I read this excerpt from a much longer story at my graduate reading at Vermont College of Fine Arts in July of 2019. The entire story was later published as a chapbook by Blue Cubicle Press.
Saturday
Dietrich’s plate is full. Actually, it’s overflowing. He’s got juice from the baked beans running into the coleslaw and off the plate. The chicken wings are sitting on top of the potato salad, and two ribs have bailed out and tumbled onto the table. It’s the annual employee picnic at the CEO’s favorite country club, and he’s trying to make the most of it. I’m nursing a warm, watery gin and tonic, feeling my hangover coming on in the heat, and I’m late for my daughter’s dance recital.
“It will probably be Thursday,” he says. He bites into an uncut gherkin and the juice squirts across the table onto my plate. There’s a smudge from the potato salad on the corner of his drooping mustache. “The personnel files when to legal yesterday.” I ask him why. He shoves the severed end of the pickle in his mouth and mashes down on it as his eyes dart over my face and the sun glares off his sweaty bald head. We’re supposed to be peers, but he’s a well-connected bottom feeder, the kind that always carries a clipboard. I don’t trust this motherfucker and he knows it.
“To make sure there’s nothing in their records that could get us sued for wrongful termination,” he says.
“Like what?”
He picks up a wing and inserts it in his mouth. The skin and meat are tender, so without using his teeth, he sucks the bones clean and tosses them on the table. “Maybe a harassment complaint in the past. Or if she’s currently knocked up and has put in for leave. Don’t want to cut a bitch when she’s spawning. Anything that might be considered discriminatory; cut her after she pops.”
He stops eating and looks at me carefully. “You don’t have anybody on your list like that, do you? You’ve looked at their files, haven’t you?
“Of course,” I say.
My stomach tightens. Diana Jenkins, one of the test engineers on my list is showing at six months and still hasn’t submitted her maternity leave paperwork. As far as the company is concerned, she’s not pregnant. She won’t have a case unless she finds a particularly tenacious lawyer, but I decide that I’ll retrieve her file on Monday morning and replace it with someone else’s. Or maybe I’ll get with her first thing and have her fill out the request and maybe I’ll be able to save her that way. I might even be able to retain her position. Nick, the CEO has a hard-on for test engineers. He’s repeatedly said, “They produce no value and take money out of my pocket.” It would be futile to try to convince him that testing our software before we release it might be a good idea. Given our quality and the number of pissed off customers I have to deal with every day, I’d personally start with the development engineers before cutting testers. The only code that doesn’t have bugs is code that is not yet written. It is, however, Nick’s stock grants, Nick’s stock options, Nick’s handpicked board of directors, and, in the end, Nick’s company. He’s never been shy about letting you know that. Still, if the layoff isn’t until Thursday, I might be able to salvage something.
Dietrich stops chewing and again looks me over carefully. He senses something. Stone-faced I sip my gin and tonic. You have to be careful with Dietrich. He’s always poking and probing you, looking for some weakness in character that he can file away for when he needs it. He’ll gladly put his own sins on display in order to disarm you into revealing yours so he can record them. It’s July, it’s Saturday, it’s a picnic, and he’s still got his goddamn clipboard with him. I’m trying to say as little as possible. There’s a family sitting at the far end of our table. Mike, a software engineer who works for me is with his wife and two young daughters who are restless and fidgeting at the table. “When can we goooo!” the younger one whines. Her mother lifts the girl up onto her lap, smoothing the hem of the girl’s yellow-frilled dress over her knees. “A little while longer,” Mike says. “We need to see the boss.”
“Or he needs to see us,” his wife says flatly, looking away.
Dietrich and I are discussing the coming layoff. Officially it’s about eliminating jobs to keep the company lean and mean, but it’s really just a way to get rid of people without having to show cause. There is a recruiter in Human Resources who is looking for replacements for some of the people I will let go this week. It’s not legal, but the company has lots of lawyers.
I haven’t touched the food on my plate. I’m nauseated watching Dietrich, it’s ninety degrees and I’ve been swallowing aspirin all day to battle the hangover from last night.
