Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch (13 page)

“How’s everything?” he says.

“Great,” I say.

“You helping Judd settle in OK?”

“I sat down with him Monday end of day.”

“Good meeting?”

“Highly productive.”

“Judd’s a great guy.”

“Extraordinary.”

“I think he’s going to be a huge asset.”

I flirt mentally with the word
Titanic
but change tack just in time.

“Major,” I say.

“Excellent,” says Henry. “And everything OK with you?”

“Everything’s great.” It’s hardly true, but just being in Henry’s office has already perked me up a little.

“Now…” Henry pauses to prepare me for a change of topic. “I guess you’ve heard about Ben.”

“No, I haven’t heard anything.”

Henry pauses and bites his lip to simulate concern. “We let Ben go this morning,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, finally understanding why Erika Fallon was so upset.

“These things are never easy.”

“No.” I sip my hot chocolate and try to stay focused on the conversation.

“But he took it well, all things considered.”

“When’s he leaving?” I ask, resting the warm base of my cup in my left palm.

“We’re trying to do this the right way,” says Henry. “I’ve asked him to move out of his office today, just to make it easier for everyone.”

I raise my cup slowly and take a longer gulp. I realize that when Henry says “easier for everyone,” he means everyone other than the talented and hardworking Ben, who has just been fired.

“You know how these things work,” says Henry. “This has nothing to do with Ben. He was doing a great job. We’re giving him a spot on forty-one through the end of the year.”

“That’s good,” I say. The forty-first floor is where many fired executives sit, making and receiving calls, pretending they still have a job while they search for another.

“We’re going to help him out if we can. There’s a strong possibility he’ll find something in the lifestyle group.”

“That’s good,” I say again. After he’s established them as rejects, Henry doesn’t mind when people from our division go to work for Yolanda and Barney.

“I’ve already heard it from Susan Trevor,” says Henry. “Jesus. Don’t repeat this, but she needs to know she’s skating on thin ice.”

“I won’t say anything.” When we’re alone, bonding like this, Henry often makes negative remarks about someone in the company. Stuff that I never repeat outside his office. On the rare occasions he singles out someone on his own staff for criticism, it’s usually Susan Trevor.

“I don’t care what you tell her. Just make sure she knows I’m sick of her bad attitude. But don’t say you heard it from me.”

Henry sits back and squeezes the arms of his chair as if they were stress balls. In the brief silence, I look over to the large antique mirror that hangs on the north wall of his office. From where I’m sitting, I see a reflection of the building across the street and a sliver of sky. When Henry is sitting behind his desk, he only has to look up to see an image of himself with the lights of Times Square behind.

“Why is Ben leaving?” I ask, remembering to phrase the question in a way that sounds most empowering to Ben.

“It’s a strategic decision,” says Henry. “Jack wants our primary focus to be on generating revenue.”

“OK,” I say, even though this answer tells me nothing new. Every time our company starts firing people, we call it a strategic decision so the people who are let go don’t take it personally. And every time Jack Tennant talks to our department, he tells us that our primary focus needs to be on generating revenue.

“Don’t events drive revenue?” I ask.

“That may be true,” says Henry. “But events are tactical. We’re de-emphasizing them from a strategic standpoint. Which means we no longer need a dedicated events department.”

“We’re not doing events anymore?” I’m concerned about what will happen to Erika Fallon. And Sally too.

“I didn’t say that.”

“The salespeople love them.”

“We’ll still be doing events. We’ll just be looking at them differently.”

“From a tactical basis?”

“And from a cost-containment perspective. Which is where Ben let us down.”

“The big show in Miami?”

“We’re still doing Miami.”

“And San Diego in February?”

“We’re still doing San Diego.”

“What about Hank Sullivan’s holiday party?”

“We’re not canceling Hank’s party.”

“How can we do it all without an events department?”

Henry leans forward and locks me in the beam of his almost-artificial blue eyes. He smiles without parting his lips and raises and lowers his eyebrows a couple of times. This is his way of signaling he’s about to tell me the best part.

