Horse's Ass

  Chapter Seven

  Doug ran G.O.D. from a bully pulpit, and was known for his screaming diatribes based on half-truths and misunderstandings, and inability to make executive decisions. A former division III basketball player, Doug stood six feet eleven inches and hovered near his college playing weight. Oddly, most people didn’t mention his height or fitness when asked to describe him; rather they recalled the size of his enormous head. On the internal newsletters and propaganda that piled up in the common spaces of the various floors it was common to find pictures of Doug defaced with, ‘Space for Rent,’ written across his giant forehead by bitter employees.

  Chief among a sizable list of Doug’s character flaws was an inability to ask questions for clarification. This shortcoming emerged shortly after Doug ascended from the leper colony as the new CEO. Under the impression that CEOs are all knowing, and to avoid the perception that he wasn’t, he stopped asking questions and instead turned to other less proven management aids. Doug’s lack of inquisitiveness became analogous to the pinhole that undermines the dyke, and subsequently the town the dyke protects. It would result in millions of dollars of modern art buried deep in the earth, his bankruptcy, and a fear the IRS would, one day, tattoo his forehead with the logo of the highest paying big box retailer.

  Whatever incompetence Doug exhibited that couldn’t be directly ascribed the flaw noted above, likely stemmed from his failure to manage his calendar. He never scheduled key reviews, and routinely declined invitations to attend meetings at which his participation was required. He was also plagued with an inability to join the few meetings he graced with his presence at the scheduled start. It was as if he’d been born twenty minutes late and never caught up. The result was Doug’s derailment of meetings underway, his refusal to sign-off on key milestones since he had not been kept apprised of the situation, his eventual sign-off under threat of mutiny, and his inevitable reneging on his sign-off when he realized, in a panic, he had no idea what the hell he’d agreed to.

  As CEO, Doug mistook the stock’s ascent for his management prowess. This misunderstanding drove his sense of superiority, and the subsequent realization that his executive mind should no longer be troubled with details. He hadn’t worried about details and the stock rose. No further proof was required. Inspired by a fortune cookie, within which was written, “The mundane should never burden great minds,” Doug decided to no longer concern himself with particulars and began to wander in a fugue regarding G.O.D.’s operations. This sudden change in perspective freed Doug from the hassles of running the company. It also opened up his afternoons to play pick-up basketball on the public housing courts, where we was affectionately called, Old White Money.

  While utterly incompetent in any leadership capacity, Doug played a wickedly good basketball game. Able to sink three pointers at will, and drive the lane, he was always among the first picked when teams were formed. Doug saw his athleticism as further testament to his preeminence and worth as CEO.

  In 2002, when the stock began to climb in value, Doug was convinced by his wife, Aspen, to allow her to create a service award statue he could bestow on the employee of the year. Bored, unemployed, and socially competitive, Aspen decided late in life her calling was art. The statue validated Aspen’s view of herself as an important artist, and provided Doug a means of celebrating worker achievement without spending any money. Doug liked the idea of rewarding employees without cash, shook the Magic 8 Ball (yes- definitely), and readily agreed. It turned out Wilma was correct; Doug was managing G.O.D. with the Magic 8 Ball.

  Aspen’s vision for the award was a three foot tall copper sculpture in the style of a 1950s ad executive; tall, thin, and broad shouldered. The angular statue's hands were to be in his pockets from which cash poured forth. Having completed and subsequently painted the sculpture she then placed it in a kiln to dry. At this point things broke badly. When the statue emerged from the kiln, hours later, it had melted and collapsed in on itself. The ad executive’s spine was now bent into a pronounced S shape, and the sculpture featured a large penis-like bulge at the front of the trousers. With his hands in his pockets, slouched posture, and fedora melted to cover his eyes, the service award looked like a pervert playing with himself.

