Horse's Ass

  Chapter Nine

  Sitting in his office with the lights out Doug spun slow circles in his chair as he puzzled out Alan’s replacement. Inherent limitations in the Magic 8 ball restricted its management value to only confirming or denying selections, it was of no value identifying candidates, and Doug simply did not have the energy or interest to speak each employees name and shake the ball looking for direction. As he was considering the value an Ouija Board might offer in helping him out of his predicament, Doug had a vague recollection of an application the consultants had hurriedly installed to identify employees most suitable to fill mission-critical, open positions. The positions stood open after Doug fired the blue shirted managers.

  The software application Doug recalled, The Hand Job, was a talent management tool that could identify the ideal candidate to fill an open position. It matched job requirements with skills and experience. The fifty dollar piece of software came on a single CD and installed in three minutes. As the system was installed, the consultants needed to test it to confirm it worked. In what was to become a life changing event for Mike, he was randomly selected as the test case to prove the system. In creating the test case, the high school intern who loaded the CD fabricated Mike’s education, work history, and civic achievements. According to The Hand Job, Mike had degrees from Harvard, Yale, and the Sorbonne. He was also the recipient of a couple of Noble Prizes (economics and physics), a Heisman, and hosted his own cooking show. The analyst loaded a picture of Mike to his profile. In the picture Mike was sound asleep, snoring at his desk.

  Doug removed the Magic 8 Ball from his pocket, mumbled a question, shook vigorously, and flipped the 8 Ball belly up. He then leaned over and whispered intently into the ear of a consultant seated cross-legged on a pillow at the end of his desk. The consultant hopped off the pillow and ran out the door. A few minutes after the consultant ran from Doug’s office, he returned with Wilma at his side. They stood in the doorway facing Doug.

  Wilma spoke, “Hi Doug, what’s up?”

  The consultant immediately stepped in front of Wilma, preventing her from seeing Doug. “Speak only to me, I will relay the message.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Before Wilma’s question was answered, Doug spoke, “Tell Wilma I need the pig man in my office. No, inside my office would be a huge mistake, I want him in my doorway. I don’t want him in my office. I want him standing in my doorway in ten minutes. Make sure it’s clear he is not to enter the inner sanctum.”

  The consultant immediately restated Doug’s request. “Would you please ask Mr. Cuddy to stop by Doug’s office, but to remain in the hallway? His presence is requested in ten minutes.”

  Wilma stomped away.

  Moments later Cuddy appeared. As before the consultant stood blocking the doorway and facing outward. Cuddy shifted side to side trying to see Doug behind the consultant. The consultant was an adept defenseman and moved accordingly. Cuddy jumped up and down. The consultant placed his hands, palm outward, on top of his head to block Cuddy’s view.

  “Mr. Cuddy has arrived sir.”

  “Tell the human pork chop I need him to identify Alan’s replacement. Have Shap run The Hand Job and see if there is anyone in the company that can fill the role. One hour. I want to announce his replacement in an hour, before The Chairman inserts a spy into my organization.” Doug wrinkled his brow worrying about the possibility The Chairman’s nephew or niece might become the next CFO.

  The consultant repeated Doug’s directive nearly verbatim, the only change being to substitute, Mr. Cuddy, for, human pork chop.

  As Cuddy was about to leave Doug spoke, “Is Alan still in the bushes?” Doug’s furrowed brow returned. It would be damn embarrassing if Alan sat decomposing in the lot.

  Before the consultant could restate Doug’s question, Cuddy replied, “No. They took down the tape and shoveled him onto a giant trash bag. Apparently the parachute did a good job of keeping the splatter to a minimum. There is a little bump in the concrete, but you can barely tell what happened. I mean unless you look up and see the boarded window. Or look down to see the crows picking at the ground near where he hit.”

  In a breach of protocol, Doug leaned far to his right to see through the gap between the consultant’s body and the door jamb, and spoke directly to Cuddy, “The what? Crows? What are you talking about?”

