Synergeist: The Haunted Cubicle (19 page)

The small group of lucky resources packed into the elevator and went to the top of the building. A frazzled looking gentleman waiting outside the elevator directed them into what had been the clerical area. The room was still littered with the corpses of obsolete office equipment, but it had been pushed out to the walls. Network and telephone wires protruded from receptacles in the floor like tufts of dead grass in an arid wasteland. A row of tables ran down the center of the valley of dry bones, positioned to avoid the prairie dog holes, with folding chairs placed along each side. There were no seats at the head or foot. A single high back leather executive chair sat near one end, guarded by a young lady with a red bindi on her forehead.

The frazzled man told them to have a seat. He did not invite them or ask them; he told them. Martin sat in the first chair he came to.

Once everyone had picked a seat, the frazzled man added a folding chair to each side of the table near the leather throne that the young lady then pushed over to the end of the table. They sat in the newly placed folding chairs flanking the royal seat. The frazzled man introduced the young lady and himself but said nothing more. One of the resources asked when the meeting would start and was told it would begin whenever the director wanted it to.

They sat there silent, looking around and at each other. There was no doubt in Martin’s mind that all of this had been intentionally orchestrated. The austere setting was meant to convey how
lean and mean
(in more than one sense of the word mean) this organization was. All of them sitting there waiting, with nothing to do, was to show how unimportant they were and who was in charge. Or maybe this was the only private room in the building they could get on short notice. He had to grant that circumstances might be coloring his opinions with cynicism.

The director arrived. She introduced herself. Martin immediately forgot her name. He was terrible with names. She looked them all over appraisingly, like a farmer inspecting a herd of dairy cattle she considered purchasing. She did not sit in the comfy chair but stood over them. Perhaps if the throne were up on a large enough dais for her to tower over them, she would have sat. “Let’s get this out of the way first. According to the contract, you have been offered
at will
employment with Ameritsource. You will begin at your current salary. You will find that our benefits are comparable to your current employer. You will be receiving an email with details and HR contacts who can answer any questions you have.”

Joe from the billing system development team raised his hand.

The director didn’t even glance in Joe’s direction. “I will not be answering any questions. I am here to talk, and you are here to listen.”

Joe dropped his hand and his jaw.

“
I assume you understand what
at will
employment means. If you don’t, look it up. You have been offered a job. That doesn’t mean you get to keep it.” She paused and glared at them. Daring them to say something. No one did. “You will be assigned to one of our existing supervisors. Initially, you will be performing your current duties. The duties of project members who were not offered positions will be distributed to yourselves and other resources as we see fit. You will remain in your current seating arrangements until such time as we can find office space that does not require cohabitation.”

Like a bunch of bad rooky poker players, his fellow resources did their best to suppress reaction, while furtively glancing around to see everyone else’s reaction to the deal.

She continued, “Things will be different.” She let that sink in. “You may do the same work, but that is where the similarity ends. We are sub-contractors, not employees, and your current objectives concerning what you do will be irrelevant. The contract specifies certain standards. We will not talk about those because the only thing that matters is the financials. We are paid by billable hours. The more hours you bill, the more
valuable
you are to the company.” She swept her gaze across their faces to see if the cattle understood. “Our salaried employees are required to work a minimum of 50 hours a week of which only 10% can be non-billable.”

There was uncomfortable shifting in the room.

“
Currently our US salaried employees log an average of 64 hours per week.”

Someone groaned under his breath.

“
Things will be different,” she said and headed toward the elevators.

After she was safely out of earshot, Joe ran both hands through his thinning hair and said, “Oh my God.”

The frazzled man and young lady with the bindi began folding up the chairs. He was tempted to ask them if that was for real or if they had just witnessed an avant-garde performance art piece.
Had they been punked?
But the two were giving off a definite
don’t talk to me
vibe, so he didn’t. He sat there until his was the only chair left. He wondered if they would snatch it out from under him. They pointedly ignored him and went about other business, folding up tables.

Martin got up and headed for his Sanctum of Solo Reflection. The sanctity of his sanctum had been violated. There were two men standing at the sinks using the soap and towels he had brought up. Nothing was sacred. They were talking as he came in the door, but the conversation cut off when they heard him. He couldn’t turn around and leave now; that would be awkward. He didn’t need to use the restroom, so he just went into a stall and sat to think.

The more he thought about the two meetings, the angrier he got. The surplused employees could attempt to find another job in the company. Something he would have had no problem doing. The chosen ones get to work for these jerks, if they can stand it. Finding a new job in the middle of The Great Recession wouldn’t be easy.
Things certainly are different.
His boss could hide in California, but
his
director was in the building.

