“Phhhww,” says Ben.
“Plus,” I say before he can go on, “isn’t it a slippery slope? If Erika Fallon breaks the rule for Judd, won’t every other single man in the office feel they have the right to ask her out in the future?”
“Why not!” says Ben. “Let’s open the floodgates instead of bolting all the doors.”
I sip my coffee and say, “My advice to you, Erika Fallon, is to wait a while. Maybe when you get to know Judd better you won’t think he’s so cute after all. Why break the rule now when you can always break it later?”
“That’s a good idea,” says Erika.
“That’s a terrible idea,” says Ben. “You need to flirt with him like crazy and make sure he gets his butt down to that hotel in Washington next week.”
“I can do that,” says Erika. “Flirting’s easy. Especially when you know someone’s off limits. You can relax with them. Isn’t that right, Russell Wiley?” She fixes me with her warm brown eyes and waits for me to come right back at her with something witty and profound.
“Er, I guess so,” I say.
“Russell,” says Jeremy Stent, bursting eagerly into my office. “I have this fantastic idea I want to run by you.”
It’s 9:01. I’m still not fully recovered from my breakfast experience. My spicy egg wrap isn’t sitting well in my stomach. And the sight of Jeremy isn’t helping.
Jeremy’s a smart misfit who hasn’t managed to gel with his colleagues or understand why the work he produces, which makes perfect sense to him, is completely unusable based on the way we like to do things around here. The best thing about Jeremy is that he’s only been with us three months. Which will make him easiest to fire when the layoffs come.
“What does Pete think?” I ask, knowing already that Pete Hughes, Jeremy’s nominal boss, has not yet been zapped by Jeremy’s latest brain wave.
Jeremy’s eagerness to come up with new ideas would be endearing if he could just stop his ego from showing. In his junior role he needs to be respectful and supportive to his immediate supervisor. And not barge into my office and attempt to dazzle me with ideas that, while new to him, I’ve invariably seen before.
“I wanted to bring it to you first,” he says in a tone that manages to sound both obsequious and patronizing.
I should just tell him to get back to work. To do what he’s told. To stop trying to come up with ideas we haven’t asked him for. I need him producing the work that will justify his meager salary and his inflated self-opinion.
But I indulge Jeremy and listen to him as best I can. He thinks he has devised another great money-saving idea for the company that would also be astonishingly easy to execute. There’s only one problem with it: Jeremy’s idea would require Burke-Hart’s business and lifestyle groups to work together with a spirit of selfless cross-divisional partnership. In Jeremy’s utopian worldview, he imagines somehow that both sides would be willing to put the overall good of the company ahead of their individual priorities.
As soon as that level of impossibility is established, I start to lose interest. My mind wanders. It becomes harder and harder for me to concentrate on the exact details of what Jeremy’s saying.
I try to quantify the sources of my distraction.
Five percent is pure nostalgia. Jeremy’s reminding me of my own idealistic youth. When I thought it was possible to make a meaningful contribution to the corporate world. That my ideas would be listened to and my memos read. There was a god we worshipped then. A powerful god called Synergy. He was a god who promised us a bright, harmonious future. But that god was the devil in disguise. He’s dead now. We are no longer allowed to mention his name.
Twenty percent is the fact I haven’t had sex in twenty-nine days. It’s causing something to build up inside me. And not just physically. There’s a resentment taking hold, a sense that I’m being taken advantage of in ways I never consciously agreed to. Something has changed between Sam and me. What used to be a dance now feels more like hand-to-hand combat.
Thirty percent is the residual impact of spending twenty minutes this morning in the company of Erika Fallon. Her bottom teeth are slightly crooked, I noticed. But crooked in the most delightful way.
The remaining forty-five percent of my distraction revolves around Judd and the thought of him flexing his MBA muscles for Erika. I shouldn’t care. I’m a married man. It’s not as if Erika Fallon and I could ever be together. But if she is going to be with somebody, she needs to choose someone other than Judd. Lucky Cat understands. I had a quiet conversation with him this morning. I told him I didn’t want to become the kind of bitter, tormented person who can’t stand to see other people having fun. But still, I pointed out, I have to draw the line somewhere. Lucky smiled at me wisely. I think he could really empathize with what I was feeling.
