There are. Jones engages in a brief struggle with the voice-mail menu and comes out of it victorious.
“Click. Hi, it's Megan. Sydney asked me to pass this out. Click. Megan, this is Sydney. There's a message following from the CEO. Copy it to everyone, thanks. Click. Good morning, it's Janice . . . message following. Click. Hi, Janice . . . there's a message following this from Daniel Klausman. Please see that it gets out. Thanks. Click. Hello everyone, this is Meredith from Daniel Klausman's office. Please distribute the following message to all staff. Click.”
A dramatic pause. Then: “Meredith, this is Daniel Klausman. Please send this on to my department heads for distribution to all headcounts.”
Jones blinks in surprise. He doesn't think it's a terrific idea for the CEO to call his staff “headcounts.” That's not what they taught at business school. Jones feels a touch of excitement at spotting the mistake, like a chess prodigy who finds a flaw in Kasparov. He begins a few wild thoughts with: If I was CEO . . . These distract Jones from observing that it may not be a terrific idea to be employed by a CEO who calls his staff “headcounts,” either.
“Good afternoon everyone. I hope you've had a positive start to the week and kicked a few goals for Zephyr. Today I want to address the recent movement in our share price. It's important for everyone to understand there's no need for panic. Share prices often rise and fall for reasons unrelated to a company's performance. The market can overreact to these changes and turn small swings into large ones. No one upstairs is panicking.”
Jones nods to himself. He hasn't been at Zephyr Holdings long enough to realize that it's always a market overreaction to unrelated events when the stock price goes down. When it goes up, it's due to the brilliance of management, and rewarded with stock options.
“That said, dropping 18 percent in a quarter isn't great news. If we're to remain competitive, every department must continue cost cutting. It's essential that we strip out the fat, focus on our core competencies, and tighten our belts. If we do this, and stick to our guns, I'm confident we can avoid significant retrenchments.
“That's it for now. I won't keep you from your work any longer.”
Freddy and Holly hang up together. “Ouch,” Freddy says.
“That can't affect us,” Holly says.
“He said every department.”
“But there won't be sackings. No ‘significant' retrenchments.”
“It's significant if it happens to you,” Freddy says.
Friday and Jones is heading into the bathroom when he bumps into Wendell. Jones is busting, because for the first time in his life there's free coffee available from a machine six yards away. It's four o'clock and he's had six coffees. The rest of the department is quickly learning that the best time to get a coffee is right after Jones, who doesn't mind replacing the filter.
He pulls open the bathroom's exterior door just as Wendell opens the interior one, so they face off in the tiny airlock, each with one hand on a door. Jones steps back to let Wendell pass, but Wendell doesn't move. “Hak-kah.” He glances around. “Jones, you don't know what Roger's up to with this donut business, do you?”
“No.” Jones can't help but notice that Wendell's hands are dry. He didn't hear the air blower.
“I haven't the foggiest idea who took his donut. But he's gotten it into his head that I'm somehow involved. He thinks I want to get back at him for taking my parking space.”
“Okay.”
“I've booked twelve hundred hours of training this month. That's more than Elizabeth. Roger's only got four hundred. If anyone should be nervous about getting fired, it should be him.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Wendell fingers the door handle. “So if you hear anything, let me know, will you?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you, Jones. I appreciate it.” He puts a hand on Jones's forearm as he passes.
When Jones returns to his desk, his bladder relieved and his forearm washed and blow-dried, Freddy sidles over. “Did you hear? Sydney's called a meeting. To discuss ‘organizational changes.'” He adjusts his glasses. “Look, if it's you . . . remember, it's nothing personal.”
“What? Why would I be fired?”
Holly looks across the low divider. “Jones is getting fired?”
“No, if. I'm saying if Sydney's sacking someone, it's going to be Jones. You know, last in, first out.”
“There's a last-in, first-out policy?”
“No,” Holly says.
Freddy pats Jones on the arm. It is the most awkward thing Jones has ever seen. “She probably won't sack anybody,” Freddy says, but this is clearly just for Jones's benefit.
