Horse's Ass

  Chapter Ten

  Since Cuddy dropped him off, and Wilma served him crust free sandwiches, Mike’s new office had been a hub of activity. The workers took down the plywood and replaced the window, thereby restoring the office to its original condition. The crew worked steadily, largely ignored Mike, and did not ask about the events that led to the broken window. Mike sensed the workers dealt with this kind of thing routinely. It wasn’t hard to imagine computers tossed out windows in fits of rage, chairs crashing into walls as executives screamed their resignation, or plants and furniture upturned as vice presidents met in the center of the conference rooms and waged hand to hand combat over the laying of blame. His mind’s eye could see them throttling each other; their hands wrapped around each other’s throats; thumbs pressed on Adam’s apples until capillaries broke in their eyes, and the weaker of the two hoarsely whispered, “No mas.”

  With the window installed and vacuuming completed, the sole worker that remained pulled a large plastic sign from the cart and applied industrial glue to one side. He then pressed the sign against the window and admired his work. Prominently displayed on the window was a placard featuring a parachuting figure surrounded by a bold red circle with a do not line running through it. Below the graphic was written: Not An Exit.

  Mike wondered how long before someone defaced the placard, and he was stuck looking at Rest Stop graffiti every time he walked into his office. The more Mike thought about it the more certain he became. There was no doubt within a month someone would add either devil horns or a giant penis to the placard that sat as the centerpiece to his office. Maybe some witty phrase would appear in a caption bubble, but none came to mind and he wasn’t certain the intellectual wattage to make the situation funny could be found in the building. He’d go giant penis if it wasn’t his office. Now that would be damn funny.

  With the last worker gone Mike stood alone in his new office. The calm, hushed tones of the floor conspired against him and he felt a nap coming on. He’d overeaten, his appetite for crust less sandwiches nearly insatiable, and had been standing around waiting for the work crew to finish for a couple hours. He knew if he sat down he’d be asleep in minutes. Although he had no idea what his job required, it seemed to be in his best interest to stay awake. After he was relieved of all work responsibilities, he routinely snored himself awake in his old office. He considered breaking out his French lessons, but felt certain his willpower to avoid the couch would wane and he’d be found in a fetal position. In an effort to stay awake, he began to unpack the few things he’d brought upstairs with him.

  Mike connected his laptop to its docking station and adjusted the desk chair’s height. In doing so he rallied his entrepreneurial spirit, and faced the monitor away from the door and at an angle such that the image reflected off the window wouldn’t give him away to those in the hallway when he frittered the hours away surfing the internet. He was especially proud of this foresight given they were headed into the dark days of winter, and with lights on inside, and dark outside, the windows would be like mirrors. Mike’s skills at creating the impression of work were myriad, and he employed two proven strategies. First, he streamed talk radio through his computer to simulate a conference call, which in turn justified his closed door. Next, he booked a series of random, recurring meetings on his calendar. Best if all thought he was up to his ass in alligators. With his computer now functional he checked his e-mails, and found he hadn’t received any work related communications in a couple of weeks.

  With the illusion of work in place, Mike surfed on the internet for a while to see if any of the names on his annual Sure to Die and Untimely Death List had, in fact, died, and then grew bored when it looked like everyone, including Charlie Sheen and Keith Richards, was still alive. With the topic of celebrity death on his mind, Mike updated his list to include the new wave of self indulgent teen celebrities, certain to implode when the limelight faded and they became legal adults left to their own devices. Mike added Miley and that creepy Beiber kid to his list. The office pool was sizable on a direct hit and he could use the money for new car tires. While he waited for the updates to his list to finish saving to his computer, he spent a few minutes on Wikipedia continuing his research on the role and responsibilities of a CFO. On the unused tablet he kept at his side he scribbled, ‘Responsible for managing the financial risks of the corporation, financial planning and record keeping’.

  As he was about to log onto Facebook, and kill whatever time remained before Doug’s staff meeting, he remembered he’d brought a box of pictures with him. From the box he pulled out of a half a dozen framed photos. The photos were shots of him and his friends skiing, his family, and his dogs. He set the pictures on the wooden bookshelves that sat to either side of his desk. Prominently displayed the pictures formed a small shrine to his life outside work, and testament to the fact he wasn’t a total loser. He figured it would be best if he played by the behavioral norms and didn’t want to be the only employee without the ubiquitous pictures that adorn corporate America’s workspaces. As he stepped back to admire his work, he realized he might need to take some new photographs.

