Horse's Ass
Chapter Fourteen
Mike pushed his Yugo into the first spot he found after it stalled as he turned into G.O.D.’s parking lot, and walked to the front door. On his way he passed the small bump in the concrete where Alan hit, and skirted around the bright yellow, plastic tape which flapped uselessly in the wind as it declared in bold, black letters: Police Line - Do Not Cross. It was a little after eleven in the morning when he made his way through the heavy revolving doors and into the lobby.
Unlike twenty four hours ago, the oversized TV monitors in the lobby no longer flashed corporate propaganda of employees (hired actors) showing great satisfaction in their dreary work. These same TVs now showed a short black and white, grainy film of Mary picking her nose in the elevator and wiping her finger on the button panel. It was clearly the work of Cuddy and his henchman. Accompanying the looping video Janet Jackson’s song, Nasty, blared from the tinny speakers in the ceiling. The war was on.
Facilities were a lesser known organization within Cuddy’s fiefdom that reported into Wayne. Wayne wasn’t just the volunteer Fire Marshal; he oversaw building maintenance, security, and office supplies. Most saw facilities as a necessary evil, with no value in building a corporate empire. Cuddy held a contrarian’s perspective on this topic, however. As a schoolyard bully Cuddy was well versed in the persuasive powers of physical discomfort and embarrassment and saw facilities as a strategic asset given the ever present, “trust but verify” surveillance cameras, the corporate TV station, and other mundane, but important, aspects of daily comfort.
Of late, most of Wayne’s time was consumed with adjusting the height of the urinal based on who Cuddy perceived as his main adversary. Cuddy had yet to figure out the means by which to convince Mary he was the rightful heir to the CEO’s job, and that she should relinquish her claim, but given time he was sure he’d think of something. In the meantime, Wayne was under strict orders to monitor the surveillance cameras and find any, and all, unflattering events in Mary’s day and report them directly to Cuddy. Cuddy’s foresight had paid off. Late yesterday the security detail informed him Mary had defaced the elevator. Cuddy reviewed the tape and ordered Wayne to loop it on the corporate TV channel as an educational service to the employees. It wasn’t enough to get her fired, but he could mortify her while he plotted her downfall. Cuddy called a couple of local television stations, and the Tribune, to see if they’d find the video newsworthy. Unfortunately for Cuddy, none expressed any interest.
Mike skipped the elevator and walked up the stairs. He wasn’t certain whether he was allowed to use Doug’s elevator. It wasn’t discussed in the staff meeting, and he didn’t want to get fired on his second day as CFO for such an easily avoided breach. With nearly the entire company hating him, Mike also didn’t want to deal with the snide comments he was sure to encounter when he pushed, 6, the executive floor, in the crowded, staff elevator. Slightly out of breath he reached his new floor and worked his way over to his office. On the way he stopped in the pantry and poured himself a cup of coffee.
The restoration crew had his office back to its original condition, and as he’d predicted the, Not an Exit, placard was defaced with both a giant penis and devil horns. Studying the artwork he settled into the large leather chair, and, for kicks, put his feet on the desk. Although he’d only been up for a few hours yesterday’s events conspired against him, and he struggled to remain awake. The pleasant smell of leather and wood polish, the hushed calm of the executive floor, and the ridiculous comfort of the office chair with his feet elevated were too much. In what seemed like an instant he was startled awake by his phone.
“Mike this is Cuddy. Get your sorry ass over here.”
Mike repeated the end of Cuddy’s sentence and then caught his reflection in the newly installed window. He must have nodded off for longer than he thought. The argyle pattern of the chair was pressed deep into his face. He rubbed vigorously to remove the telltale signs of napping. As he stood, he grabbed the cup of coffee he’d set on his desk before he’d nodded off and found it to be room temperature. Having slept longer than he’d expected he would need to revisit the pantry and reheat the coffee with the microwave. The latest fire alarm incident resulted in the removal of all microwaves except those on the sixth floor. Mike felt lucky he’d have piping hot coffee for his visit to Cuddy’s office. Life really was better as the CFO.