“How long have we worked together, Russell?” It’s a question he asks me at least three times a month. Usually when he wants something.

“Four years, two months, five days.”

“Really? That long?”

“Uh-huh.”

“We’re a good team, aren’t we?”

“Oh yes.” I add a series of small, rapid nods to emphasize the point.

“You trust me to make decisions that are good for you?”

“Sure,” I say. But I stop with the nodding. I’ve seen enough movies to know you can never really trust the person who says trust me.

Henry sits back again. This time, instead of squeezing the arms of his chair, he runs his hands slowly along them, from front to back and back to front, savoring the feel of the well-worn leather. The sleeves of his shirt are so wrinkled they look ruffled, while his cuffs are starched white slabs, held in place by brown, cigar-like cufflinks wrapped in the middle with a thin gold band. “Do you remember the conversation we had about you taking on some additional responsibility?” he says.

“Not exactly,” I say. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but I know this is not a good turn in the conversation. When Henry talks about “additional responsibility,” it usually involves the dumping of a crippling workload on an unsuspecting schmuck like me.

“I remember these things,” says Henry. “I even said it to Jack: ‘We’ve got a good man in Russell Wiley,’ I said. ‘We need to treat him right. Make sure he’s challenged. Keep him motivated.’ Those were my exact words.” Henry has a way of looking at you when he says something meaningful. It’s an imitation of sincerity so convincing it can easily catch you off guard.

“I’m already extremely challenged,” I say. “And motivated.”

“This will be good for you,” says Henry. “Your empire is expanding.”

“My empire?”

“You’ll have two extra people to manage. A lot more visibility with sales.”

“Two more people? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“That’s right. I’m putting you in charge of events and moving Erika and Sally into your group.”

“Henry. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure I can handle it.”

“Russell, I know you can handle it. Jack knows you can handle it. You just need to trust yourself a little more.”

“Henry, it’s not that I don’t appreciate being considered for an opportunity like this. But I’m already swamped. Roger is going out on medical leave any day now. This will be a major distraction.”

“Russell, I know it’s extra work. And Jack and I really appreciate it.”

“Henry, it’s not just the work. There are other factors involved.”

“Russell, just trust me on the money thing. You know how tight things are with the budget right now. Do a good job. We can get to the money later.”

“Can I at least think about it? There may be another way we could do this.”

“It’s effective immediately. Check your email. The memo’s already gone out.”

Henry stands up. The meeting’s over. He’s holding out his hand. I give him mine. Despite the lack of negotiation, it’s a done deal.

“Congratulations, Russell. This will be good for you.” When Henry smiles, a web of tiny wrinkles appears under his eyes.

As we get to the door, I turn and am surprised to see how close to me he is standing. He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. It’s a simple paternal gesture that feels awkward and overly familiar. My body tightens, but Henry’s hand lingers for a couple of seconds before it drops back to his side.

“Russell,” he says, “you’re the best.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

I’m in my office. Door closed. I don’t want any interruptions. I’ve printed Henry’s memo, and I’m reading it through for a second time.

Ben’s out.

I shouldn’t be surprised, even though I didn’t see it coming. Ben’s dismissal is one of those shocking, random things that happen all the time. I’ve gotten used to the ax falling on other people. I try not to get caught up in the sadness or guilt, focusing instead on the dread that such a thing could one day happen to me. This dread is what sustains me. Today it’s mingling with a new kind of apprehension: a stomach-constricting anxiety that accompanies my new management challenge. I’m Erika Fallon’s new boss. Somehow I have to integrate her into my team and treat her as if she were not just a regular employee, but also a normal human being.

I call Ben’s number and leave him a message, tell him the usual stuff about how sorry I am, how I’ll help him any way I can, how I’m here if he wants to talk. Then I pick up my pen and start doodling in the margins of Henry’s memo. I start with a shape that looks like a penis, but I decide that it’s really a nose. I add two round eyes that float above it and slightly parted lips below. I draw more faces—a series of squiggly, surprised-looking caricatures with alternately drooping or pointy noses, gaping mouths, big ears and wrinkled foreheads.