  Aspen broke into tears when she saw the finished product, but Doug proclaimed it just the thing; he would give it to Cuddy. Aspen struggled to separate treasure from trash and with Doug’s enthusiastic review reconsidered her position and realized this must be fine, modern art. From Doug’s perspective, it worked out perfectly. Cuddy received a backhanded reward for Separate Orders, and had to haul the pervert statue around at the awards banquet for four hours. When the staff bowled over in hysterics upon its presentation, Doug immediately named the statue The Chubby. Doug commissioned a second statue, years later, to reward Alan for the Combine Orders program.

  The Chubby would not be Aspen’s only attempt to introduce art to G.O.D. Her second attempt ended in The Debacle, when Aspen bought several million dollars worth of modern art, using company funds, to decorate G.O.D.’s lobby. About six months prior to The Debacle, at the 2004 Board Meeting, The Board mandated, in an act of great munificence, Doug spend several million dollars in a manner consistent with G.O.D.’s mission. Doug was clueless on how to spend the money, given he had no idea what G.O.D.’s mission was and never entertained asking The Board for direction.

  When Aspen learned of the money, she jumped at the opportunity to use it to atone for a slight mishap among Chicago’s modern art cognoscenti. Doug had presented The Chubby at the awards ceremony, and as rewarding as he found humiliating Cuddy to be his instincts told him encouraging Aspen’s love of art was a very bad idea. Aspen continued to press, and Doug found it hard to tell her no. Her long blonde hair, tight black yoga pants, and flirtatious nature were very demanding.

  As seductive and persuasive as she could be, Doug vacillated until the Magic 8 Ball provided the necessary guidance. Under pressure to make a decision, as the 2005 Board Meeting loomed, Doug asked whether he should give Aspen the money and shook the Magic 8 ball. To his surprise, “Signs Point to Yes,” showed through the display window of the icosahedra polygon. “For the love of God, finally!” Doug rejoiced. He was clear on how to proceed, and Aspen was again given a chance to bring art to G.O.D.

  Having realized her full potential as a sculpture, Aspen had changed focus from artist to aficionado and declared modern art her passion and raison d’etre. Absent a formal art education, she chose the discipline of modern art given its meaning is open to the most varied of interpretations. How best to explain a giant piece of white canvas with a tiny green dot in the middle?

  “It’s God’s view of man.”

  “No, it’s a unicorn’s tear.”

  It’s tough to be wrong. That said several months’ earlier Aspen had an embarrassing mishap. Walking through the esteemed Art Institute of Chicago, with a half dozen of her art maven friends, she climbed up on a ladder in the middle of the modern art wing. Aspen’s group of wealthy and bored ladies wasn’t certain what Aspen stood upon, but none suggested she climb down. Standing atop what she was certain was intended to be an interactive experience, arms wind milling to keep her balance as she stood nearly ten feet in the air, Aspen extolled the artist’s powerful representation of dystopian society and existentialism. The group surrounding Aspen grew as random persons joined in to hear this self declared docent’s critique of the exhibit. The air grew ripe with impending disaster.

  In reality, the custodian had placed a ladder and toolbox in the middle of the hallway. He was in the middle of replacing a light bulb when he realized he needed a screwdriver, and stepped away to get it. Before the sizable crowd that had formed around her, Aspen’s embarrassment hit the high water mark when the custodian told her, “Get the hell off my ladder. I am damn well sick and tired of you uppity white bitches causing me grief. Goddamn women you never work a day in your life now you gonna fa
ll off my ladder and gets me fired. Sheeit!” Aspen climbed down from the ladder, red faced, as her socially competitive friends laughed loudly at her expense.

  Retelling the story later that night to Doug she was emphatic, “I’m convinced it was the artist telling me to get off his ladder. The abuse was a necessary element of his art.”

  Doug’s response rattled her, “I think you were on the janitor’s ladder.”

  Unfortunately for those at G.O.D., most of Aspen’s art friends, who had clustered about the ladder hoping for further misadventure as Aspen struggled to climb down in her stilettos, had well established affiliations with particular artists and styles of art; the shock of photography had been claimed by Muffie; neon art was owned by Aby; the experience of sound sat under Kitty’s control; mobiles were Laura’s; and, in a move Aspen thought total bullshit, Trixie had surreptitiously claimed the bizarre world of edible art. With most of the medium spoken for, Aspen felt forced to declare herself the patron saint of the virtually unknown space of scented art.