  “Crows is hungry just like everybody else.” Cuddy’s world view revolved around the belief that everyone was hungry all the time.

  “Look, you fat sausage I need to you to run The Hand Job and figure out who replaces Alan.” The consultant repeated Doug’s directive verbatim, on top of his game once again, and pointed toward Cuddy’s office, indicating the meeting was over and Cuddy should return from whence he came.

  Cuddy walked back to his office, sat down, and used the speaker phone to call Shap, “Dipshit get in here.” Cuddy heard what sounded like a cup of coffee spill and Shap mutter, “Damn it.” Even after a year of working with Cuddy, Shap had yet to grow accustomed to Cuddy’s bellicose, abrasive nature.

  Minutes later Shap stood in Cuddy’s office. He looked more disheveled than usual. The front left side of his shirt was discolored from the wet paper towel he used to blot the coffee he spilled when Cuddy surprised him with the call. The sound of Cuddy’s voice often caused a Pavlovian knee jerk response.

  Shap formally announced his presence, “Shappa here.” He clicked his heels and stood at attention.

  “I Goddamn well know you’re here. I’m looking at you, you bald jack off. Look, I need you to run The Hand Job and find Alan’s successor. I want to see the names before they’re shown to anyone else.”

  “What criteria do you want me to use in our candidate search?” Shap’s tongue flicked in an out of his mouth and his nose scrunched up and down. Cuddy’s presence was a known trigger for his facial tic.

  “Jesus Christ Shap, I do not know. Maybe he should have a freaking Nobel prize, be a national sports hero, and been educated at the finest schools in Europe. Use your common sense boy and don’t push me for clarification where clarification is not necessary. Half-hour, I want the list.”

  Shap stood a minute longer, blinking and scrunching, as he finished writing out his meeting notes. On the top left of the page he wrote the date, time, and location, of his interaction with Cuddy. Below, he wrote a near verbatim transcription of their discussion. Shap was an excellent note taker. He asked Cuddy to initial his notes, but Cuddy told him to get the hell out of his office. In the corporate world of cover your ass, Shap’s note taking skills translated to long term employment.

  Shap ran back to his office and logged onto his computer. In the top left side of his screen was an icon of God’s hand, index finger extended to give life to Adam. It was a rip off of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel fresco. Below the icon were the words, The Hand Job. Shap double clicked the hand and the sound of thunder emanated from the computer’s speakers as it launched. The system asked him to specify the role and Shap scrolled down the list looking for CFO. His first hardship, CFO wasn’t an option. This meant he needed to call Alan’s assistant and find out the job he was filling.

  “Wilma, this is Shappa. Do you know what Alan’s title was?”

  “I know it’s you silly. I can tell by the phone.” Wilma flirted unabashedly with Shap, a powerful attraction to the bald thirty something Native American from Michigan.

  “Yes, cutting edge technology. Look, do you know Alan’s title?”

  “Alan had the consultant’s update his job title in anticipation of his coronation. He was the Exalted Chief Financial Officer. Sadly, he never lived to see the benefits of being exalted.”

  Shap scrolled down the list and found Exalted Chief Financial Officer from the drop down list of approved titles. He double clicked the title. At the system’s prompt he entered the criteria that would be used to identify appropriate candidates. Shap pulled ou
t his meeting notes and entered accordingly; European education, Nobel prize recipient, and sports hero. Instantly, Mike’s name appeared with a match score of 100%. “Holy shit! It worked.” It always surprised Shap when technology behaved as promised. Shap hit print and sent Mike’s profile to the printer.

  “Mike?” Shap laughed to himself, “no freaking way Mike has these credentials.” Shap had worked with Mike and knew him to be lazy and incompetent. Still pissed off about the system debacle, Shap couldn’t imagine a better way to stick it to upper management than to saddle them with Mike. He chuckled, thinking this would be like loading a dummy round in the chamber before a gun fight. Shap grabbed the profile and ran back to Cuddy’s office.

