The Bewildering Effect Of Cabbages - Chapter 4

“Please. Can you please explain to me why this is happening? I’ve been here for eight years. I’ve never heard a single complaint. I, I…” A short pause. Then, leaning forward in a confidential manner: “I know they are supposed to be like a secret, but I saw my last performance review. I was rated outstanding. So, why…”

Her voice trails away, and I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. I give a little start, as if I’d just remembered something. I reach into my desk drawer and pull out a notebook, flip its pages. Then I take my pen and scribble busily on my notepad, tear off the small page.

“You could try calling this number. Ask for Adams, John Adams. Tell him you got his name from me.”

She looks at me for a while without saying a word. Her eyes are telling me that I’m shit, a human turd. In the middle of this meaningful silence she gets up abruptly, and leaves.

I pick up the little page, crush it into a ball and drop it into the waste basket. I reopen my drawer, slide the notebook in, and spend a minute or so doing nothing in particular. Then I get up, pick up the half-empty coffee mug she has left behind, and go to rinse it out.

She is standing a few steps down the corridor, talking to Laura, my secretary. She sees me and her face congeals into a mask of hate. I walk past, stepping silently on the soft blue-grey carpet pile. There is movement further along the corridor – the mail boy is trundling the mail cart towards me, looking uncertainly to the side, his eyes red from the joint he’d smoked at lunch. He pretends hard he hasn’t seen me. I’m used to it. No one here speaks to me unless they have to. They hate and despise me, for I am the firing man.

The plaque beside my door says, George Mitchell, Vice President. There are eleven vice presidents in this company; the tagline after my name doesn’t mean much. Out of the other ten veeps, four – Miller, Collins, Cosmopoulos, and Kuriaki – do the hiring. I do the firing. I am supposed to have some duties in addition to that, but in reality, I do nothing else.

Also, I am the last in the pecking order: the last to get Christmas party invitations, if any, the last to get new furniture, and so on. I haven’t gotten a pay raise for the past four years. I make fifty eight six, hardly a fortune. But then I work – really work – maybe ten hours a week. So when you look at it like that, the money’s not bad.

The washroom is empty – it is almost always empty nowadays. In happier times, there would nearly always be someone in here, perhaps reading the newspaper in one of the cabins. With the economy in one of its periodic downturns, anyone with a job is scared shitless they’ll lose it. Not me, though. These are the times when I’m indispensable.

I rinse out Alison Petrie’s coffee mug. Alison Petrie, senior systems analyst, thirty two, single, with long, streaked hair and a fondness for miniskirts. There are three systems analysts in this company – sorry, there were three of them – and she was better than the others. But since she was better, she was paid better too – her salary was what the two juniors made together. Higher than mine, come to think of it. Yes, she was outstanding, in more ways than one, but today it’s better to be average, with low-to-average pay.

I look at myself in the washroom mirror. I am forty three, and I look it. I have been compared once to a a fat white slug by a secretary I was terminating: women often get very emotional in those situations. Men are different – they do the manly thing. Once, I got invited for a drink by a manager I’d just fired. He wanted to show how he could take it on the chin, how tough he was. He ordered two scotches on the rocks and talked about the weather while the bartender got them together. Then he spat in my drink and flung it in my face.

I leave the washroom and walk back to my office. Dave, the red-eyed mail boy, is standing by the elevators. This time, he can’t pretend I’m not there; he was staring at me as I rounded the corner. He gives me a nervous grin and says hi. I nod gravely.

“How are you,” I say.

And so it goes.

* * *

I pull up in front of my suburban home. The garage drive is blocked by my neighbor’s van. My neighbor is a well-to-do plumber, and owns three vehicles. I own one, a four year old Honda Accord that needs a new exhaust.

I walk up to my front door and insert a key. In a bygone era, four times out of five the door would open before I could get the keys out of my pocket. Then Penny – my wife – would hold up her cheek for a kiss.

