Company

  “Roger's on minus eighty,” Holly says from across the aisle. “Elizabeth's on minus three hundred. She got that big order from Marketing last month canceled.” Holly can't quite keep the pride out of her voice.

  “Looks like you've got a lot of work to do,” Freddy says. “You don't want to make the other reps look bad. Could be tough explaining those canceled orders if you're bringing in new ones.”

  Jones's eyes flick helplessly between Freddy and Holly.

  “It's okay,” Freddy says. “I'll help you out.”

  “Thanks. Thanks.” Jones exhales. “But first I have to make Roger a coffee.”

  A pair of beautiful eyes watch Jones walk to the coffee machine. They belong to Megan, the PA. Megan is overweight, her skin is a disaster zone, and no matter what she tries her hair looks as if she was caught without an umbrella while walking to work, but her eyes are gorgeous. People talk about bedroom eyes; well, Megan has the whole suite.

  One of her hands takes hold of her computer mouse. The cord snakes between the army of ceramic bears, but doesn't disturb a single one. On her screen, she clicks a file called JACTIVITY.TXT. She scrolls down to 8/23 and carefully types: 8:49 COFFEE.

  Megan is infatuated. With Jones's sandy hair, his lean body, his crisp, new, blindingly white shirts—she loves everything, the whole package. She loves how he strides from place to place. How he looks clearly and directly at things—but not in an arrogant way, like a manager (or a sales rep). He is not trying to impress people all the time, like Roger. He doesn't give you the impression that he thinks you've either done something wrong or are about to, like Elizabeth. He doesn't act differently depending on whom he's talking to. He is simply Jones: fresh, new, and utterly gorgeous.

  She has taken to imagining erotic scenarios: Jones coming over to borrow a stapler and her grabbing his tie and pulling him close. His eyes widening in shock as their lips crush together, his hands touching her body, tentative at first, then with growing passion as they clamber onto her desk, sweeping the ceramic bears aside (carefully, none damaged), his eyes locked onto hers—yes! Yes!

  When he sits at his desk, all she can see over the partition is his hair. Sometimes he stretches, and she sees his arms, maybe a flash of wrist, and her heart pounds; on these occasions she opens up JACTIVITY.TXT and writes the time and STRETCH.

  She will die before allowing anyone to discover this. People would think it was creepy. They wouldn't understand: this is simply her way of being close to him. She has never spoken to him. Nobody bothered to introduce them; she was simply pointed out along with the xerox machine and other pieces of useful office furniture. PAs get no respect in Zephyr Holdings, Megan knows. They are the illegal immigrant laborers of the company; their existence is tolerated, but nobody bothers to get close. PAs are as interchangeable as Erector set components; they wheel one out and install someone else and hardly anybody notices the difference. Nobody looks at a PA properly, Megan has discovered. Instead, their eyes simply slide over you. And the biggest waste in the world is a PA with nice eyes, because no one ever sees them.

  There are stories—legends, really—of the “steady job.” Old-timers gather graduates around the flickering light of a computer monitor and tell stories of how the company used to be, back when a job was for life, not just for the business cycle. In those days, there were dinners for employees who racked up twenty-five years—don't laugh, you, yes, twenty-five years!—of service. In those days, a man didn't change jobs every five minutes. When you walked down the corridors, you recognized everyone you met; hell, you knew the names of their kids.

  The graduates snicker. A steady job! They've never heard of such a thing. What they know is the flexible job. It's what they were raised on in business school; it's what they experienced, too, as they drove a cash register or stacked shelves between classes. Flexibility is where it's at, not dull, rigid, monotonous steadiness. Flexible jobs allow employees to share in the company's ups and downs; well, not so much the ups. But when times get tough, it's the flexible company that thrives. By comparison, a company with steady jobs hobbles along with a ball and chain. The graduates have read the management textbooks and they know the truth: long-term employees are so last century.

  The problem with employees, you see, is everything. You have to pay to hire them and pay to fire them, and, in between, you have to pay them. They need business cards. They need computers. They need ID tags and security clearances and phones and air-conditioning and somewhere to sit. You have to ferry them to off-site team meetings. You have to ferry them home again. They get pregnant. They injure themselves. They steal. They join religions with firm views on when it's permissible to work. When they read their e-mail they open every attachment they get, and when they write it they expose the company to enormous legal liabilities. They arrive with no useful skills, and once you've trained them, they leave. And don't expect gratitude! If they're not taking sick days, they're requesting compassionate leave. If they're not gossiping with co-workers, they're complaining about them. They consider it their inalienable right to wear body ornamentation that scares customers. They talk about (dear God) unionizing. They want raises. They want management to notice when they do a good job. They want to know what's going to happen in the next corporate reorganization. And lawsuits! The lawsuits! They sue for sexual harassment, for an unsafe workplace, for discrimination in thirty-two different flavors. For—get this—wrongful termination. Wrongful termination! These people are only here because you brought them into the corporate world! Suddenly you're responsible for them for life?