  “Cuddy, I have your man,” Shap exclaimed excitedly. He waved Mike’s profile in front of Cuddy as if fanning the air.

  “Bullshit. Let me see.” Cuddy rudely snatched the papers and scanned them quickly. “Well, I’ll be. A freaking rocket surgeon amongst us.” Cuddy pulled a small well thumbed notebook from his back pocket. Cuddy did not remember meeting Mike, even though the name was vaguely familiar Cuddy was pretty sure Mike had never darkened his doorway. Before Cuddy moved forward he wanted to make certain Mike wasn’t on his Mighty List of Slights.

  Cuddy’s Mighty List of Slights was a detailed register organized by date, severity, and offender, of any injustice, criticism, or denigration, to which Cuddy thought he had been subjected. Cuddy consulted this list on an hourly basis, and used it for everything from deciding whether to hold an elevator door open for someone to the size of bonuses paid at year’s end. The book confirmed that Mike was exactly what Cuddy wanted; a zero maintenance employee with whom Cuddy did not hold an existing beef. Cuddy figured he could easily manipulate Mike into siding with him in his ongoing feud with Mary, and his efforts to unseat Doug. Alan had proven unpredictable, aligning with either Mary or Cuddy per the topic at hand, and towards the end in the unforgivable position of lead candidate for next CEO.

  “Christ, he aint on the list,” Cuddy mumbled. It was then Cuddy realized Mike was one of the scapegoats Alan hired for the IT debacle. This was too good to be true. It was like being handed the keys to the kingdom. Doug would now promote the slacker that co-lead round two of the failed IT project. If Mike screwed up, and that was inevitable, it was Doug that had promoted him. Better, when The Board learned the IT project still wasn’t complete Cuddy had no association with Mike. If no repercussions came from the system disaster then all Cuddy had to do was build an ally, thereby shifting the voting 2:1 in Cuddy’s favor over Mary. Cuddy opened the side drawer on his desk, took out an empty manila folder, and in his crude lettering wrote, “Confadentale”. He placed the profile of Mike inside, set the folder on the desk, and kicked the drawer closed with his knee.

  To celebrate, and win a small bet, Cuddy then pulled open the top drawer of his desk and removed a small plastic dart gun. Holding the gun with both hands, Cuddy jumped, in a seamless and uninterrupted motion, into a stance favored by tactical situation officers. He shot Shap in the middle of the forehead. Cuddy was exactly two feet from Shap when he fired.

  Shap’s eyes crossed at the moment of impact, and Shap reacted expectedly. “Are you insane? Are you out of your freaking mind? Who shoots someone in the head with a dart gun?” The dart stuck unicorn-like from the middle of Shap’s forehead. His eyes watered from the force of the dart.

  In an unhurried motion, Cuddy reached out and yanked the dart from Shap’s head. The dart’s removal created a loud ‘pop,’ and a perfect, purple circle, formed. A giant blood blister now stood in place of Shap’s white scar.

  “Son, you got the reflexes of a heroin addict. Goddamn you didn’t even blink.”

  “I’m going to Doug and Legal with this. You are done.”

  “Doug don’t care, you dumbass. He dared me to do it. Bet I couldn’t hit you dead center of that target you’re sporting. You got no witnesses, so Legal won’t help. You need to improve your reflexes. That’s the issue here.” Cuddy curtly dismissed Shappa, and stepped around him and out of his office as he headed back to Doug’s.

  Alone in Cuddy’s office Shap looked at the backside of Cuddy waddling down the hall and flipped him off with both hands. Then he rubbed the middle of his forehead, which was starting to burn a little, and reached for his zipper.

  Cuddy burst through Doug’s office door and caught Doug sitting at his desk, aimlessly staring into space, while quietly bouncing a basketball. Surprised, Doug rolled the ball under his desk and hid it. “Do you ever knock? Where’s my consultant?” The consultant had just run to fetch Doug a fresh coffee.