Sydney, the Training Sales manager, enters the meeting room at two minutes past five. She is tiny. She has bright green eyes, little pixie features, and a nose like the Easter Bunny's. She surely cannot weigh more than thirty or forty pounds, and that's including her tailored business suit. Her hair is a neat blond bob. When she speaks, her voice is high and strained. When you see her, you want to pick her up and hug the adorable little thing tight.
But this would be a bad idea, because Sydney is a vicious bitch. You don't get to be manager of a sales department by the cuteness of your nose. Manager of marketing, yes; sales, no. In sales, you can't hide behind glossy brochures and manipulated reach figures. You either sell or you don't, and your performance is on display so everyone can tell which it is. To succeed in sales, you need skills—not skills entirely consistent with moral integrity and emotional well-being, but skills nevertheless. You must be able to sell things to people who don't want them. You must be able to sell more things to people who do want them than they need. And most important of all, you must be able to cajole your way into a lower quota and more gullible customers than your co-workers.
When she was a mere sales assistant, Sydney was an amusing oddity. When her elfin eyes narrowed, her little nose wrinkled, and her tiny mouth raged, people suppressed smiles. Her rants about people who failed to take her seriously were funny; you couldn't take them seriously. Then she was promoted to sales rep, which meant she couldn't be ignored anymore. That was less amusing. Sydney was bitter about pretty much everyone; there was nobody, it seemed, who had not done her wrong. The Training Sales team suspects that a bitter incident lurks in Sydney's past, something involving faster-developing girls in the high-school locker room—or a series of incidents. If Sydney was male, they are sure that she would have a home gym and biceps the size of small children.
How she became manager remains a mystery. But there are only two possibilities. One is that Senior Management mistook her tirades for drive and a commitment to excellence. The other is that they knew Sydney was a paranoid psychopath, and that's exactly the kind of person they want in management.
Except for Sydney's office, the meeting room is the only place in the department with an exterior glass wall. At this time of the day, the sun streams in, bathing the room in delightful yellow warmth or fiery, retina-stabbing arrows, depending on which side of the table you sit. So the assistants are shielding their eyes while the sales reps quietly warm their backs. Except for Wendell: Wendell is nowhere to be seen.
Sydney takes a seat at the head of the table, which has been left for her. Not even Jones, new to these meetings, was foolish enough to drop himself into that seat. Today she is dressed from head to toe in black: black pants, black high-collared shirt, and black high heels tapering to a dangerous-looking point. Sydney has a variety of outfits, and they range in color from charcoal to jet. Freddy, the oldest surviving member of Training Sales, swears that one day she showed up in a gray knit, but nobody believes him.
Sydney's green eyes flick about the table. “How is everyone?”
“Great.” Nobody mentions Wendell.
Sydney has papers. She smooths them as if they are very important, as if they are the bearers of great and terrible wisdom. “You all know the company is still cost cutting. Every department has to make more savings. And, well, I've
looked at the alternatives. . . .” She shrugs. These alternatives clearly didn't impress her. “I'm dropping another headcount.”
A low moan escapes from Jones. Elizabeth and Roger remain calm, at least outwardly. Megan, the department PA, is surprised; she had no idea anyone was getting sacked. Holly and Freddy glance at Wendell's empty chair.
Sydney says, “So that's that. It's always difficult for the rest when one person goes, but we just have to come together to make an even tighter team. Does anyone have anything else?”
There is silence. Megan, thinking she is the only ignorant one, says, “Sorry, who's been fired?”
“Oh. Wendell.”
There is a collective exhalation like a punctured mattress—except from Freddy, who sucks in air. “But Wendell's the best-performing rep!”
Sydney's pixie features focus on him. Freddy involuntarily leans back in his chair. “Wendell's performance this month has been excellent, yes. His results should be a benchmark for you all. But it came to my attention that he was involved in some irregularities concerning morning snacks. There's no need to go into details. But I want to make this clear: I won't tolerate selfishness. This is a team. We pull together or we don't go anywhere. Is that clear?”