  The first picture was him and a couple friends at the tail end of a case of beer after a long day skiing. He remembered pushing the car up the pass on that snowy day years ago. Front and center in the picture was his car; skis stacked like pick-up-sticks on the hood, and a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon on the roof. His friends looked inebriated, and the Yugo did too. To the right side of the skiing pictures he set the pictures of his dogs. The dogs stood listing to the side, patches of fur missing, their ribs jutting from their emaciated bodies with their teeth bared at his wife as she took the picture. Since the photo was taken, and dogs removed from her care, the dogs had rallied, gaining weight as their fur grew back, and their sunny dispositions returned. Across from the dogs he set a picture he’d snapped of his ex-wife in her prison garb; an orange jumpsuit boldly emblazoned with Department of Corrections. He adjusted the pictures so the dogs were growling at his ex.

  Unpacked, pictures displayed, and uncertain of the expectations of him, Mike rummaged through Alan’s old desk. Most of the goods had been plundered, but he found an electric pencil sharpener and a couple boxes of unsharpened pencils. Hidden in the bottom drawer was a worn copy of Stand Tall Small Man, and a discarded user’s guide for the executive parachute. With nothing left to do, he began sharpening pencils with the automatic pencil sharpener he found in the bottom right drawer of Alan’s desk. He really wanted to see if he could stick the pencils in the ceiling, but the risk of getting caught outweighed the joy of the proven elementary school time killer. With a dozen sharpened pencils sitting on his desk he then looked at his watch, and realized he was a couple of minutes late for Doug’s Staff Meeting. “Wow,” he thought, “time flies as an executive.”

  Mike returned to the doorway where he’d been promoted just a couple hours ago. Cuddy and Mary, both of whom attended his inauguration, stood in awkward silence in the hallway in front of Doug’s office having arrived just ahead of him. Mike walked up, and as he’d done earlier in the day he stood in the space between them. Mary stood to his left and Cuddy to his right. Cuddy nodded a curt hello.

  Mary looked over, remembered Mike’s six month service award, and asked him how his breath was.

  Mike replied, “Minty, spectacularly minty.”

  Mary leaned in, her nostrils flared, and she nodded in approval. It was a small victory, but the battle against ugly and its many forms was endless. The three resumed the uncomfortable silence.

  As they waited, Mary turned slightly towards Cuddy and rubbed the top of her nose, between her eyes, with her middle finger. She stared hatefully at Cuddy.

  In response, Cuddy leaned back, placed his hands deep in his trouser pockets, and fumbled about in the deep recesses of his pants. If he wore a fedora, he’d look exactly like The Chubby award. His wedding tackle bounced up and d
own as he groped about his pockets. Mike realized he wasn’t just playing with himself when Cuddy pulled out a wadded BigMac and shoved it in his mouth. To fit it all in he used the bottom of his hand’s palm, elbow pointing out, fingers under his chin, and pushed. His eyes bulged with the effort. Cuddy returned Mary’s hateful stare, and stuck his tongue out to show her the partially masticated food. The ultraviolet green of the pickle stood out in marked relief to the surrounding grey paste. It was disgusting, and to make matters worse Cuddy began to speak with his mouth full of food.

  Mike couldn’t make out a word he said, and when Cuddy realized this he began to shout, slowly and emphatically, as if he was in a foreign country and volume and tempo were why he wasn’t being understood. Cuddy grew louder, and began to gesture with his hands. Mike still couldn’t make out what was being said but nodded in agreement, hoping whatever Cuddy felt so important that it be shared before he finished chewing he’d feel he communicated. As Mike stood and nodded like an idiot, and Cuddy sprayed him with food, Mary could not take it any longer and hid behind Mike for protection.

  With Mary no longer in his field of view Cuddy stopped shouting and un-tucked his shirt. He began absent mindedly picking at his belly button. Next he pulled a pair of nail clippers from his pocket and clipped his nails. Nails clipped, and belly lint free, he completed the trifecta by blowing his nose into a napkin and then opening the napkin to see what he’d put there. He nudged Mike with his elbow to try to get Mike to look in the napkin, but Mike stood frozen in fear and looked straight ahead. Mary stared at the ground. Mike followed Mary’s strategy.

  Several minutes passed, and suddenly Doug swiveled around in his chair. Mike didn’t realize Doug was in the office. Cuddy and Mary jumped to attention and smiled pleasantly. Doug began immediately, forgoing any pleasantries, “Let me pose a riddle. What has two thumbs, speaks French, and wants results?” Leaning back in his chair and pointing at himself with his thumbs Doug answered his own question, “Me.” Normally the consultants would have led the meeting, with Doug sitting a slight distance back and nodding at the appropriate times, but it was Wednesday and the consultants always flew home early in the afternoon to, ‘work from home,’ on Thursday and Friday.