Hot coffee in hand, Mike whistled as he walked the short distance down the hall. He found Cuddy’s door closed, and rapped lightly. Cuddy grunted from inside to confirm it was Mike, and told him to come in and quickly close the door. Inside, the shades were drawn, lights off, and it reeked of urine. It took a second for Mike’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. Sight restored, Mike found Cuddy standing before him in his tighty-whitey underwear, Princess Leia t-shirt, sporting a large yellow stain on the belly, black socks, and dress shoes. Behind Cuddy, on its own white pillar, was The Chubby award. Cuddy’s pants and shirt hung from the erection like bulge. “Close the door, boy,” Cuddy boomed.
“The door!” Mike repeated. Then realizing the possible implications of the situation, he hurriedly added, “This makes me extremely uncomfortable.” Mike stood, frozen in the darkened office with the door closed. On the wall opposite Mike hung a picture of Hippie Helen taken from her newscast. Her eyes were scratched white, several of her teeth were blacked out, and a fumanchu mustache decorated her upper lip. Penned on top of her head, and drawn suspiciously like those that defaced the placard in Mike’s office, were devil horns.
Cuddy told him to shut the hell up and sit down. He pointed at the visitor’s chair indicating where Mike should sit. Unable to stop himself at the implication of being alone with Cuddy in his underwear Mike sat. He remembered Rico’s warnings about keeping Cuddy close, but not to close, and squeezed his butt cheeks until they ached.
Cuddy shuffled to the corner of his office and pulled a large piece of fabric off what Mike incorrectly assumed was a new bookshelf. Underneath sat an antique exercise machine with a large leather belt. The rage in the 1950s, the idea was you could vibrate fat into muscle. An idea later proved scientifically unsound, but popular at the time. Mike didn’t bother to ask why it was in Cuddy’s office, nor why Cuddy appeared to be about to strap himself into it wearing his underwear and dress shoes. Cuddy answered the question in Mike’s mind as he stepped onto the machine and strapped the belt around his waist.
“This is all about exercising without effort. My fine Irene says I need to get to less than five hundred pounds or we are going to break the bed and cause the home some structural damage. You know I can’t quit that good thing.” Cuddy winked. “Hell, I figure I can shake off thirty pounds by the end of next week. Wayne recommended this, found a bunch in an old warehouse.” Cuddy closed his eyes, leaned into the belt, and flipped on the machine. The floor shook. It was deafening.
Looking around the office Mike saw the carpet under Cuddy’s chair irreversibly peppered with grease and oil. Quarter size spots stood dark against the carpet’s beige color. Between the keys on Cuddy’s keyboard, peanut shells and pretzels littered the spaces. The wall near the trash bin was covered in stains. A lone French fry stuck like wet spaghetti to the ceiling, and a half-eaten jelly donut sat on a book shelf. The cleaning crew faced a daily, monumental task against this formidable opponent.
Cuddy abruptly began to shout over the cacophony, “I don’t give a damn how you ended up working here with your credentials. I truly do not. Truth be told, I don’t think I’d ever seen you before Doug called you up. However, I am willing to allow you to join the big man on Team Cuddy. And you know why you want to be on my team? First and foremost, at this level in the organization, you don’t have to deal with the damn customers.” He opened his eyes and pointed at the vandalized picture of Helen. “They suck. They complain. They make your life hell. ‘Oh,’” he mimicked, “’you sent me the wrong medicine.’ Get over it honey, nobody
lives forever.”
Cuddy paused, as the exercise impacted his breathing. “Second we build an alliance and when I ascend the throne you are my boy. Now, you may be thinking you’ll claim the CEO spot as your own, or maybe side with Mary. That would be damn foolish. I assure you, you will be working in the mail room by day’s end if you’re not on my team. Regarding the CFO role, you and I both know you don’t know shit from Shinola. I seen you surfing Wikipedia. I see everything.”