I drop my briefcase on the chair in the hall and close the door, moving slowly, giving Penny time to stash away her glass. I go into the living room. She’s by the window, staring out. She doesn’t turn around.

“Hello, Penny,” I say. “How was your day?”

She shrugs.

“Can I fix you a drink?” A peace offering.

She shrugs again. After a while, she moves away from the window, propelling the wheelchair with short, expert slaps. One of the wheels squeaks intermittently.

I go to the cupboard and prepare a Southern Comfort for Penny, a scotch for myself. The level in the Comfort bottle has fallen noticeably since yesterday. I put Penny’s glass on the sideboard. Had I offered it to her, it would have been refused with a curt shake of the head.

I take the ice tray back to the refrigerator. Standing at the kitchen window, sipping my scotch, looking at the backyard, I have the helpless feeling that somehow, somewhere along the way, I’d lost my life.

* * *

It wasn’t meant to be like this – it’s never meant to be like this. I graduated with a degree in social sciences back in the seventies. It was a heady time back then, a time full of promise.

I did not resemble a fat white slug in those days – I was more like a thin, pinkish bookworm. I was out to change the world for the better, together with everyone else. Penny was too, one of the prominent figures on the campus, a slim, dark-haired girl gamely struggling with her crutches on the steps of the main lecture hall. As part of my world-improving effort, I proposed to her, and she said yes.

After graduating, I accepted a job in human resources department of Schlinker & Johnston, a large pharmaceutical company (back then, you still accepted jobs). Among others, I interviewed prospective employees for the first time. Then came the first energy crisis – remember the panic? remember the lineups for gas that cost a tiny fraction of what it costs now? – and during the recession that followed, I was designated as the one who did the firings. Word got around I was really good – there were no grievances, no expensive lawsuits (I remember I broke down and cried once, firing a young clerk).

I was eager to hire, reluctant to fire. That cemented my fate, as I see it now. The misgivings I felt while telling someone they weren’t needed earned Schlinker & Johnston the reputation of a humane company that hates to lay off anyone. Within a relatively short time, I was tagged as the firing expert.

I threatened to resign and was given a raise. I actually wrote a letter of resignation, and was given another raise, together with promotion to vice president and longer holidays. Mr. Schlinker himself had a talk with me. He explained how important my work was; how many people, terminated in an uncaring, brusque manner, ended up as total fuckups; one or two had even committed suicide. I was doing more good, Schlinker told me, than I realized, or than I ever would as a counsellor doling out sedatives and painkillers to hopeless junkies at some underfunded government agency. They all valued my idealism greatly, said the Schlinker, and promoted me.

I believed him, because I needed to. By then, Penny… She didn’t have a job, never looked for one after the graduation. She decided she would be a writer, a heroic figure, composing thoughts that would change lives. After she had become an established writer, we would have a child or two, and live happily ever after.

A couple of hundred of rejection slips later, Penny exchanged her crutches for a wheelchair; it was more comfortable. She also stopped writing stories and articles and started on a novel. Novels can take a long time to finish. It can be several years before the first rejection slip arrives.

If only we’d had children. But we didn’t, and it’s too late now. And I lied to you, to Penny, to myself. I didn’t marry her entirely for noble reasons; I proposed to her because I was reasonably certain that she would accept me. I proposed to her out of fear and pity. It has taken her a few years to realize that; it has taken me a few years to realize that, too. Now she hates me. I try to do a good job as a husband, but one of these days, she’ll fire me.

* * *

Something’s happened. Something’s changed.

I pulled into the underground parking lot directly behind George Cosmopoulos’ silver BMW. His parking spot is right next to mine. I sat in my car, fumbling with my seatbelt, for a good half minute after I’d parked, giving him time to get away without the necessity of ignoring my presence. To my surprise, he was still there when I scrambled out of my seat, leaning on the roof of his car.

