“Have you been going easy on the bicep crunches lately?” Freddy asks. “Under your arms there, it looks a bit flabby.”
Holly's mouth falls open in outrage. “My body fat percentage is fourteen.”
“Well, if you think that's good enough.” He pats his pockets. “I'm going for a smoke. I'll see you back upstairs.”
In the elevator, Jones catches Holly pinching the undersides of her arm. She drops her hands to her sides. “God, he pisses me off sometimes.”
When Freddy returns to Staff Services, he is bristling with indignation. “Do you know what they're doing?”
“Who?” Jones says.
“They made me go out back because of all the people, and I saw this new wooden fenced-in area going up next to the generator. The sign says SMOKERS' CORRAL. They're building a designated smoking area!”
Holly blows air in disgust. “I don't know why the company wants to waste money on smokers.”
“It has pictures of cows on it! Cows with cigarettes in their mouths!”
She smirks. “Oh. That's funny.”
“What gets me is they think this is helping,” Freddy complains. “Management is so out of touch, they think we'll appreciate this!” He looks to Jones for support, but Jones keeps his mouth shut. “Morons!” Freddy exclaims.
Holly says, “In the gym this morning, I heard nonsmokers will be getting an extra vacation day. Now that's a good idea.”
Freddy's mouth drops open. “What?”
“Well, I don't take five breaks a day to go stand in the sun,” Holly says. “Why shouldn't I get an extra day?”
“I make that time up! I work overtime!”
“What, I don't?”
“Bah. This is discrimination!”
“If you ask me, it's discrimination that you get time off to smoke while Jones and I don't.”
“Leave me out of this,” Jones says, before realizing how hypocritical this is.
“Besides,” Holly says, “why should you get upset about me getting a day off? It doesn't affect you.”
“You were just being a bitch about me taking five minutes for a smoke!”
“Are you calling me a bitch?” Holly yells.
Jones stands up. “Hey. Guys. Stop it, please. This is a stressful time. We need to stick together.”
Freddy takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry. You're not a bitch, Holly. But I am not going to stand in a corral with pictures of cows.”
After a moment, Holly says, “Yes you are.”
Freddy sits down with a sigh. “I hate this company so much. I wish I had been laid off.”
“No you don't.”
He laughs softly. “No, I don't. At least here I'm in good company.”
“What?” Jones says.
“I said at least here I'm in good company.”
“Oh. I thought you said you were in a good company.”
Freddy and Holly stare at him.
Jones says, “What if we could make the company better? If we could change things . . . make it a better place to work. I mean, there are so many things we could do.”
Holly looks at him blankly. Freddy says, “Jones . . . you're still new here. People suggest ways to improve the company every day. Their ideas go into the suggestion box in the cafeteria—where the cafeteria was, I mean—and they're never heard from again, except during all-staff meetings when Senior Management picks out the most useless one and announces a cross-functional team to look into it. A year or two later, when everyone's forgotten about it, we get an e-mail announcing the implementation of something that bears no resemblance to the initial idea and usually has the opposite effect, and in the annual reports this is used as evidence that the company listens and reacts to its workers. That's what happens when you try to make Zephyr a better place to work.”
There's a click. Just a small sound, but Freddy, Holly, and Jones stand up at the same time. They peer over their cubicle wall, as, all around, other Staff Services employees do the same thing. The meeting-room door swings open.
Roger emerges first. His smile is brilliant.
The queen is dead; long live the king! The workers jostle for a glimpse of Roger, for a touch of his hand. He moves among them, greeting the people, shaking hands, thumping backs, kissing cheeks. “I will govern for all the people,” Roger declares, and the workers cheer. “This is a new beginning. I promise you hard work—but also respect. Recognition. And reward!” The employees' faces brighten. Relocation Services and Gymnasium Management employees grin at each other. Workers from Social Club and Business Card Design clink coffee mugs. They are survivors. It is four thirty in the afternoon; it is the dawn of a new day.
The sales assistants are awestruck. Holly says, “Did you know Roger was so . . .”
“No,” Freddy says.
Roger draws closer. The assistants give him big smiles and thumbs-up. Freddy grabs Roger's hand and pumps it enthusiastically. “Good for you, Roger. Well done!”
“I appreciate your support.” His eyes jump from one to the other. “Things are going to be different from now on. Things are going to get done. We're going to find out who really took that donut.”
It's spattering rain outside, but none of the outcasts go home. Droplets speckle their faces. Their makeup runs. Their hair frizzes. But their anger is not diluted. Promises are being made to set up a permanent picket line; a roster is circulating. They are not completely sure what they will demand, but one thing is for sure: they don't deserve this.
In the lobby, now deserted except for herself and Security, Gretel hears the elevator ding. She twists in her chair. The doors slide apart to reveal Eve and a man from Senior Management: Blake Seddon. All the girls swoon over Blake because he's young and good-looking and has more money than he knows what to do with. He's also currently wearing a black eye patch, which Gretel heard is because of an injury he received saving a little girl from being run over in the street right outside the Zephyr building. He smiles as he and Eve approach the reception desk, and Gretel feels her own mouth curve upward almost involuntarily.