  Aspen was vaguely familiar with a local militant, vegan artist, Stinky Pete, who incorporated dramatic smells into his porcelain, childlike renderings of animals such as chickens, skunks, cows, and pigs. The white statues stood nearly twelve feet tall, and were infused with malodorous scents. Aspen had never seen, or smelled, his work and was unaware he considered Evil Kitty, a giant cat, his crowning achievement. Stinky Pete’s work had never been featured in an indoor gallery for intuitive reasons, but Aspen was less concerned about the art than that she could claim a multi-million dollar exhibit; the true benchmark of the art world and guaranteed atonement for past transgressions in high society.

  With Doug’s blessing, Aspen contacted Stinky and commissioned a multi-million dollar exhibit. Beginning late Friday, on a hot summer afternoon, and working ceaselessly through the weekend, the artist transformed the lobby of G.O.D.’s corporate office into Aspen’s vision of a modern art museum. The three oversized statues, Evil Kitty, Fecal Bunny and Hating Goose, blocked the sunlight and crammed the lobby. To pass through security and access the elevators the employees would need to form a twisting, single file line.

  Minutes before the employees began to file in for work Stinky poured fifty gallons of toxic concentrate into the giant diffusers each statue contained. Aspen and the artist then ran to the security room to watch the reaction of the staff on the closed circuit TV monitors. Aspen was certain the impact the artist intended, and she sought, had been achieved as the un-expecting masses walked headlong into the respective smells of rotting garbage and feed lots.

  “The power of art,” Aspen exclaimed from the backroom as she clutched the artist’s hand.

  “Look,” the artist said excitedly. His hand shook as he pointed at the employees fleeing the lobby as if it were on fire. “They are running back outside, even jumping through the windows, to share their experience with the uninitiated.” Packed inside the lobby, and unable to breathe, the employees began to panic and poured like rats from a burning ship.

  “This is perfect,” Aspen beamed.

  An hour later, and unaware of the melee brewing, Doug entered the building via his private entrance and heard a brouhaha in the direction of the lobby. He was surprised the building reeked of sewer water, and made a mental note to ask Cuddy what was going on. The stench was blinding, and he wasn’t anywhere near the front entrance. Doug elected to skip the elevator and took the stairs. Doug liked to sneak up the stairs whenever it looked like employees might be hanging about the lobby waiting for the elevator; best to avoid forced dialogue that always stalemated into awkward silences or discussions about the weather or traffic.

  Exiting from the stairs and onto the executive floor Doug was met head on by an angry mob that had gathered outside his office. Among them, he was certain, was the unknown saboteur that had nearly killed him by throwing the computer out the window. His instincts also told him that the mob likely contained the mastermind of the business card mishap. (With Alan’s death, the paperwork to fire Sue was misplaced, and no one ever figured out who was responsible for the cards. Most incorrectly assumed it was Nels.)

  The angry mob of a few dozen employees, led by Nels, demanded to know why shareholder money should be used to buy the crap that now blocked the lobby. Doug had a hell of a time understanding what they were saying. They all had their noses and mouths covered with napkins, towels, pretty much anything to filter the air. More popular than Doug would have guessed were the adult diapers many had taped around their heads in a last ditch effort to remain conscious. Struggling to understand what the hell they were talking about, it eventually became clear; they were asking Doug his opinion of the art. Doug felt blindsided and naked without his Magic 8 Ball or consultants. With the money he paid those consultants they should have forewarned him as to what his wife had done, and been standing between him and these Goddamn workers.

  “Assholes!” Doug shouted at the employees, then ran into his office, slammed the door, and left the unattended mob in the hall.