“Hiya, George!” he said, grinning widely.

“Hi,” I said cautiously.

He dropped into step beside me as I walked to the elevator – I caught a whiff of citrusy aftershave. His presence made me feel distinctly uncomfortable, and I had difficulty in responding to his inane chatter about the weather, the World Series, and the price of gas. He didn’t seem to mind, and gave me a playful punch on the shoulder when we exited on the eleventh floor.

“Well, I’ll talk to you later,” he said, with another grin. Talk to me? What about?

On the way to my office, I stopped by Laura’s desk. Laura is always well informed, and also does not treat me with hostility: she has very little to do as my secretary, and she likes it that way. I dropped a casual “Anything new?” – I do that occasionally, so it’s not totally out of character – but she shook her head, smiling. I was still lingering by her desk, somehow unwilling to accept this lack of news, when I saw the bald, bespectacled Schlinker striding energetically along the corridor. He noticed me, his glasses flashing as he turned his head. He abruptly changed direction, and walked up to me.

“Good morning, Mr.Schlinker,” I said first, after a short silence.

“Morning, George.” His breath smelled of mint drops. “Are you busy?”

Now, as anyone who has ever worked in an office knows, this is a trick question. Sometimes its purpose is to find out whether you can handle something in addition to other duties; at other times, it’s a quick check whether you’re still pulling your weight, earning your pay.

“Yes,” I said. “But if there’s something special you want me to handle -”

“No, that’s fine, that’s fine,” said the Schlinker. He pondered Laura’s open Rolodex for a moment, as if it was the only thing amiss in an otherwise perfect universe. Then he walked away. I observed that Laura watched him go with slight surprise, which reassured me – I hadn’t been imagining things, this was unusual. Running a big company is a tiring job, and Schlinker tends to take rapid evasive action if anyone as much as looks at him for more than a few seconds – he doesn’t want petitioners holding him up.

Odd. Wouldn’t you say?

* * *

Now I’m standing in my office, looking out of the window. The weather today is ugly: random flakes of wet snow, an insidious damp breeze that makes my knees ache, in spite of the thick plate windows, in spite of the heating. I hadn’t lied to Schlinker, not entirely; today, at eleven, I’ll be firing one of the mailroom boys. Not the dope-smoking Dave – he has been with the company for four years without asking for a raise. I think he is aware everyone knows about his habit, and is deeply thankful to still have a job.

I look through my windows at the office towers, dark pillars supporting the salt-colored city sky. There are tens of thousands of people working in those buildings; they are the lifeblood that supports the pillars that support the sky. If they were to go, the pillars would crumble – the sky would fall on the city, or at least that would be what it would feel like to the citizens. That possibility is not as remote as it might seem; there are probably a hundred people getting fired today in these soaring buildings; every large company I know about is bleeding red ink. Schlinker & Johnston are no exception. A few years back, when everyone was screaming for drugs that would help AIDS victims, S&J launched Miratol – a substance that helped people die slower and less painfully. It had been tested extensively; thousands of rats, cats, dogs, and monkeys gave up their lives. The tests went on for five years; they should have gone on for six or seven, because it turned out that after seven years Miratol turns nasty. When all you’ve got left are a few disease-ridden years, each year is as precious as a decade of healthy life… The lawsuits were expensive, and I had lots of work. I fired three vice-presidents in a single week. I tried finding a different job after that episode. Those companies that hadn’t yet heard of my specialty ignored me; others tried to lure me with bonuses and profit-sharing plans. My special skills were very much in demand. In the end, I stayed put at Schlinker & Johnston; the company pension was not that far away.

My phone rings.

“Hello, George? Sam Johnston.” There is a pause punctuated by heavy breathing, and I feel an electrifying thrill: Sam Johnston is calling me! The reclusive other half of Schlinker & Johnston, inventor of the famous Panaton painkiller, all but unknown to his employees; he makes an appearance at every other Christmas party; other than that, he leaves the business of running the company to Schlinker. Rumor has it that he is rather fond of his own invention, which produces a state of mild euphoria when taken in large doses. Sam Johnston deigning to speak to me – it takes me a while to find my voice.