  Mike’s autism kicked in, and he answered without thinking, “Moi!’ Surprisingly the French lessons appeared to be working. He was familiar with this old joke having heard it in the context of blow jobs, and spoke to cover his echolalia, “I think you mean moi.”

  Before Doug could address the insubordination, Mary jumped in, “Why the fuck would he mean you?” Her black reptilian eyes narrowed, and she stared despicably at Mike. “Dumb ass,” she added accusingly.

  Doug nodded appreciatively at Mary. She, in turn, stood up straighter, with a smile on her lips. Doug kept talking, “This recent debacle with that sorry sack of shit midget has roused the suspicion of The Board that perhaps I’m not on top of things. You tell me how I could have prevented Napoleon’s last stand?”

  Mike murmured as quietly as he could to avoid being heard, “Napoleon’s last stand! Napoleon’s last stand!” He worked to suppress the desire to correct Doug. He was pretty sure it was Custer’s last stand, but given present company hadn’t taken to his earlier comments he waited until his echolalia passed.

  Doug pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and began reading. The paper bore the watermark of the consulting firm that was constantly bouncing around the executive floor with Doug, the parasite’s host. “I’ve been told, and now I’m telling you, we need to meet Wall Street’s expectations.” A pregnant pause followed, and Doug mumbled quietly as he considered the gravity of the situation, “God help us.” Doug returned to his executive voice, “Now if you’ve got a brain in your head you ought to be thinking, ‘What does that mean for me?’ Well, it’s fourth and goal and we need a win. That is what it means.”

  Mike echoed, “Fourth and goal! Fourth and goal!”

  “It’s refreshing to see that kind of enthusiasm. “ Doug pointed at Mike and nodded appreciatively.

  Cuddy and Mary glared at Mike. It wasn’t going to work for them to be shown up by this deep thinker on day one in his new role. This was a two pony race for the top job with no room for a third.

  “Mary, you are now responsible for implementing the computer system. I want this never ending problem behind us: No discussions, no delays, and on budget. I want it done, and don’t tell me the requirements changed and the goalposts moved, or Cuddy won’t sign-off. Shap works for you now, understand?” Doug was concerned Mary’s profane, vain nature and crushing hand shake had favorably impressed the Chairman. As his most likely replacement, it was best if she went for a quick ‘swim in the lake’.

  Unlike Cuddy who never realized what hit him and Alan who seethed when Doug screwed him with the IT project, Mary channeled her inner monster and loudly declared, “ Oh that fat fucker’s gonna sign-off, or I will obliterate him.” She cracked her knuckles menacingly, and then pointed at Cuddy.

  Cuddy snorted in defiance, a strange, flabbergasting affair that drew everyone’s attention. Cuddy glared back. Doug’s directive quashed his hope that the system project would simply go away with Alan’s death, and he’d return as the heir apparent. The CEO’s job was now Mary’s to lose.

  “Cuddy, I want the productivity of your people improved. We’re not hiring more people; you need to get more out of those bums on four.” Doug then repeated himself, slower and louder for Cuddy’s benefit, “I want more work from the same number of people. This is a slam dunk.” Cuddy listened inattentively, he was more concerned with the means he would employ to undermine Mary.

  “Mike, you are to reduce our bad debt by getting the sons of bitches to pay their co-pays. Assume your job depends on it, because I’ll replace you with a lower paid rookie if you don’t fix this. In fact, we will sue you for incompetence if you screw this up. You got the balls to fill the little man’s seat at the table? Well, you better be bringing your A game.” Mike found Doug’s comments extremely insightful as he was uncertain what Alan’s job was. As far as Mike knew, Alan simply read the summary numbers from the reports the staff produced aloud. Wikipedia hadn’t proved as helpful as he’d hoped in helping him learn the CFO’s job.

  As Mike repeated Doug’s words, “A game!” he considered the irony of being sued for corporate malfeasance while he lived in his parent’s basement and drove a beat to shit Yugo with a donut tire. Mike’s thoughts left the meeting and floated to a fantasy world where he sat on the witness stand in a court of law surrounded by barristers and judges in powdered wigs.

  “Sir, kindly tell the court the address at which you reside,” his elderly barrister queried. The packed court sat hushed, in nervous silence, as they waited Mike’s answer.

  “At 1532 West Georgenian street sir, in Chicago.” Murmurs from the court room as Mike sat innocence incarnate, and the victim of G.O.D.’s derelict power.

  Doug glowered from the plaintiff’s bench, shaking his fist as Mike spoke.

  “A fine residence to be sure, and is this your home?” His barrister adjusted the pince-nez spectacles which sat pinched at the end of his nose as he waited Mike’s answer.

