Sight: Capturing Insight Page 3