Mike sat tall and straight in his chair, nervous he’d been found out as a fraud. His hand shook as he took a sip of coffee. Cuddy was clear on what he wanted and the ramifications if Mike didn’t behave accordingly. As Cuddy shook on the machine, the office began to smell strangely of grapefruits and ammonia. Mike moved his hand in front of his nose and mouth in an effort to filter whatever contaminants he could from the air he breathed. He focused on taking short, shallow breaths.
Beads of perspiration began to show on Cuddy’s head. “I am in a battle for control of G.O.D.’s future. Doug isn’t long for his role. The minute Doug’s options are back in the money he’s gone, and damned if I’m not going to be the next CEO. Plus a lot of the board members ain’t fond of Doug.” Cuddy lowered his voice, bent forward at the waist, and whispered, “They ain’t convinced he got the skills. The say it about him behind his back.” Cuddy repeated himself, “Ain’t got the skills,” and nodded slowly to confirm what he said was true. “Me, I’ve got skills.” Cuddy pointed at himself with his thumb, bumping the large yellow stain on his shirt. The tip of his thumb turned yellow, and Cuddy stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked on it.
“With Alan gone, it comes down to me or Mary, and I ain’t working for no skirt. No way I’m working for that hoochie mama.” Cuddy adjusted the leather belt which had fallen below his enormous belly and now appeared to be sawing him in half. “My goal is to make certain Mary doesn’t realize the goals Doug laid out in his staff meeting. Let me make this clear, we are at war with Mary and that little, bald dipshit Shap. I want Mary castrated, like a tunic.”
Overwhelmed at Cuddy jiggling on the machine, and his bluntness in planning to destroy Mary and Shap, Mike repeated, “Tunic! Tunic!” Then, without realizing it, he corrected Cuddy, “I think the word you mean is eunuch. I don’t think women can become eunuchs.” The blended smell of ammonia, urine, and citrus grew, and Mike covered his nose with his other hand.
“I swear to God I’m going to stab you in the ear with a pencil, boy.” Cuddy shook his head in anger. Or, it might have been the machine shaking Cuddy’s head. Mike struggled to read Cuddy’s body chemistry while Cuddy shook on the vintage Battle Creek Health Builder.
“You understand my message, boy? Your job is to help me derail Mary and either complete Shap’s mental breakdown or send him back to India. I’m giving you a choice. With Shap, I’ve given you a big head start. You seen that scar he’s sporting?” Cuddy squealed in delight remembering his marksmanship. “That boy got the reflexes of a heroin addict.”
In his big Nebraska voice, Cuddy made it clear, “Ain’t no way in hell I’m signing off on a system that can’t manage pets. The system has gotta manage pets.” As Cuddy shook, he wondered how anyone could be stupid enough to overlook the obvious need for a specialty pharmacy’s computer system to consider the patient’s pets out of scope. Cuddy knew of Doug’s refusal to sign-off and piled on. “Plus, I’ve solved how to meet the goal Doug assigned me without Mary’s help, and I sure as hell ain’t to be helping her. Damn if I ain’t to be the next CEO.”
Cuddy began to sweat profusely. Shaking on the machine was proving more difficult than he’d expected. “Now let me provide you some business insights. The issue we have in this company is a lack of food to fatten the piggies. You provide more food, the employee works harder and become more productive. This is the type of thing books get written about. I’m talking meaningful books. Now let me pose a question, What do you think is the food?”
Mike had no idea what Cuddy was talking about, and his situational echolalia engaged, “Food! Food!”
“Damn straight, you need food. Office supplies are that food, boy. Productive employees consume office supplies. If A equals B, then B equals A. Consumption of office supplies equals productivity, and, therefore, productivity equals consumption of office supplies. I plan to drive our employees’ productivity by forcing office supplies on them. I know how to feed the piggies, done that my whole life, and this ain’t no different. Farming pigs is all you need to know in life. You ever farm pigs?”
Before he could answer, Cuddy shook his head sadly in the negative. “Boy, you don’t know shit from Shinola. Pigs eat what you give em. More food means bigger pigs. All I gots to do is force office supplies on my staff, and they will become more productive. They become more productive, I get my bonus. I get my bonus, and I get to be the new CEO. I get to be the new CEO, I get to fire Mary.”