  Tipped off by Nels, the press arrived a few hours later and scored the main event for the evening’s news when they filmed biohazard donning firefighters removing the art, towing it to a landfill, and burying it deep in the Earths’ belly. With their backs against the wall, The Board issued a press release in which they apologized for the misunderstanding and clarified G.O.D.’s position on community giving. Doug blamed himself. He knew he should have waited until the Magic 8 Ball was definitive in its position before empowering Aspen. “Never, never again do I doubt the Magic 8 Ball,” he muttered, then added, “my psycho, nut job of a wife needs a boyfriend.”

  The Debacle helped clarify Doug’s lingering feeling that he hated being G.O.D.’s CEO. He pretty much hated Aspen too for convincing him the fourth time would be the charm when he re-married. Doug’s wants in life were simple. He wants his equity in G.O.D. to move back into the money, and he wants to hang out with Chicago’s south side, unemployed urban youth drinking 40 ounce bottles of malt liquor, playing basketball, and talking trash.

  In his first, decisive move since he became CEO, Doug had one of the two elevators re-purposed for his personal and uninterrupted. He didn’t need the Magic 8 Ball to tell him this was the right thing to do, although he confirmed his plan with the prognostic black globe. With Doug actively working to avoid all unnecessary interaction with the unclean masses, the staff now waited twice as long for elevators. In his elevator Doug installed a desk, small leather couch, potted fern, bookcase, and a tasteful picture of a non-descript woodland setting. His auxiliary office created the illusion that a private elevator allowed him to make productive use of the time he traveled to and from the sixth floor. It was also a highly visible testament to his commitment to the company.

  In his second, decisive move, and consistent with his new found hatred for those that worked for him, Doug began to speak only to the myriad consultants that followed him around like imprinted ducklings. Doug’s new modus operandi, under the context of improving communication, was to funnel everything through the consultants. In practice, Doug whispered into one of the consultant’s ears who would then repeat what Doug said. If the staff needed to tell Doug something, they reversed the process. It was a little awkward when Doug, the staff, and the consultants, sat at the same table or participated on a conference call. Awkward became problematic when Doug misheard one of the consultants comment on the $100 million dollar IT investment and Doug thought he was to make certain the system tracked, “patient pets.” Not prone to asking questions, Doug would later learn the consultant said, “patient’s debt.”

  A year ago, with the serendipity that drove G.O.D.’s fortune long gone and the stock on a slow and steady fall, Doug panicked and embraced the ludicrous position of trying to fix the revenue problem by cutting costs. In other industries, this form of financial remedy resulted in cruise ships emptying their septic into the sea, and auto companies running cost b
enefit analysis on the human carnage of exploding gas tanks and sticky accelerators.

  Doug’s first try to cut costs was an attempt to fire employees without incurring any wrongful termination lawsuits. Having been previously burned when he fired a pregnant, black, Muslim director in the IT department who refused to use the staff elevator, Doug followed Barry’s sage advice and avoided using age, race, religion, gender, pregnancy or performance as a basis for firing. Limited in his options, Doug found inspiration in his wife’s paint set and based his cost reduction plan on the color of the employee’s shirt. Once a week Doug spun the color wheel, and those employees whose shirt matched the targeted color were herded into a conference room. Doug then typically called into the conference room while driving to the basketball court and fired them, en masse, via speakerphone. Initially the strategy seemed to be working. However, Doug’s plans went fully awry when a group of necessary middle managers were terminated when they all wore blue dress shirts on a day unkind to the short wavelength of the visible spectrum.

  The staff reacted to Doug’s methods by investing considerable effort to avoid being let go. To remain employed they dressed in black and white, values not found on the color wheel, and embraced the survival tactics of the zebra. Although an individual dressed in black and white stood in stark contrast against the office’s uninspired shades of brown, as a crowd they blended together creating a single, confusing entity. Huddled in large groups, as they moved as a herd, they loaded their calendars with bogus appointments to create a pretext for denying any meeting whose ulterior motive might be the pink slip. It was rare anyone answered their phone. These unintended consequences, forced Doug, at least temporarily, to change course. The stock continued to fall.