  “Not when it’s this important. I found Alan’s replacement.”

  “Who?” Then, realizing Cuddy had walked into his office he pointed at the hall, scolding Cuddy as one might a dog that had jumped on a forbidden couch, “Stand in the hallway. Do not enter the inner sanctum.” Cuddy did as told and stepped back.

  “Guy named Mike.”

  “Mike who?”

  “Hang on.” Having never met Mike, Cuddy quickly scanned the document looking for Mike’s last name. As he fumbled, he held up the full page, color picture of Mike mid-snore at his desk for Doug to see. While Cuddy clumsily flipped through the pages trying to find Mike’s last name, Doug’s consultant returned, hot coffee in hand, and stepped into Doug’s office. Doug looked at him, imploring for direction.

  The consultant handed Doug his coffee and laid out the path forward. He pointed at Cuddy as he spoke, “Here is what I want you to do. Tell Mike we need him up here ASAP. What time is it?”

  Doug checked his watch, “Eleven a.m.”

  The consultant nodded, implying it was a good thing it was mid-morning, “Mike should be in his office. Cuddy, call Mike and tell him of his selection as the new CFO. Doug, call The Chairman and explain we’ve found Alan’s replacement. Cuddy, return to your office.”

  His presence no longer required, Cuddy tossed Mike’s profile to Doug from the doorway. It landed neatly on Doug’s desk. Doug, hating any clutter on his desk, immediately picked up the folder and tossed it in the waste bin.

  As Doug reached for the phone to call The Chairman, the phone rang. It was The Chairman, and he spoke before Doug announced himself, “You’ve squandered one hundred million dollars on an IT project that remains unfinished. You cost us millions in modern art that sits buried in a landfill. Your CFO leapt to his death a day ago. You fired the ten managers that knew what the hell they were doing. The stock is in free-fall. Fix it.”

  His hand shook nervously as The Chairman dressed him down. Doug tilted the phone away from his ear for his consultant to share in the conversation, and he and the consultant bumped heads as they listened intently. From on high their bald heads, pressed together, looked like an ass.

  The Chairman continued, “You may not have hit rock bottom yet, but you’re exploring new found depths in the world of corporate incompetence. I’m giving you one year to reduce bad debt, complete the IT project, and increase employee productivity. If the stock isn’t where it needs to be at the 2007 Board Meeting, you’ll be standing in traffic with a cardboard sign begging change.”

  The Board was always keen on a baseball, basketball or football similes, and Doug hoped to deflect the blame by explaining the goings on with a hackneyed sports metaphor. “I’m the QB. I can’t throw the ball and catch it. I can’t believe they dropped the ball so many times. I’m turning this around three hundred sixty degrees, and I’m gonna move the ball in the right direction.”

  The Chairman hung up without responding to Doug’s comment. Contemplating the threat, Doug rolled the basketball from the corner under his desk with his foot, and began nimbly dribbling while he checked the stock price and surfed on the internet.

  Back in his office, Cuddy pulled out the company directory and looked up Mike. He then picked up the receiver, a rarity as he almost always used the speaker ph
one, and dialed. Waiting for Mike to pick up, Cuddy shouted into the hallway, “Why does it always smell like a damn porta-potty in here? “

  Mike answered, “Hello, this is Mike.”

  “Mike this is Cuddy, the big man. Need you up on six for a meeting.”

  “Beg me, you pig faced bitch. Beg.” Mike was pretty sure he was getting punked as he and Rico frequently called each other pretending to be heads of state, celebrities, or on occasion ex-girlfriends. Recently Mike had received calls from President Obama, Samuel Jackson, and in a huge screw up on celebrities dead or alive, Michael Jackson.