Eve takes her seat behind the desk. Blake keeps walking up to the line of Security guards facing out the glass. “Hoo,” Eve says. “What a day. What a day.”
Gretel isn't sure exactly what about today has been so draining for Eve, given she has been largely absent for it, but she has learned not to ask questions. “Yeah.”
“When this is all over, I'm going out and getting really, really drunk.”
Gretel smiles. Another thing she's learned is that when Eve says something like this, it's not an invitation.
A Security guard comes up to the reception desk. “Umbrella,” he says. “Do we have an umbrella for Mr. Seddon?”
Gretel reaches under the desk and retrieves a natty black number. The guard takes this to Blake Seddon, who flashes a smile in Gretel's direction, even as his eyes slide over to Eve. Then he walks out to meet the horde.
They see him coming and yell their disapproval. By the time Blake stops and raises one placatory hand, they are a seething, shouting mass. If he can feel their fury, he gives no sign. He simply waits underneath his black umbrella for them to quiet.
“My friends,” he says. “My dear, dear friends.”
For a second it seems the mob will actually run at him. But they are not so far gone. Slowly their outrage subsides again, and this time Blake is able to speak without interruption.
“These are difficult economic times.” The rain spatters on his umbrella. “You don't need me to tell you that. It's a tough market and we face strong international competition. If we're to succeed as a business—indeed, if we're to survive—we need to make tough decisions. Zephyr Holdings isn't a charity; we either make a profit or investors take their money elsewhere. Simply put, if the company is making money, we can afford to hire people, and if it's not, we have to shed staff. It's nothing personal. These are economic decisions. You understand that. It's the duty of Senior Management to keep the company in the black, for the ben
efit of all stakeholders. We'd love to be able to keep every one of you on the payroll. But we are bound to do what's best for the company. If that means externally redeploying some employees, then, you'll agree, that is both logical and reasonable. Again, it's nothing personal. It's a standardized process of comparing the value of any given part of the company against the associated cost. It applies to product lines, to departments, and to employees. The simple fact of the matter, and I wish it could be otherwise but it can't, is that we must ruthlessly eliminate loss-making parts of the company to protect the profit-making parts. Now, as it happened, when we ran the numbers, you were loss-making parts. It's nothing personal. But I want you to understand that it's not arbitrary, either. We're not doing it out of vindictiveness. It's not because we enjoy it. We're simply trying to keep the company afloat. If things had been different—if you had been more productive, or were earning lower wages—then perhaps I wouldn't be talking to you right now. But, unfortunately, you weren't adding value. So while you may be feeling aggrieved, you need to realize that this is simply the logical consequence of your own cost-to-benefit ratio. You were pulling the company down. I don't want to come off as overly critical, but you do deserve this.”
The crowd is silent. His words unearth their darkest suspicions. There are a few pockets of outrage and resistance, people urging others to keep the faith, but the horde's collective back has been broken. They knew it in their hearts, the unemployed; they knew it. Their eyes drop. There is more talking, even some arguing, but it is all irrelevant from this moment, when, in ones and twos, people begin to drift away.
Jones is walking to his car, his footsteps echoing in the underground parking lot, when he becomes aware that the vehicle behind him is not just looking for a space but actually stalking him. He turns around and the smoked window of a black Porsche 911 whirs down, releasing a cascade of classical music and revealing the one-eyed figure of Blake Seddon. “Are you allowed to drive with an eye patch?” Jones says. “I'd have thought that was some kind of license violation.”
Blake grins. “It probably is. Hey, is that your car there? Boy. Time for an upgrade, Jones.” He checks his mirror. “I have a question for you: When you left Alpha this morning, why did it take you so long to get to your desk?”
“What, you were watching me?”
“You could say I kept an eye on you.”
“Ha ha,” Jones says. “Eve came after me. She wanted to talk.”
“Then what?”
He hesitates. “Then I went out to the front of the building to see what was going on.”
“Hmm,” Blake says. “I thought you'd lie about that.”
“You probably have me on tape.”
“I do.”
“So why ask me about it?”
“They were angry today. I've seen a few mass layoffs, but none like this. We've never had to step in personally. It's practically a violation of the Alpha charter. Klausman didn't make the decision lightly.”
“Maybe we should have stayed out of it. It could have been an excellent learning experience. That's what Alpha does, isn't it? Watch and learn?”
“Something I'm interested in learning,” Blake says, “is what made today different.”
Jones shrugs.
“You told them something.”
“I wished them well for the future.”
“Bullshit.”
“Do you have audio?”
Blake laughs. “No, Jones, we don't have outdoor audio.”
“Okay, then.”
“You weren't this cocky before. Something's changed. I want to know what. I want to know if it's you or her.”
“Who?”
“Please,” Blake says.
“I'm serious. I don't know what you're talking about.”