“How are you, sir,” I say.

“I’m fine.” More asthmatic breathing. Then: “We have to get together to talk, you know. Soon.”

“Sure,” I say. “Anytime you want, sir, I’m at your disposal. Completely.”

Pause.

“We have to have a talk,” repeats Johnston, and hangs up. I replace the receiver. My hand’s trembling slightly.

So that’s it. Everything is clear: I’ll be having the pleasure of firing some top brass soon. That’s why Cosmopoulos was so pleasant. That’s why Schlinker…

In a way, I’m looking forward to it. Firing clerks and technicians is like hitting a child; with another veep, at least you’re dealing with someone your own size. Which reminds me – it’s close to eleven. I pick up the receiver again, and dial an extension.

“Mailroom,” says Dave’s drugged drawl.

“George Mitchell here.” There is an audible gasp. “Is Ron around?”

“Ron Simpson?” Dave can hardly believe his luck – he has to make sure.

“Yes.”

“No, he isn’t in today. He’s called in sick. Said he should be in tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I say, and hang up. Well, that’s my day’s work done.

I sit at my desk, staring at the telephone, for a silent minute. Then I decide to talk to Laura, ask her to find out what’s going on.

She’s not at her desk. With all that free time she has, she tends to spend a lot of time with other secretaries.

I make my way to Schlinker’s office. It’s next to the boardroom. He has his own little reception, presided over by a male secretary. I’ve heard it’s his nephew.

No, Mr. Schlinker is not in. No, he’s out for the day. Monday, maybe.

I walk around the building aimlessly, trying to look preoccupied. I bump into Tad Kuriaki near the entrance to the research section. He seems to shrink inside his clothes when he sees me; he averts his eyes; he slinks away without as much as a hello. Kuriaki! Of course. He’s head of research, having replaced the one who had presided over the development of Miratol. And I’ve heard snippets here and there that implied research isn’t doing too well. One proof : S&J have not introduced a single new drug over the past year. It used to be one every six months.

It’s ten to twelve. Time I had my lunch.

* * *

I hesitate in front of a McDonald’s a couple of blocks away. Inside, just to the left of the entrance, two teenage kids are cramming ketchup-smeared fries into their mouths. I watch the kid nearest me pluck the thin, yellow wedges from the paper bag, his fingertips glistening redly.

I walk a few paces down the street and enter the Five Roses. I weave my way through crowded tables in its dark interior, instinctively hunching my shoulders against the thumping music. I find a relatively uncrowded, unoccupied table and sit down.

A waitress appears almost immediately.

“Hi,” she says, and stands over me, grinning, one hand on her hip. She is wearing a shiny black swimsuit and high heels, nothing else.

I order the monsterburger and double fries. She frowns. I also order a beaker of draft, and she grins again.

Waiting for my food, I cast quick, furtive glances at the neighboring tables. None of the men with hardboiled eyes and mailslot smiles seem familiar. Good.

I drink, I eat. On the strobe-lit stage, a young black girl is peeling off her panties, swaying and gyrating to slow music. They always play it slow when they take off panties.

I feel food swelling in my throat. I tighten my lips, and reach for the beer.

* * *

“I read today that they’ve found they can make spinal nerves grow back.”

Silence.

“Penny. Can I get you a drink?”

Silence. She is sitting on the couch, pen in hand, staring at the pad on her knees. I try to focus through the beery blur: there is a single sentence written on the pad. The wheelchair is lying on its side next to the couch. She must have pushed it over with an angry shove; she does that sometimes.

“Penny, I asked you if I can get you anything.”

“Fuck off.”

Well, at least we’re talking.