  “Mike, I didn’t quite understand you? I need your ass up on six.” Cuddy knew a lot of the employees screwed around on the phone and wanted to give Mike a shot at avoiding his Mighty List of Slights. He also realized it would be a pain in the ass to re-run the The Hand Job, pick another candidate, and update Doug.

  Mike looked out his window and realized Rico was chatting up a couple of the female customer service reps. Embarrassment flushed his face as he realized it really was Cuddy on the phone. “Ass up on six!” he parroted, the panic kick-starting his echolalia. “Cuddy sir, sorry, I was finishing a conversation with my Mom on my cell phone,” Mike lied shamelessly. “What can I do for you?” He had never spoken to Cuddy directly, but assumed he was about to be asked to create some type of blackmail report that would undermine another executive’s position.

  “I need your ass up on six, be at Doug’s office in 15 minutes.”

  “Ass up on six, be at Doug’s office in 15 minutes!” the human parrot answered.

  “Bring your personal effects and your laptop.”

  “Personal effect and laptop! Personal effect and laptop! Wait, I’m being fired? Fired! You can’t fire me!” Mike blurted incredulously. Mike’s thoughts raced to French history and the Reign of Terror, “You can’t execute the executioner. I am the knife!” It was his job to herd his co-workers onto the killing floor, not vice-versa. He was at a loss when Cuddy broke the silence.

  “Just meet me at Doug’s office. You’re the new CFO, you horse’s ass.” Cuddy chuckled to himself, “This kind of power never gets old.”

  Mike hung up and reflected on what had just happened. His life as a consummate fumble, and textbook case of failure to launch, had just taken an unexpected turn. To prepare for his ascent, Mike turned to Wikipedia and its insight on Chief Financial Officers. Hoping to learn what a CFO does, he skimmed the introductory paragraph, but the article was a long one and he lost interest after the first few sentences. “Screw it,” he thought, “I’ll figure it out as I go.” Driven by a fear Doug would reconsider and change his mind, a sense of urgency overcame Mike and he quickly packed his things. He grabbed the box he used when pirating other’s offices and quickly began to fill it with his personal effects. In went his toothbrush, toothpaste, mints, gum, mouthwash, Binaca spray, tongue scraper, and floss. In lieu of a six month bonus, Mary issued all new employees a breath management system. Next he threw in a few pictures and his coffee mug. Box in hand, with his coat and laptop, he walked with a sense of purpose to the staircase and hurried up the stairs to the sixth floor.

  When Mike arrived at Doug’s office, he found the doorway blocked by the consultant. Cuddy and Mary were already standing in the hallway in front of Doug’s office. Mike found a place to stand between Cuddy, and who he assumed was Mary. Mike had never seen Mary, and his only interaction with Cuddy had been via a couple of e-mails and the call earlier in the day.

  With the consultant blocking the doorway he couldn’t see Doug, but if he could have seen him, he would have recognized him. Mike had seen Doug a couple of times; the meeting that led to Shap giving himself brain surgery, and a few weeks ago when the executive elevator accidentally stopped on the second floor while Mike was waiting for the staff elevator. Inside his private elevator, Doug sat in a wide backed leather chair, reading Sports Illustrated, with a piping hot cup of coffee. Behind Doug, leaning against the elevator wall, stood a burly guard from the security detail. The image was more of Russian mob boss than of American CEO. As the elevator doors began to shut Doug looked up, but he didn’t acknowledge Mike.

  As before, Doug spoke with the consultant immediately restating his words, “As you may be aware, our prior CFO, Alan, met an unfortunate and unexpected end. Tragedy. Honest to God tragedy. He was a great man, and a warrior. I loved Alan like a father. I mean like I’m the father, not like Alan’s the father. Therefore, he would be the son.” Doug grew confused and mumbled, counting on his fingers as he tried to sort out whether it was better, he, or Alan, was the father in the scenario he had tried to create.” As Doug secretly shook his Magic 8 Ball, hoping for guidance, the consultant walked over and whispered something in his ear. Doug stopped shaking the prognostic globe and continued, “I’m the father. Anyway, only God knows our destiny. I mean God as God, not G.O.D.”