Blake purses his lips. Then he leans closer, hanging his arm out the window. “The thing to know about Eve, Jones, is she's bloodless. Whatever happened to that girl, she wasn't there the day they were handing out consciences. She shouldn't be here; her ideal job would be giving lethal injections in San Quentin. Maybe you've seen a glimpse of that, but you don't know the half of it. She doesn't have feelings like you and me. She knows she should have them. But she doesn't. I'm telling you this, Jones, so the next time you think you're being clever and sophisticated around Eve, you might instead realize that to her you are nothing more than a big, gangling puppet.”
“I didn't realize you were so insightful,” Jones says. “Do you want me to lie back and talk about my mother?”
Blake snorts. “Look, I don't blame you for being interested in her. She's a terrific lay. One of those girls who acts like she's never done it before. You wouldn't pick it, would you?” He sees something on Jones's face that satisfies him. The Porsche's window begins to whir upward. “Take care, Jones.”
“So let me get this straight,” says Penny. She and Jones are clearing plates in the kitchen of their parents' suburban home; above Penny's head, a clock in the shape of a cat swings its pendulum tail to mark each second, its eyes swiveling from side to side. “This Blake guy thinks you're working with Eve.”
“I guess so.”
“Aren't you Alpha people all on the same side?”
“We're meant to be. But there are politics. When Klausman retires, they'll probably kill each other for his job.”
“He's retiring?”
“Um . . . no, I don't think so.”
Penny fixes her hair, a few strands of which have escaped from her ponytail. “Okay. Back up. You're working for Alpha.”
“Right.”
“And that's why you can afford things like these nice suits.”
“Well, actually, I still owe Eve for those.”
“Fine. Then she gave them to you. Because you're her flunky.”
“Protégé.”
“Whatever.”
“I'm not a flunky.”
“What's the difference?”
“Um,” Jones says.
“You know, you talk about her a lot,” Penny says suspiciously. “This Eve.”
“Well . . .”
“What?”
“I'm very attracted to her. Didn't I mention that?”
“No! I thought you hated her!”
“I do. But also . . . I don't know. I'm confused. When Blake said he used to be with her . . . I felt jealous.”
“Oh boy.”
“I'm not defending it. I'm just being honest. Eve and I did spend a night together.”
“You spent a night together. She was passed out.”
“Before that, though, I saw something. And since that time at the bar, she's . . . been less evil.”
“Wow,” Penny says. “What a recommendation.”
“Also, I don't want to be crass, but she is incredibly hot.”
“Ste-phen.”
“You were obsessed with that guy at the gym, you didn't even know his name.”
“Hmm.”
“But you're right, the things Eve does, you have to hate her. She leaves you no alternative. That's the problem.”
“Putting aside your weird feelings for evil women, and regardless of what's between Eve and Blake, everyone in Alpha is united in wanting to squeeze blood out of the Zephyr staff, am I right?”
“Right.”
“And you want to stop this.”
“You haven't seen this place. It's brutal. And remember, it's not just Zephyr. The techniques they invent end up in thousands of companies. They're probably applied to millions of workers.”
“And rather than quit, you're going to work undercover, as a kind of saboteur.”
“Yes.”
“Even though you have no real authority in Alpha. And in Zephyr you're a desk jockey.”
“Uh . . . yes.”
“And if you do sabotage Alpha—if, say, you tell everyone in Zephyr what's going on—they'll just fire everyone, close the company, and start again. Right?”
Jones sighs. “Yes.”
“And then there's the fact tha
t one of the people you'd be sabotaging is this woman you're quote very attracted to unquote.”
“Exactly.”
“Well. That's some pickle.”
“I thought you might have a solution.”
“Sorry, Stevie. I don't see a way out of this one.”
“Damn it.”
“Maybe you should just quit.”
“Then they'd hire somebody else to do my job. I need to find a way to force Alpha to make Zephyr better.”
“Well,” Penny says finally, “good luck with that.”
From the living room: “Do you two need any help in there?”
“No, Mom,” Jones calls. He scrapes off his dinner plate.
Penny says, “How much of this are we telling Mom and Dad?”
“Um,” Jones says. “Tell them I got some new suits.”
According to The Omega Management System, every corporate reorganization goes through three stages. Stage one is Planning: a giddy, euphoric state Senior Management enters as it contemplates how much stronger the company could be with a strategic realigning of its business units; also, by odd coincidence, how much more responsibility each member of Senior Management would gain. It's an exhilarating time, but only for Senior Management; for everyone else, it's often hard to see how the benefits promised by this reorganization are different from the benefits promised by the last reorganization, nine months ago.
Next comes Implementation, which is like musical chairs with exit interviews: chaos reigns and all anyone cares about is where they're going to sit. It is a mix of triumph and tragedy for the workers—triumph for the employee who has moved far away from a hated co-worker, tragedy for he whose computer screen is now visible to anyone entering the department—but a dark period of disillusionment for Senior Management, because now their pristine visions run aground on the rocks of reality. Their inverted paradigms tear open, spilling regular, right-way-up paradigms; their lateral thinking is longitudinalized and put back in the box. They dreamed of one cohesive superdepartment; now they have three ex-departments forced to sit together fighting a civil war. Why can't people just get along? Senior Management wonders. It is heartrending.