I don’t have many friends in this company, but the ones I do like to drink.
We’re regulars at Bogart’s, an upscale pub in a nearby office park. We spend a lot of money there and we tip well. It’s become a ritual. When I arrive late and my crew has already started, one of the waitresses—it could be auburn-haired Monica, or blonde Heidi, or brunette Ashley, is immediately at my side, with her arm draped over my shoulder asking, “Can I get you a Stella and a backup, Sweetie?”
“And a backup for the backup,” I’ll say, and someone pulls over an extra chair. “I love when she does that,” I’ll day
Bobbie, my best friend’s wife, will say, “I’ll bet you do.”
Her husband, Ian, is a Brit with a fascination for everything American, especially baseball. He loves the Atlanta Braves. I think it’s because he’s fascinated by native Americans, even though there are none in the Braves’ lineup. He just likes the idea of American Indians. He’s looking away from Bobbie and is engaged in conversation with Rajeev, a project manager who’s an actual Indian. Ian seems completely oblivious to the fact that his wife is flirt. Or he’s completely cool with it. I don’t know what to make of them. They are very devoted to one another, and I like each of them individually, but as a couple, they have a doomed Scott and Zelda air about them. He’s a bookish and dull Englishman, and she’s an American army brat who grew up on the continent and was educated in convent schools. At thirty, she’s enjoying breaking free from all the rules of moral conduct the nuns drummed into her. It’s only a matter of time before she breaks Ian’s heart. Or he breaks hers. In spite of their devotion, they’re not well matched.
Somehow, I always seem to find them: birds of a feather, cronies, confederates, comrades-in-arms. Someone politely invites me out for an after-work drink. Being the new guy and feeling isolated, I accept. I meet the small clique at the hotspot, and there’s a natural progression. First, it’s one night a week, Friday, and then it’s Thursday too. And Wednesday, and now Tuesdays. I’ve managed to hold off going out on Mondays so far, a concession I make for my family. It’s taken its toll on me and most mornings, I’m hungover, sweating and popping aspirin until noon. I’ve acquired the skill of swallowing it dry and I even welcome the acid taste it leaves in my mouth and the burning feeling in my throat. It lets me know I can still feel.
Dietrich finishes eating. On the table between us, is the wreckage of his meal: a collage of chicken bones, half-eaten ribs, and a viscous mixture of mayonnaise, barbeque sauce, ranch dressing, and pickle juice that is slowing creeping across the table as if it is about ambush my untouched plate. He grabs a wad of napkins from an adjoining table and wipes his greasy mouth and chin. I don’t tell him that he has a black speck of burnt chicken skin wedged between his front teeth.
I look at my watch. If I can get out of here within the next hour, I might be able to catch at least part of my daughter’s recital. I hear some scattered applause and the sound of metal folding chairs sliding across the concrete patio. I turn and see the crowd in the center aisle of tables parting. The country club staff is darting around, pulling chairs and tables aside for the entourage that is slowly moving toward the podium that stands in front of a vine-covered rock wall on the sided of the clubhouse. I hear some more chairs moving and everyone is getting on their feet. The family and the end of our table is standing, and Mike lifts his daughter up and holds her against his hip. “Almost time to go, Sweetheart.” I take a final sip of my drink. It’s an hour old, so the ice has melted, and it’s filled with lime pulp. I pull myself to my feet.
There’s a break in the crowd and Nick, our CEO, emerges, followed closely by his right-hand man, the CFO, and his other right-hand man, the COO. Again, people are clapping. For some reason that I don’t understand, I start clapping too.
As he slowly walks up the aisle, Nick stops at some of the tables along his route and exchanges handshakes and smiles with his employees and their families. The Director of Corporate Communications is walking backward in front of him, snapping pictures. When he gets to our row of tables, he stops and shakes Mike’s hand and puts his arm around his shoulder. He leans over, and with a broad smile on his face, he reaches for the Mike’s daughter’s hand. Her father whispers something in her ear and turns toward Nick, offering her to him. She reaches up, and Nick gently takes her tiny hand in his. They both smile as the Director of Corporate Communications’ camera clicks and whirrs with multiple exposures.