Jeremy is recapping his idea to make sure I fully understand it. I nod to give the impression I do. It’s a shame because his idea isn’t bad, and our operating methods could certainly use improving. But Jeremy still hasn’t grasped the basic truth: we can’t accept any of his ideas until we accept him. New employees are like organ transplants: if you’re not compatible, the body rejects you.
“Look, Jeremy, I can’t argue with you about your idea. We could be way more profitable if we could combine our resources in the way you describe. There’s only one problem: it’s way too logical.”
“Too logical?” I watch the excitement drain from his cheeks.
“Have you ever heard of the writer Christopher Finchley?” I ask. I open the drawer of my filing cabinet and bend down, skimming through the handwritten tabs of the manila folders haphazardly arranged inside.
“Finchley?”
“He’s actually very good. You might find him worth studying. He writes a column each month in
Vicious Circle
. It’s a magazine not many people have heard of, but it’s very well read in opinion leader circles. Ahh. Here it is.” I sit back up and lay a folder on the desk. “When I read this particular article, I thought I should make some copies. It was almost as if Finchley were speaking directly to me, talking specifically about our company.”
“‘History versus Logic,’” reads Jeremy. “‘Why Some Businesses Prefer to Repeat Their Past Mistakes Rather Than Risk Making New Ones.’”
“It’s a great article,” I say. “Take a copy. The basic gist of it is that all old economy companies like to talk about doing things differently. They yearn to stretch themselves in new directions. But when push comes to shove, they snap back into their old habits. They can’t quite combine their desire to create ‘a new paradigm’ with their corporate need to do things ‘a certain way’—i.e., the way they’ve always done those things before.”
“But that’s not how it is here, is it?” says Jeremy. “Everyone’s always talking about the need for reinvention and new ideas.”
“Talking and doing are two different things. Finchley points out that history and logic can be combined in only three ways.” I pick up one of the photocopied sheets and read aloud: “‘One: historical and logical. Two: historical and illogical. And three: logical and nonhistorical.’”
“But what I’m suggesting would be so easy to implement,” Jeremy protests.
“Hold on,” I say, scanning the article. “Here’s the part you need to understand: ‘Ninety-five percent of all corporate activity involves repeating historical mistakes that have become clearly illogical in the current business climate. Historical-illogical business practices represent a classic form of time- and money-wasting madness: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.’” I pause to make sure Jeremy’s paying attention and because the cell phone in my bag is ringing. I wait for it to stop. “Interesting, no? Here’s the last part. ‘Logical and nonhistorical.’ That’s how I would describe your idea. ‘Logical and nonhistorical approaches might be called commonsense in the real world but are likely to be labeled as radical and unworkable in the corporate sphere. New, more logical approaches to problems result in resources being applied where they can deliver the greatest return even if it means abandoning habitual yet obsolete procedures. At most companies, management has identified ‘resistance to change’ as one of the major problems holding their organization back. These companies often request bold new ideas to be presented that show them how they might overcome this resistance and reinvent themselves, reinvigorate their processes, and refocus their people. These proposals are usually rejected as impossible to implement by the same management teams who commission them. Why? Because they are a direct repudiation of the company’s existing culture and approach to business.’” I put the article down. “Pretty interesting, huh?”
“Is that meant to be serious?” says Jeremy.
“I hate to say it. But you can’t make this stuff up.”
Jeremy looks crestfallen. He means well, I realize. If only he were willing to suck it up and concentrate on the work we actually need him to do, he could really go places.
“Listen,” I say. “It’s a great idea. Thanks for bringing it forward. I’ll put it in my file.”
CHAPTER TEN
The message on my cell phone is from Fergus: “Russki, got your message. Lunch would be good. Julie packed me a sandwich if you want to sit outside. Of course, I could save it till tomorrow if your capitalist masters are paying.”
I call my favorite sushi restaurant to snag a reservation then call him back and connect with his voicemail: “Ferg, refrigerate your sandwich. We’re on for sushi. Twelve thirty. Usual place.”
Three hours later we’re munching edamame, throwing the husks into an elegantly handcrafted, multihued ceramic bowl. Fergus has just finished telling me how his publisher has negotiated the necessary financing to keep
Vicious Circle
afloat for another two years.
“We’re hoping that once we make it to 2008, with all the excitement of the Olympics and the presidential election, there will be more than enough advertising money sloshing around for us to reach break-even,” he says. “After that, smooth sailing.”