Cuddy closed the topic, “I want truckloads of office supplies delivered to the fourth floor. I am going to feed the fires of productivity.” Finished on that topic, Cuddy changed course. “I’m also very interested in pursuing operant conditioning as an employee motivational technique. You familiar with this? “
Mike nodded no. He had no idea what the hell Cuddy was talking about.
“Damn boy, you aint as bright as your credentials would lead us to believe. Operant conditioning proved itself by training chimps to fly. Christ, with that type of management tool you could triple productivity. Unfortunately, Mary’s got control over Legal, and you damn well know I’ll get no support I start hitting the low performers with cattle prods. I guarndamntee I’ll have orders shipping I hit those nine dollar an hour slackers with the prod.” Cuddy referred to the means which were used to teach chimpanzees to fly as man entered the race to reach the moon. The chimps were taught a command sequence with which to execute the buttons on the drive panel in the space capsule. Incorrectly executing the sequence resulted in painful electronic shocks. Over time, the chimpanzees learned to execute the procedure flawlessly to avoid electrocution.
Cuddy prattled on, and, upon further reflection revised his earlier offer to allow Mike to determine how best to undercut Shap, “That asshole Shap has got to be returned to India. I just can’t have him in the country no more. Once he’s out of the office, I can have Wayne unplug the server and disconnect him from the network. Then we fire the corporate travel agent, and he’ll be stuck in India. This is not that complicated. He is cheap and dumb. He will never pay the airfare to return, and it’ll be months before we select a new travel agency.”
Mike saw no value in pointing out Shap was Native American, not Indian.
“You’ll do well to side with me boy, I’ve a proven track record. See that award behind me?” Cuddy pointed to The Chubby which stood repurposed as a clothing rack. “I won that for increasing orders. I’m going to create a level of physical discomfort that will force Mary to quit. You see the video this morning?” Cuddy laughed his weird pig like laugh. “I want her penis on a plate!”
Softening his tone, Cuddy extended Mike an invitation to dine at the “casa de Cuddy” and enjoy some of Irene’s fine cooking. Visions of the pugs jumping on the dining table in the middle of dinner and running off with the chicken came to Mike, as he recalled Rico’s warning. He also remembered Rico’s traumatized whisperings of Cuddy’s open mouthed fury as he spoke, his mouth full, food flying everywhere, while Irene’s lazy eye rolled aimlessly in its socket. Mike was convinced the bravery required to dine with the MacDonald’s on their home court didn’t exist, and he readied to politely decline the invitation. At this point Cuddy’s chins and man boobs no longer shook in concert with his stomach, creating a vertiginous effect.
The disturbing image, combined with the dinner plate comment forced Mike an involuntary vurp, and a combination of baby vomit and burp nested in the back of his throat. Mike was certain Shap grew up in Det
roit, pretty sure Mary didn’t have a penis, and damn sure he needed out of Cuddy’s office before he threw up. Mike jumped up, clapped his hands together, and bolted out the door. As Mike ran from the office, the flab to muscle transmogrifier machine began to make a high pitched whine. Cuddy’s weight had gained the upper hand in the battle. With the air now ripe with the burned scent of ozone, the electrical engine moved into mechanical tachycardia.
“Step ‘n Fetch, get your ass in here,” Cuddy hollered for Wayne. While exercising, Cuddy had solved the problem of how best to persuade Mary to quit the race for CEO and time was wasting. He wanted Mary’s seat pitched downwards fifteen degrees, like a slide. Cuddy knew anyone that spent their day sliding off their seat, digging their clothes out of the crack of their butt, would break psychologically. Cuddy simply needed to give gravity an opportunity to exert its influence. He’d seen proven results through Alan’s interaction with gravity. Cuddy laughed maniacally at his brilliance, “Never underestimate the power of physical discomfort. Never. Mwah, ha, ha, mwah, ha, ha.”
Wayne laughed with him, his asymmetrical face contorted by his hyena like snorts.