  The truly flexible company—and the textbooks don't come right out and say it, but the graduates can tell that they want to—doesn't employ people at all. This is the siren song of outsourcing. The seductiveness of the subcontract. Just try out the words: no employees. Feels good, doesn't it? Strong. Healthy. Supple. Oh yes, a company without employees would be a wondrous thing. Let the workers suck up a little competitive pressure. Let them get a taste of the free market.

  The old-timers' stories are fairy tales, dreams of a world that no longer exists. They rest on the bizarre assumption that people somehow deserve a job. The graduates know better; they've been taught that they don't.

  “The first thing,” Freddy says to Jones, “is to get a list of your accounts. Do you have a list?”

  “No.”

  “Holly can get that for you.”

  “Hey. Get your own assistant. I work for Elizabeth.”

  Freddy looks at her. “You're doing your hair.”

  “Some of us exercise in the mornings, you know.” Holly's head is tilted all the way to one side so her hair hangs down in a single sheet. She attacks this with a brush and so much vigor that Jones winces.

  “I thought you went to the gym after work.”

  “I do.” Her eyes run critically over Freddy's body. “You know, you could stand to do a little exercise.”

  “I don't think I could.”

  Jones says, “Can we get back on topic?”

  They look at him. “Check out business boy,” Holly says.

  “I just mean—”

  “Fine, I'll print out your account list. Just let me finish my hair.”

  “That's my girl.” Freddy maneuvers his office chair around the partitions and wheels into Jones's cubicle. “Now, I'll call one of Wendell's customers and you listen in. Try to pick up some strategies.”

  Jones nods enthusiastically. “Thanks. That'd be great.”

  Freddy punches for speakerphone. “Hi, this is Freddy Carlson from Zephyr Training Sales. You placed an order for eighty hours of training with us last week, right? Well, you need to cancel them.”

  “Why, what's wrong?”

  “It's for, what, three people? That's just ridiculous. Why would you need eighty hours of training for three people?”

  “Ah . . . there was a reason . . . the sales rep, Wendell, explained it to me.”

  “Was it total cost of ownership? Because we make those figure
s up. No, wait, did he say we've got a revamped product lineup? All we did is change the fonts on the brochures.”

  “Why do you want me to cancel my order?” The man's tone grows suspicious. “Are you overbooked?”

  “I'm just looking out for you. Seriously, our courses are terrible. They're the same basic teamwork lesson packaged under different names.”

  “I didn't order anything about teamwork. I ordered Managing C++ Programmers in Time-Sensitive Projects.”

  “That's the teamwork course! They're all the teamwork course!”

  “Maybe I should order more courses, if they're filling up so fast. Do you have something on workflow best practice for small groups?”

  Freddy freezes. Then he stabs the TALK button.

  Jones blinks. “Did you just hang up on that guy?”

  “This is more difficult than I thought.”

  “Hey,” Holly says, from her desk. “Check the printer behind you. List of accounts.”

  “Maybe this is why I'm not a sales rep,” Freddy says. He chews his lip. “Could we just cancel orders and not tell anyone, do you think?”

  “I doubt it,” Holly says. “I bet there are checks. Balances, too.”

  Jones retrieves his printout. He holds it up for Holly. “Is this it?”

  “Yep.”

  “But this can't be right.”

  “What's the matter?”

  “These are my customers?”

  Infrastructure Management—Building

  Infrastructure Management—Fleet

  Infrastructure Management—Interiors

  Infrastructure Management—Acquisitions

  Infrastructure Management—Fire and

  Emergency

  Marketing—Corporate

  Marketing—Branding

  Marketing—Public Relations

  Marketing—Internal

  Marketing—Direct

  Marketing—Operations

  Marketing—Research

  Infrastructure Maintenance—Control

  Infrastructure Maintenance—Acquisitions

  Infrastructure Maintenance—Clean Teams

  Infrastructure Maintenance—Reporting

  Infrastructure Maintenance—Softs

  Infrastructure Maintenance—Climate Control

  Infrastructure Maintenance—Large

  It continues for another three pages. Holly says, “What's the problem?”

  “They're internal departments.”

  “So?”

  “You're telling me we sell training packages to other Zephyr departments?”

  “You didn't know that?”

  “No! I thought our customers were other companies!”

  Holly and Freddy start laughing. Freddy says, “That's so funny.”

  “That's how Zephyr works,” Holly says. “Infrastructure Management bills our department for parking and office space. Fleet bills us for company cars. We bill other departments for training. Well, actually, Training Delivery bills them. We just take a commission.”

  “It's all about efficiently allocating costs,” Freddy says. “Or something.”

  “But I thought Zephyr was a training company. I thought that's what we did. What do we do, then?”

  Holly says, “You mean, like, overall?”

  “Yes!”

  She shrugs. Jones stares. She crosses her arms defensively. “I know what our department does. But Zephyr's a big company.”

  Jones looks at Freddy. “Don't ask me. The company does a lot of things, Jones.”

  “Which of them involves selling things to people who don't work in this building?”

  Freddy scratches his chin. Holly says, “I'm sure there's something.”

  Jones feels faint. He is realizing that he took a job at a company without knowing what it does.