  Had Mike not been familiar with the events that led to Alan’s death, Mike would have thought Alan died of cancer per Doug’s explanation. Mike was also pretty certain he knew which God Doug referred to.

  “But companies move forward, and we need to replace Alan. I’m down a man with two minutes to go. We’ve scoured our company’s records looking for the best fit. We need a man who lives up to the expectations of The Board, our shareholders, and our customers.” Doug listed the three in the reverse order most people would consider them relevant to the company’s success. Most would argue that the customers created any wealth realized by the shareholders and that The Board was the shareholder’s steward.

  “Mike,” Doug leaned forward conspiratorially, and tried to see around the side of the consultant, “Ask yourself, ‘Am I that man?’”

  Mike assumed the question rhetorical, but no longer able to suppress his inner parrot answered, “Am I that man! Am I that man!”

  Cuddy and Mary did not respond well to Mike’s definitive response, and glared at him. Still waters run deep, and Mike might be a more formidable foe than either had imagined.

  Doug too was troubled by Mike’s fervor, and rubbed his chin contemplating the threat Mike posed to his kingdom. It occurred to Doug that Mike might need to go for a quick dip in ‘the lake’.

  With the elongated pause, Mike became concerned that Doug was waiting for a better answer. As Mike was about to repeat, “Am I that man!” for the third time Doug abruptly continued, “I think you are. I need you to step up to the plate and knock it outta here.”

  Mike was shocked and dumbfounded. Five hours ago he’d woken on a musty couch in his parent’s basement, and then driven to work in a beat to shit mid eighties Yugo, whose front left tire was a pint sized spare given his credit cards were maxed, and he couldn’t afford a new tire.

  As the meeting ended Cuddy slipped his hand around Mike’s arm, and button hooked him. Linked arm in arm, Cuddy led them to Mike’s new office. As they approached the doorway Cuddy removed his hand and ushered Mike inside. Once both men were inside, Cuddy held his hands wide and smiled. Plywood still blocked the view to the parking lot and small shards of glass sparkled on the carpet, but the trappings of the executive suite were evident; bespoke dark stained wooden furniture, leather chairs and couches, and the hushed tones that prevail in the atmospheres of those in command. Cuddy assured him new glass had been ordered and that the office would be restored to original condition before the end of the day.

  With Cuddy’s footsteps receding down the hall, Mike sprawled out in his new office. The chair he sat in was oversized, regal and leather. Mike was certain Alan’s feet wouldn’t have touched the ground. Sitting with the chair flush to the desk gave the impression of being six and half feet tall. Inspired, Mike balanced the chair on two legs and wiggled his upper body back and forth to keep from crashing to the floor. As he balanced, he broke into improvised verse, “Who’s in da big seat now?” He answered his question with the refrain, “The mac daddy. The mac daddy.” While Mi
ke sang he fist pumped the air, and wondered what he had done to earn this change in fortune. As he approached the third minute of his impromptu rap, Mike noticed Alan’s old secretary, now his secretary, darkening the doorway.

  “Mike, I’m Wilma. I’ll be your executive assistant. I support all the gifted and powerful minds; Doug’s, Cuddy’s, Mary’s and now yours. I wanted to introduce myself, and let you know you are expected at Doug’s staff meeting. It’s in an hour. You’re to meet in his doorway. Be careful not to enter the inner sanctum, and don’t touch his stuff. Can I get you anything? Would you like some coffee, or lunch?”

  “Do you have any of those little finger sandwiches they serve at high tea?”

  “Of course we do. Alan always had me remove the crusts from his sandwiches. Would you prefer the crusts on, or off, the sandwiches?”

  “Take them off. No crusts. I’m never eating crust again. I’m in the big seat now.” Mike sat, excited by his change in fortune, in his new office.