* * *

I drove to the office on Monday morning with some dread. I hadn’t come back from my lunch on Friday. One beer had led to another; at two o’clock, awash in self-pity, I left the Five Roses only to enter a bar half a block down the street. I stayed there until four; then I retrieved my car and managed to drive home without getting stopped by the cops.

It’s not like I have committed an unforgivable offence – lots of S&J employees take an afternoon off without any ill consequences other than a hangover. I should know; I am privy to all the information concerning firings; the occasional afternoon absence doesn’t mean a thing, as long as the person concerned is pulling their weight. But still, I feel uneasy as the elevator whines regretfully, its doors sliding open and letting me out.

Walking to my office, I speculate on the identity of the veep that I’ll be asked to fire (I’ve decided, over the weekend, that it won’t be Kuriaki. He knows too much about the Miratol fiasco, about how S&J fiddled research figures when the lawsuits became a paper avalanche – it was unnecessary, but they wanted to appear purer than God to the media). So, perhaps it will be Cosmopoulos after all. Which reminds me: I have to get Ron Simpson and fire his ass.

Laura isn’t at her desk. She’s overdoing it a little – maybe I will have to speak to her, too. I twirl her message pad around and bend down to scribble a note when, out of the corner of my eye, I see an Office Services flunky exit my own office. He gives me a furtive glance and lopes away with a carefree, long-stepped teenage gait.

Suddenly, I feel hot. Loosening my tie, I enter my room –

My phone’s gone. So is my file cabinet. My meager personal belongings (a couple of non-office pens, personal coffee mug, and so on) are carelessly jumbled in a small carton standing on the top of my desk. Next to the carton lies a big manila envelope. I know what that envelope means – I’ve handed out envelopes like that many times.

I slit it open and read the official letter, signed by Schlinker. With deep regret… unavoidable economies in the present, difficult business climate… I stare at the check. They’ve given me a year’s severance.

I put everything back in the envelope and take it with me to Schlinker’s office. No, I have no gripes to air – it’s his right to hire and fire whomever he pleases. But I want to know why it’s being done this faceless way, without talking to me. I want to know why.

I walk right into his office, ignoring the mewing of his secretary. He is on the phone with someone, frowning at the interruption. When he sees it’s me, his brow clears.

“Let me call you back,” he says, and hangs up.

“George. I’m so sorry. But as you know, we’re cutting back in all areas not directly tied to developing new products, and of course sales. I tried to get Sam to reconsider -”

“Spare me,” I say, with unusual forcefulness. ‘You can fire whomever you like. I’m not complaining about that. But to dismiss people this way – without so much as a word – I thought you were particularly concerned about how it’s done. That’s what you said yourself, some time ago. I walk in today and find this -” I fling the envelope on his desk.

Schlinker looks genuinely dismayed.

“George. I’m so sorry. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

* * *

I walk through that door for the very last time. I am empty-handed; I’ve dumped the envelope and my briefcase in the car. I don’t want to go home, not just yet.

Spring is coming. Today, the sky is a cool, pale blue; the office towers gleam and glitter. The sparse, ten o’clock traffic is moving along faster; the sound of car horns floats in the air like a swarm of cheerful exclamation marks. I feel lightheaded and happy. Maybe me and Penny could go on a trip – I check my thoughts, rein them in with an iron hand. This doesn’t make sense; I’ve just become another grim statistic, another black dot on the unemployment graph.

I walk without thinking down the pavement until I realize that I’m heading in the direction of the Five Roses. I stop and turn to a storefront display, and catch my own reflection in the shining glass. Instinctively, I pass my hand over my head, then shake my fingers to get rid of the clinging hairs. Will I be going bald faster, now that I’m out of work?

I look at the middle-aged, fat guy in the shining glass. Slowly, he raises his hand and points a finger at his temple, thumb raised to imitate a cocked hammer. His mouth moves.

“Bang,” I hear myself say.

THE END

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