“There’s some artwork for the annual report,” Dietrich says.
Nick and his entourage reach the stage. Nick steps up first and turns to face the applause. His two subordinates step up and occupy positions in the back of him and to his right. Nick starts clapping and makes a point leaning forward slightly and panning the crowd before him, as if to say, “No, no, no, this is all about you, not me.”
Nick Poulos, the son of Greek immigrants, veteran of Jack Welch’s management team at General Electric, is impressive. He has just come from the golf course where he has, no doubt, crushed his entire management team. He stands six feet tall and shows no sign of his sixty-seven years. His face, chiseled and handsome as a classic Greek statue, has a golden tan. He holds up his hands to clap. His forearms are sinewy and powerful, with the same golden tan. His perfectly trimmed white hair is gleaming in the bright sun. Age is irrelevant. He is the oldest person at this gathering, but he looks healthier than everyone else feels. He’s wealthier too. You can’t be that old and look that good without having been rich for a very long time.
He stops clapping and, again to show his deference to his employees, he reaches out with his palms up and pans the crowd. The clapping tapers off and the crowd settles into their seats, I take the opportunity to start finding my way out. Nick saw me and waved to me as he passed our table. It should be safe for me to leave, as long as he doesn’t see me doing it.
I pick up my melted gin and tonic and tell Dietrich that I’m getting another drink. I make my way to the outside of the garden patio and slip into the crowd of standees. I’ll stay for at least part of his speech, but I’ll do it from a distance. Enough people will see me there in different places, so they’ll remember that they saw me there.
I really do need another drink, so I stop at the outdoor bar near the entrance to the clubhouse and get a beer. I can’t see Nick from here, but he’s picked up the microphone, and I can hear him.
“My friends,” he says, “this day is really all about you. The hard work you do, the loyalty, the dedication, the sacrifices you make. And it’s not just about those of you who come to work every day; it’s about the husbands and wives and sons and daughters who make it possible for you to come to work every day and do amazing things.”
I look at my watch. Five more minutes, or half a beer, whichever comes first.
“It’s been an honor for me to lead this company for the past twenty years. The culture that we have created here along with all of you is our most valuable asset. We are a family.”
I raise my glass and gulp down my beer. “And by the end of the week, one-third of our most valuable asset is going to be on the street,” I think. I glance slightly toward my left and see, Dietrich in the trailing end of the standees, clipboard in hand. He looks over at me and waves. I wave back and smile at him. Motherfucker.
“I’ll cover for you.”
Mike has slipped up beside me at the bar.
“Where’s your family?” I ask.
“They left. We came in two cars. No sense putting them through any more of this shit than they have to.”
“You’re a good husband and father.”
“Where’s your family?” he asks.
“Dance recital,” I say, “and I’m trying not to miss this one for a change.”
“Don’t worry, Stay put for a minute.”
Mike orders another beer and takes it with his own and starts toward Dietrich. He turns and says, “I can handle him; go be with your family.”
When he reaches Dietrich, he offers him the beer. I see two of them turn away and walk toward a table with their backs to me. I put my empty glass on the bar and walk through the clubhouse and out to my car.
The parking lot at the school almost full. It’s a good sign that I haven’t missed everything. I have to park far away from the entrance. I grab the convenience store bouquet of flowers off the front seat, slam the door and run across the lot and up the front steps. Inside the lobby, I hear cheers and applause coming from the auditorium. I squeeze through the throng of people standing in the doorway. Onstage, I can see all the students from my daughter’s dance studio applauding their teacher. They are of all shapes and sizes with the littlest ones kneeling in front. After my eyes adjust to the light, I pick out my daughter standing in the second row with her dance class in their nineteen-forties USO Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy tap costumes.
It is finished.
The entire story is available in print or as a downloadable PDF at Blue Cubicle Press.
© 2023 – 2024, Fred Bubbers. All rights reserved.