  “No sir, my parents. I live in the damp basement on a weathered pull out couch.” Mike looked at the ground, despondent at what he was about to say, and continued, “I am a classic example of failure to launch. My fuse would not light.”

  Gasps of shock rang out from all over the courtroom. A beautiful woman in the front row fainted. The judge pounded the gavel and demanded order.

  The plaintiff’s barrister cried out, “Objection!”

  Undeterred by the crowd’s reaction, Mike’s barrister went on, “Now kind sir, is it a long drive to work?”

  “It is. Long and very dangerous.” Mike rubbed his chin for emphasis, a pained look on his face as he recollected the perils of his daily commute and the improbability that he was still alive
.

  “How so?”

  “I drive a Yugo, with a donut tire on one of the four wheels.” A distressed look came onto Mike’s face as he told the truth. Screams and chaos from the courtroom as the audience rose up, no longer able to control themselves, and reacted to the injustice. In a pronounced Cockney accent, a working class man deep in the recesses of the crowd shouted, “You can’t sue those who can’t launch.”

  As the courtroom disintegrated into chaos, the audience stormed the witness stand and carried Mike towards the exit. The constables, frozen in terror, stood as if made of stone. The crowd’s passion to free Mike was more than they could control.

  The judge, wig now askance and unable to restore order, pounded the bench with his gavel and declared that he would not tolerate this perversion of justice.

  Mike fought to focus on the events at hand, as he felt himself pulled further into the fantasy. Leaving the high court of England behind, Mike returned to the present to find Doug standing, his chair knocked over on its side, and about to conclude the meeting.

  Doug ignored the carnage, leaned forward, and placed the palms of both hands on his desk. He looked Mike, Cuddy, and Mary, in the eyes as he spoke, “I’m not taking questions at this time. We will meet in twelve months, at the next Board Meeting in 2007, at which time you will have completed what I’ve asked, or; Mary, you will be replaced with a younger, prettier and more competent you; Cuddy, you will be returned to the primordial ooze of the janitorial ranks from which you rose; and, Mike, you will be sued in a court of law.”

  Looking down, Doug shook his head in disgust and cursed. He wiped the top of his right shoe on the back of his left leg’s pant.

  Cuddy bit his tongue to keep from laughing. Immediately after Alan’s death, Cuddy had Wayne lower the urinals to ground level, and his plan appeared to be working. It looked as if Doug had pissed all over his shoes as his height conspired against him. Cuddy was certain if a man stood around in wet socks all day he would collapse psychologically and surrender.

  Mary started to object that there was no one prettier than she, at which point Doug raised his hands from the table, palms facing outward, and repeated what he’d just said, “I’m not taking questions at this time. Talk to the hand.” Doug walked over and closed his door.

  “But, but, but…” Cuddy stammered not wanting Mary to have the last word.

  Doug had effectively pitted his direct reports against one another. For Mary to move the system into production, she needed Cuddy and Mike to sign-off. There was no way Cuddy would ever sign-off since it would concede his claim on the throne. For Cuddy to improve productivity, he’d need IT’s help to automate manual tasks. Since IT now reported to Mary it was a sure bet she’d never help him. Mike was screwed. He had no say in when they shipped or to whom, yet he was accountable for reducing bad debt and collecting the patient’s co-pays. Compounding Mike’s problem, unlike Cuddy into whom Operations, Human Resources and Facilities reported, and Mary into whom Sales, Marketing, Legal and IT reported, he had no staff. Of greater concern, Mike still had no idea what a CFO did.

  Alone in his office, door closed, Doug quickly checked the stock price. He hoped to discover the price had magically risen of its own volition. Regrettably, he found the stock a couple of pennies down, and cursed as he slammed his fist off the desk. Then, resigned that the only thing left in his power was prayer, he bowed his head. He prayed that whatever serendipity previously drove the stock price returned, comet-like, to rescue him. His day’s work complete, Doug changed into a track suit and basketball shoes, and left his office. He was certain he could make the courts in time for a couple of quick pick-up basketball games, and a frosty forty ounces of malt liquor, before he was due home. He planned to check the stock again when he got home and see if his prayers were answered.

  In the hallway, Doug turned towards the elevators and broke into a quick jog. He thought it best if no one saw him leaving work this early. As Doug ran down the hall, the executive elevator’s resident bodyguard stepped forward, unclipped the velvet rope, and pulled it to the side. Doug stepped into the elevator, around the desk, and sat in his chair. The burly guard returned the velvet rope to its rightful position, stepped back into the elevator, and pressed Ground. The elevator’s doors closed.