The team mumbles assent. “Absolutely,” Roger says.
“Also,” Sydney says, straightening her papers, “the commissions on all those orders of Wendell's would have put us way over budget.”
Megan says, “Oh, I didn't know we cancel the commissions of reps who get fired.” Everybody freezes. Megan has no idea how the department works, so occasionally comes out with something like this, which no one with a modicum of political knowledge would dare say out loud.
Sydney's eyes flick around the room. “That's . . . no, of course we don't. If a rep books an order, and we take the revenue, then obviously he's earned . . . look, you don't understand the technicalities. My point is that this is a team. And what's important is what's good for the team. Everybody should understand that already. Can you please stop interrupting the meeting, Megan?”
Megan reddens. “Sorry.”
“Thank you.” Sydney looks down at her papers. “Rather than distribute Wendell's accounts to Elizabeth and Roger, I've decided to promote a sales assistant.” She corrects herself. “I mean, an assistant will look after his accounts. It's not an actual promotion. It's only until the hiring freeze is lifted.”
Freddy sucks in his breath. If this was his first or second year in Training Sales, he would scorn such an offer, which obviously involves doing Wendell's job at a third of the salary, without commissions, and acting as his own assistant. But this is Freddy's fifth year, and he's desperate for vertical movement.
“And that person will be Jones,” Sydney says. “Congratulate Jones, everyone, please.”
Freddy makes a choking sound. The team claps. Elizabeth says, “Ah, excuse me—nothing personal, Jones—but . . . Jones? Freddy knows those accounts, he's worked on them with Wendell for years.”
“Well, maybe if Freddy was a little more proactive, like Jones, I would have considered him,” Sydney says. “Frankly, Freddy can learn a lot from Jones, like how to come straight to me when he has an issue.” Her eyes jump from one person to the next, daring them to argue, and nobody mentions the meeting two months ago when Sydney threatened to demote the next person to disturb her with trivia. “Freddy, you'll help Jones find his feet with those accounts.”
Freddy says something like, “Okay.”
“Good. Teamwork. That's what it's all about. Teamwork.” She stands. “That's it.”
Roger coughs into his hand.
“Oh,” Sydney says. “Also, Roger gets Wendell's parking space.”
Catering lugs equipment out through the lobby. Ovens, crockery, employees—everything must go. Gretel, the company receptionist, sits behind her orange desk and sniffles. The Catering staff are touched. They feel better about being fired—and although it's called “outsourcing,” it's a sacking at heart; it's all various shades of dismissal—knowing they'll be missed, even if only by a receptionist. It is a terrible thing to be fired, like your parents saying you have to clean out your room and leave the family, and it's worse if the company happily continues on in your absence, not even noticing the difference. This is like passing your ex-family in the street and they're laughing and heading out to the movies. What you really want, following your sacking, is for the company to undergo a quick, public financial implosion directly traceable to your departure. But as a substitute, someone crying as you leave the building is pretty good.
“Come on, now,” one of the Catering men says. “We'll be back tomorrow, running deliveries. We just don't work in the building anymore.”
Gretel shakes her head, inconsolable. The Catering staff, or ex-staff, exchange sad, bemused smiles. They load their equipment onto the truck idling outside the lobby doors, and stand around, hands in pockets, as it drives off. There is a special truck for the equipment because it has been purchased by the company that won the bid to supply Zephyr; there is no special truck for the employees. They watch the truck until it vanishes into the traffic of Madison Street. Then they shake hands, hug each other, and head to their own cars. One of them ducks back into the lobby to say a final farewell to Gretel. “See you tomorrow, darling.”
“No, no,” she says. She knows she will never see them again.
The following Monday, Jones arrives early, parks his clunker in the depths of the Zephyr employee lot, and heads to the local Barnes and Noble to browse the business section. He is looking for something called The Omega Management System, which is the latest management fad in a tradition stretching back through Six Sigma and Total Quality Management to the practice of bleeding sick patients and investing in tulips. OMS is very big lately; Jones even spotted a copy in Sydney's office. So as a method of providing visible evidence that he is an up-and-comer with management potential, Jones thinks he could do worse than an OMS book. And if he actually learns something, too, well, that's a bonus.