  Freddy says, “I know who our main competitor is, if that helps. Assiduous. Assiduous is always hiring our ex-employees.”

  Holly lets out a short, disgusted snort. “Traitors.”

  Jones has never heard of Assiduous. “What does it do?”

  Holly and Freddy look at each other.

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Well, you can't go around asking questions about Assiduous,” Freddy says. “How would that look? Besides, when someone joins Assiduous, they're the enemy. You can't call them up and ask how they're doing. You have to protect company secrets.”

  “What secrets? You guys don't know anything!”

  “Remember Jim?” Holly says to Freddy. “I was sad when he left. I would have liked to have kept in touch with him.”

  Jones's phone rings. He reaches over Freddy's shoulder for his handset, but Freddy beats him and pushes SPEAKER. Jones says, “Hello?”

  “Hi. I've heard there's something of a run on the training courses. Can I still get an order in, or is it too late?”

  Freddy frowns and leans close to the speaker. “Is this Procurement?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “You're Roger's account! Why are you calling this number?”

  “Oh, I'm sorry, I thought I did call Roger.”

  “No! You didn't!” Freddy kills the call. He gets up and walks back to his desk.

  Jones says, “Was that necessary?”

  Freddy picks up his phone. “I want to try something.”

  Jones's phone rings. “Hello?”

  Freddy yelps. Jones gets it in stereo: across the aisle and out of the handset. “Roger's forwarded his phone!” He hurries to Jones's desk and starts punching buttons.

  “Hey, Jones,” Holly says. “This thing about what the company does, don't let it get to you. I was the same when I first started working here. But you just get used to it. The thing is, there's plenty about Zephyr that makes no sense. Sydney got promoted to manager. One of the best parking spaces is always empty, I mean always, but we're not allowed to use it. Last month we had to sit through a presentation on eliminating redundancy, and it was a bunch of PowerPoint slides, plus a guy reading out what was on the slides, and then he gave us all hard copies. I don't understand these things. I don't really understand anything about this company. It's just how things are. Like that story, you know, with the monkeys?”

  “Chimps,” Freddy says. He stabs at Jones's phone. “A-ha. Jones, I've forwarded your phone to Elizabeth.”

  Holly folds her hands on her desk. “These chimps, they're in a cage, and the scientists poke in a banana on a stick. The chimps try to grab it, but as soon as they do, the scientists electrify the floor, so all the chimps get a shock. This goes on until the chimps learn that touching a banana equals electric shock. Right? Then the scientists take one chimp out and put in a new one. This chimp, when he goes to grab the banana, he gets beaten up by all the others, because they don't want to get shocked. You see?”

  “That's a terrible story,” Jones says.

  “The scientists keep switching chimps, one at a time, until none of the originals are left. Then they add one more. The new chimp, he goes for the banana and the others jump him, same as before. But, see, none of them was ever shocked. They don't know why they're doing it. They just know that's the way they do things.”

  “So I'm the new chimp.”

  “You're the new chimp. Don't try to understand the company. Just go with it.”

  In the bowels of the company, a computer is about to be murdered. It's a simple computer, a PABX. Its job is to route phone calls. It is running software that was once as clean and functional as a mountain stream, but over the past decade has been patched, tweaked, and customized into a steaming, festering jungle, where vines snag at your feet and snarling, fanged creatures live in the shadows. There is a path through the jungle, a clear, well-worn path, and if you follow it you will always be safe. But take two misdirected steps and the jungle will eat you alive.

  The software prevents two phones from forwarding their calls to each other, which would create what is known as an infinite loop, a particularly brutal way to kill a computer. In IT, infinite loops are the equivalen
t of manslaughter: death through foreseeable negligence. So at this point on the jungle path there is a strong wooden barrier. What the software does not prevent—not anymore, not after ten years of quick hacks to meet ever-changing departmental wish lists—is a forwarding circle, where person A (say, Roger) forwards his phone to B (Jones), who forwards his phone to C (Elizabeth), who forwards her phone to A (Roger). There is no barrier here, just a deep, dark ravine where things wait with glittering eyes and sharp teeth.

  Right now a mid-level manager in Travel Services is dialing her Training Sales representative. She is thinking of ordering some training for her two telesales staff. They don't really need it, but she's caught wind that Training Sales is trying to cancel orders. This manager has been in Zephyr Holdings long enough to know that if someone doesn't want you to order something, you grab as much of it as you can and hang on tight. It was the same way with office chairs.

  Her finger pushes the last digit, a six. The phone clicks in her ear. There is a pause. Then the building's lights go off.

  Jones, Freddy, and Holly are plunged into darkness as sudden and shocking as a slap. For two or three seconds, the loudest sound is the dying electric whine of printers and copy machines. The air-conditioning, which puts out a hum so low and omnipresent that the employees have never consciously noticed it, emits a throaty death rattle, and silence drops upon them like a collapsing marquee.

  A few faint lines of light squeeze through the blinds of Sydney's office, lending a silvery, dungeon-like ambiance.

  “What's happening?” Jones says.