“Knock knock,” says Susan Trevor. Without waiting for an answer, she steps into my office, closes the door behind her, and marches to my guest chair. I crumple the paper containing Henry’s words and my scribbles and toss it casually into my wastebasket.

“So what do you think?” she says. “Has Henry finally lost it?”

I shrug but don’t say anything. I’m not in the mood to get into it with Susan, nor to share any of Henry’s comments about her attitude and the fragile ice on which she’s skating.

“This is such bullshit,” she says. “Everyone knows that Ben is the best events director in the company. So what does Henry do? He fires him. Meanwhile, I’ve got that fucking know-nothing Judd knocking on my door every five minutes expecting me to tell him everything I know. Do you know what I’m saying?”

I grunt sympathetically.

“This never would have happened five years ago,” she says, and she’s right. But what’s her point? Five years ago we lived in a different world. Everything has changed. If Ben’s abrupt firing signals a new way of doing business, so what? Maybe Henry’s trying to prove that he’s changed his DNA. That his corporate blood transfusion is complete. In the old days, Henry might have been the kind of boss who preferred to ease people out—telling them privately when he thought they should be looking for something new, eventually alerting colleagues to the employee’s plans to move on, and only when absolutely necessary, if the targeted employee was seriously dragging his feet, putting an end to the situation by announcing a mutually agreed upon departure date at a respectable point in the future.

I could interrupt Susan to inform her that Old Henry is dead. New Henry has taken his place. New Henry is ruthless. He’s not afraid to fire good people like Ben purely to send a signal. New Henry is confident. He thinks big, seizes opportunities and brings in new talent like Judd.

But that wouldn’t be exactly true. Old Henry would have eliminated Ben in exactly the same way: cuts needed to be made. Ben wasn’t Henry’s kind of guy. And Jeanie certainly fed him enough bogus data to justify the decision.

I don’t interrupt Susan because there’s really no point in doing so. She’s not looking for a dialogue, just a sympathetic ear. All she wants from me is an occasional grunt or supportive word to create the semblance of two-way communication. I indulge her for a few minutes because her presence and agitation is reassuringly familiar.

“Don’t get me wrong, Russell,” Susan is saying. “You may be great at what you do, but you know jack shit about events. You know what I’m saying?”

It occurs to me that everything Susan is saying is absolutely correct. She is a woman of extraordinary intelligence, vivacity, insight, experience, loyalty and commitment. Unfortunately for her, the company places absolutely no value on these attributes. It’s too late for me to help Susan. But if I’m not careful, I will become her in another ten years.

I make a clucking sound. It’s hard to disagree with Susan’s conclusion that everything Henry’s doing—hiring Judd, firing Ben, killing so many of Susan’s projects—is utterly ridiculous. She gave Henry a piece of her mind this morning. But as usual, Henry didn’t listen.

“Let them fire me next,” she says. “I’ll take the severance package. You know what I’m saying?”

I reach across the desk and put my hand on hers.

“Yes,” I say. “I know exactly what you’re saying.” Her hand is round and warm, like a trapped mouse. Her wedding ring scratches against my fingers as she jerks it away.

“I’ve got to go,” she says and hurries from my office.

In the aftermath of a director-level firing like Ben’s, it’s foolish of me to even attempt to get any actual work done. This is a time when my peers need to gossip and my existing staff needs to hear from me. Most of all, Ben’s people, the new members of my team, need me to reach out and reassure them that we will find the right way to navigate this transition.

But my instinct is to hide. After Susan leaves, I tell Barbara to cancel my weekly staff meeting and reschedule my ten o’clock brainstorm with Judd. Livingston Kidd has to be my number one priority, I tell myself. Everything’s at stake. Randy Baker’s freaking out. Losing this business will ruin his year. He’s clinging to the hope that he and Henry can still turn things around. Which means it’s time for me to kick it into gear. I should have delivered a draft of the presentation to the art department yesterday. Now, there’s no time to lose.

I take a deep breath, turn to my computer, open a new document and start tapping out an outline for the presentation. This is when I do my best work. Things just flow. I’m in the zone.