There turns out to be not just one book but three shelves of them. Jones sorts through the abridgments, revised editions, and fictionalizations until he finds one “For the New Executive,” heads for the in-store café, and orders a latte. He is flipping through the book when a girl behind the counter catches his eye. She smiles at him and tucks a wisp of blond hair behind her ear. Jones sits up straighter. The girl serves a customer, but now Jones is completely distracted. When the line empties ten minutes later, he drains his coffee and strides up to the counter. The girl smiles at him. “Hi there.”
“Hi.” He hands over his book. She is very pretty.
“You looked like you were studying pretty hard over there.”
She was watching him! Jones wonders if it's the suit. This sort of thing never happened to him before he bought a tie. “I just started a new job. I have to practice looking like I'm working.”
She laughs. “Well, you were very convincing.” She zaps his book with her wand and checks out the cover. “The Omega Management System: Road-Tested Methods to Transform Corporate Duds into Superstars. Which are you?”
“A dud. But an ambitious one.”
“Ambition, huh? I could do with some of that.” She cracks the book open at random. “‘Companies that require a doctor's certificate in all circumstances experience 6 percent fewer sick days than companies that do not require a certificate. This translates into a productivity gain of 0.4 percent for the average Fortune 500 company.'” She looks at him, uncertain. “Is this for real?”
“Well, that's interesting,” Jones says. “It discourages staff from abusing the system, I guess.”
“My manager makes me get a doctor's certificate for a single day off work. I end up being sick for twice as long because I have to catch the damn bus to the clinic.”
“Yeah, that must suck. But they probably factored that in.”
“Factored it in?”
Jones clears his throat. “I mean, companies need to get the
most out of their workers. That's business. The more efficient the workforce, the better the company.”
“I wish I worked for you.” She's no longer smiling. “Wow, you'd be a great boss.”
“Just give me my book,” Jones says.
Jones gets three steps inside Training Sales before Roger's head pops over the Berlin Partition. “Jones. Jones. Got a minute?” He walks to the coffee machine. Jones follows, carrying his briefcase. Roger lowers his voice. “Have you heard anything about my donut?”
Jones blinks. “What, like where it is?”
“No. I mean, did Holly say anything about who took it?”
“I thought Wendell took your donut.”
Roger shakes his head. “I bumped into him on the way out on Friday. He was a mess. He wanted to talk about old times . . . I got the impression maybe he hadn't taken it.”
“Oh,” Jones says bleakly.
“Now I suspect Elizabeth. You don't know the history, but this is exactly the kind of thing she'd do. Keep your ears open. Holly might let something slip. If she does, let me know.”
“Okay.”
“Good man.” Roger winks. He looks at the coffeepot, which is empty. “Were you planning on making coffee?”
“Let me just put down my briefcase.”
Jones walks to East Berlin, feeling unsettled. All of a sudden he can imagine Roger cleansing the entire Training Sales department, having one person fired after another in endless pursuit of this donut thief.
“Well well,” Freddy says, not looking up from his computer. “It's the department's new top sales rep.”
Jones hesitates. “Freddy, I feel awkward, too. But it's not really a promotion, is it? It's just a bunch of extra work for no pay.”
“What? Oh, right. No, I mean you really are the top rep.”
“What?” Jones moves over to look at Freddy's screen. He is about to discover why he is the last person to arrive at work at eight thirty in the morning: Roger and Elizabeth have been hard at work backing out orders. Friday afternoon the reps heard Sydney say: I'm sacking reps who earn too much commission. Elizabeth has been here since seven thirty. When she arrived, Roger was already at his desk, leaving voice mails for clients to tell them the price he quoted earlier is wrong, much too low; also, it's looking as if Training Delivery won't be able to fulfill any orders for months. Elizabeth grabbed her phone and, her heart breaking, began telling customers in a low, pained voice that things just weren't working out; that it wasn't them, it was her; that she wasn't in a place where she could fulfill their needs.