Fuming, he strode through the labyrinth to the director’s office. Normally he would avoid talking to anyone if he was angry, but he was beyond caring. He wanted answers, or to vent, or something.

He knocked on the doorframe of the director’s office and asked if they could speak, polite habits overriding rage for the moment. The director sat in his high back
I’m a big shot
chair behind a large metal desk strategically situated to act as a bulwark against any assault coming through the door. Over his desk, a dead tree limb was mounted to the wall like a prized possession. Martin had heard the story of the limb. The director was fond of emerging from his office after quitting time to regale any of “his boys” that were still around with tales of the good old days. On one such occasion long ago he had told Martin the well-rehearsed tail of the limb. It involved a bullshit motivational aphorism he couldn’t remember.

The director folded his hands on the desk and looked at Martin with perhaps a touch of sadness in his eyes. “What can I do for you, Martin?”

He had to give him that, he knew the names of everyone in the organization; Martin couldn’t say the same. He hadn’t thought through what he was going to say, so he floundered, “Uh… um, do you know I was outsourced?” Of course he did. It was foolish to think he didn’t know about it and a ridiculously futile hope that once he did he would rise to the defense of “one of his boys” and set the whole thing right. But it started the conversation.

The director sighed. “Yes I do,” he said and then waited for Martin to drive the next point of discussion with an
uh oh, here it comes
look replacing the sadness in his eyes.

Martin didn’t think he was getting anything from his new sense about the man’s mood. Perhaps this was due to too much emotion and too many thoughts racing through his mind. Or maybe he had imagined the whole business and had finally returned to his senses. The struggle between fury and his innate need to keep things civil made speech difficult. He managed to say, “Why?”

“
They didn’t want to offer any jobs. We made them take key employees. We were not convinced they could maintain service levels otherwise. They are required to keep you for a year.”

“
Well that explains the meeting I was just in. They made it clear, without coming right out and saying so, that they don’t want any of us.”

“
We can’t open that kimono.”

“
So you’re saying that because I am such a valuable employee, you sold me like a piece of used furniture to a company that doesn’t want me and is perfectly willing to make life miserable until I quit.”

The director’s jaw muscles worked as he ground his teeth. “You can’t look at it that way. You have a job. The surplused employees do not.”

“
They can find another job in the company. I wouldn’t have a problem with my record and skills. If not, there’s a severance package.”

The director sat back in his big shot chair, folded his arms, and said, “It is what it is,” as if that explained everything.

Martin understood that was another way of saying:
Shit happens, get over it.
The conversation was going nowhere, so he got up and left. So much for answers or venting improving the situation or his mood.

He strode back down the hall toward either his desk or the exit, unsure of which it would be. If he got to his office and kept going, then the exit would be his destination. As he neared E6 and the decision point, a wave of immense betrayal and helplessness washed over him like a big black oil slick. He stumbled on the smooth beige commercial carpet and nearly fell to the floor. It took supreme effort not to lay down right there and have a good cry. It was irrational to have such an overwhelming response; he wasn’t that attached to the stupid job. But that knowledge didn’t help. He trudged on, as though the stygian wave had filled his hip waders with water and the hallway was knee-deep in sludge. Collapsing into a pile here in the hallway would be embarrassing and awkward at best. He would get it together or lose it in the semi-privacy of his cubicle.

Martin staggered into his cube, dropped into his chair and turned to face the partition opposite the opening.
Made it.
He took a deep breath, swallowed the sobs that attempted to burst forth, and put his head down, his forehead resting on his folded arms. This reaction was bewildering, so much stronger than when his father died or when he discovered his first girlfriend cheated on him. But telling himself he should not feel this way did not help. Anger, frustration, and helplessness were in the big stew pot of boiling emotion, but the soup base it simmered in was a sense of betrayal.

It was not rational to expect loyalty from a soulless thing like a corporation, but he must have. The Supreme Court ruled that companies enjoy some of the same rights under the First Amendment as citizens, but that didn’t make them people. They don’t
enjoy
anything. No court ruling or heart-shaped pocket watch could grant them a heart. But somewhere deep within him, resistant to logic, he was wired to expect that good and faithful service would be rewarded in kind, even though he knew better.

Thoughtfully considering the nonsensical source of his emotions helped him to ignore them briefly, but the burner was on high, and the soup was about to bubble up over the lip of the pot. A hand softly touched his shoulder and slid the kettle off the fire.

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

—
From
A Christmas Carol
by Charles Dickens

Martin was gone, and the living souls on the floor had filtered out of the building as the sun dipped below the horizon. Millie had no one to watch unless she expanded her view. She didn’t want to do that. What if there were more of the predatory poltergeists out there. One was enough to deal with. Besides, there wasn’t much to learn from people watching at this point. So she had only her thoughts to keep her company.