  With no end to the stock’s fall in sight, Doug embarked on his second cost reduction initiative. Unlike Alan, Doug noticed the disclaimers that adorned his executive parachute and thought Golden Showers outsourcing of quality control, in which the customer was accountable, was brilliant. This was a lot like car brakes. It didn’t matter if all the brakes worked. You only needed the brakes to work on the cars of those persons who would sue you if their brakes failed, and that wasn’t everyone. Outsourcing quality control naturally selected for those patients who received the wrong medication, and cared enough to call. Doug pondered his logic, “Why pay for a quality control process that included all shipments? Why pay for quality control when the patient doesn’t care or notice they received the wrong drugs?” Doug knew this wasn’t a long term solution, but all he needed was to get the stock back into the money, and he was gone.

  When Doug decided to move his outsourced quality control vision into the pilot phase, and test it in select geographies, he put in motion the events that culminated in his bankruptcy and indenture. With G.O.D. no longer checking what was in the box, Doug stood blindly at the helm and oblivious to the reef that lay ahead, like captains of cruise ships and oil tankers are wont to do. As the stock continued to lose value, immune to Doug’s cost reduction efforts, Doug embraced Lord Jim’s strategy and became the first of the management team to try and abandon ship. Unfortunately for Doug, as he prepared to fall into the lifeboat, he fumbled his attempt to cash out his stock options and incurred a multi-million dollar tax bill that he can’t service until the stock price rises.

  Doug’s stock options allowed him to buy 5.2 million shares of stock for a nickel per share. At the time the stock was trading for $8.00 per share, offering Doug the opportunity to make $7.95 per share. He could exercise the options, immediately sell the stock, and walk away with a retirement sized check of almost $25 million after tax. Or, he could exercise the options and keep the stock. The latter would only make sense if the options were expiring and Doug thought the stock was likely to rise in value. This was not the case. When Doug called his broker to initiate the transaction, his broker offered Doug several means through which to exercise his options: Same Day Sale, Sell to Cover, or Cash Exercise. The choices confused Doug, but Doug didn’t feel it was worth the risk of being perceived as an idiot by asking for clarification. Without understanding the consequences, Doug shook the Magic 8 Ball and went with option three.

  With option three, Doug incurred a tax bill of $16.5 million dollars a few weeks after the transactions settled. He also had to pay another quarter million dollars for the stock. Unfortunately, in the window between when he exercised his options and learned of his tax liability the stock price fell and rendered his holdings valueless. The precipitating event to plummet the stock was an angry blog from a customer, Helen, which lay bare the customer service issues she experienced as a result of Doug’s quality control outsourcing. However, per the federal tax law, Doug remained responsible for the tax bill regardless of whether he made any money. Showing great mercy, the IRS agreed to a plan that allowed Doug to keep his material possessions, provided Doug remained gainfully employed as CEO and met the terms of the payment schedule.

  Standing before the IRS agent, head hung in shame and hands folded neatly and prayer like in front of him, Doug showed his contrite side as the IRS agent lambasted him. “You and your ginormous head are on mighty thin ice. Consensus in the office is we ought to rent that enormous forehead of yours for advertising space, but as it stands you can keep working and pay off the debt. One slip up and we’ll tattoo that melon with the logo of the highest paying big box retailer.” From a few feet away the agent held his hands up and framed Doug’s head with his thumbs and fingers and imagined the tattoo.

  Doug nodded that he understood, eyes wide with fear. To avoid looking like an imbecile Doug didn’t ask whether the agent was serious.

  Doug is now as indentured a servant as the entry position plebes he mostly kept on the fourth floor. That is until the stock breaks the magical $8.00 price, and he pays his tax bill. To that end, Doug checks the stock every fifteen minutes and screams at the unmoving value as a paraplegic might scream at his legs to restore movement. Further complicating his life, Doug needs to replace Alan before The Chairman selects the next CFO and inserts a spy into the organization.