“That sounds like a really well-thought-out plan,” I say. “But I still think you’d be better off at
Forbes
. Things can only get better now that Bono’s invested.”
I watch Fergus think while he chews. He has strange, curly hair the color of dark rust. His skin, as always, is extremely pale.
“You know what?” he says. “I like where I am. We have all the usual bullshit. But at least we stand for something.”
“What? Financial insecurity?”
He makes a sound that’s part laugh, part snort. “That’s for sure. But we’re true to ourselves too. Just because our ideas aren’t in favor right now doesn’t mean we should throw in the towel. Not everything’s about money. Some things are still worth fighting for.”
I glance around at the expensive surroundings, the power brokers at adjacent tables. Fergus never complains when I bring him here.
“Listen, Ferg, you know I admire what you’re doing. I just don’t know how you hold it all together.” I sip my green tea.
“What do you mean?” he asks, biting into an edamame pod and pulling it through his teeth so the peas pop into his mouth.
“The whole thing,” I say. “One job. Two kids. Four mouths to feed. And all the shit you have to look forward to. Guns in schools. Playground kidnappers. Child molesters. Paying for college.”
“Ha ha,” he says. “When you put it like that.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You’re looking at it from the outside. From the inside it’s not like that. You construct it differently in your head.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have to make decisions in life,” Fergus continues. “If you make the wrong choices, you’re trapped. If you make the right choices, you’re liberated.”
“And you’re liberated?”
“I love my wife, Russell. She loves me. We want to be together for the rest of our lives. We wanted a family. So we had one. We love our kids. We’ll do anything we can to care for them, keep them safe, give them a good education. It would destroy us if anything ever happened to them. But we can’t live in fear. The world may end tomorrow. Julie was pregnant with Angus when 9/11 happened, for God’s sake. You have to make the life you want and live it today.”
I chew on that silently.
“You know what?” says Fergus. “I am liberated. I’m free of torment. I’m committed to the path I’ve taken. When you’re single, you can do whatever the fuck you want. When you’re in a couple, you have to ask yourself, ‘Is this person, is this situation really right for me?’ You can still turn back. When you become a parent, that’s it. You can’t change it. There’s no fucking around anymore. And I mean that in more ways than one.”
“I don’t get it. How can you feel liberated? You need money. You’ve got a whole family to feed. Aren’t you trapped by that reality?”
“Hey, man,” says Fergus, “reality is where it’s at. You can only be trapped by unreality.”
“What does that mean?”
“I like who I am. You may think I’m a poor, fat fuck. But I wear the same clothes to work that I wear on the weekend. My wife puts love notes in my sandwiches each morning. My kids wrap themselves around me when I get home,” he says. “I’m fat and happy, Russell. That’s what I call reality. You don’t need to feel sorry for me. You’re the one who has to wear a corporate uniform. You’re the one with the secret identity. Does anyone get to see the real Russell Wiley anymore?”
Two miso soups are set in front of us.
“
Arigato
,” I say to the waitress, who doesn’t reply.
Fergus slurps some soup from the bowl-like spoon. “And how are you and Sam doing? Everything OK with you two?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “What’s OK?”
“OK is one level down from good.”
“Did Julie mention something? What did Sam say to her?” I pick the wedge of lime from the rim of my glass, squeeze it, then drop it into my sparkling water.
“Not much.”
I drink some water, wait him out.
“I guess she implied you guys were having problems. That you’re on her case about money and stuff.”
“Not everything’s about money,” I remind him.
While we work our way through a selection of eel, salmon, and tuna rolls, I bring Fergus up to date with the mishmash that constitutes my current state of mind. I feel uncomfortable sitting in a crowded restaurant and cataloguing my dissatisfactions. And talking about my sex life or lack of it doesn’t come naturally to me. But Fergus is a good listener. He lets me ramble. He seems to understand what I’m saying even when I’m at my most disjointed. The questions I had this morning—about what exactly I should expect Sam to contribute to our marriage—are now wrapped in with the burning issues of management incompetence, budget cuts and the arrival of Judd Walker. “This new consultant is a complete jerk,” I find myself saying. “But, of course, you’d think Henry had seen the Second Coming.” I remind him of the “huge, secret project” Henry assigned to me when I joined the company. “It’s exactly the same project he has this new guy doing. Only this time around the code name is D-SAW: don’t say a word.”