by S L Shelton
What the hell is this? I asked myself silently as I got into my car and drove away. What is going on with me?
I would have to pay close attention to my responses today. Something was going on, most likely stirred up by Dr. Hebron’s sessions, and it didn’t bode well for my close relationships.
On the drive into work, Dr. Hebron’s question came back to me. “What happens to a child who is bullied once they become an adult?”
A keen awareness of injustice, for a start, I said to myself. Ignoring emotional pain is another trait. I’m aware of that now.
But was it just pain that was ignored? Maybe emotional numbness in general?
“Well, the anger is real enough,” I complained aloud as I pulled into the parking garage at TravTech.
As I walked into the lobby, I saw Bonny running toward me, arms wide and smiling. She reached me and threw her arms around my neck, squealing and giggling in delight.
“Don’t be angry with me. I may have mentioned what happened to a couple of people here,” she confessed cautiously.
I stopped short before walking through the door. “Bonbon. The CIA debriefed you. You know you aren’t supposed to tell anyone about what happened. It was a condition for you and Storc not being indicted.”
“I know, I know. But it’s just too cool a story not to tell,” she whined. “You’re a hero!”
I almost turned around and left. I needed things to be normal. This new revelation made it clear that normal was not going to be the theme of the day.
We walked into the office together, and I was greeted with a cheer and applause from the vast cube farm as we came around the corner. I could feel my face turning red. Emotion was welling up in me; I wasn’t sure if it was pride, anger, embarrassment, or all of the above.
People I had never even spoken to were flooding into the tech area, slapping me on the back, shaking my hand, kissing me on the cheek, and fawning over me—I was very uncomfortable.
I leaned over and whispered in Bonny’s ear, “I’d hate to be you when John finds out he has to debrief all these people.”
“He’ll get over it,” she said dismissively.
I made my way through the ad hoc reception line to my cubicle. I turned the corner into my cube and the first thing I noticed was that all my equipment and personal items were gone.
What the hell?
Bonny linked her arm through mine and continued to pull me down the aisle.
“You’re down here now,” she informed me.
I followed along to the end of the aisle and into one of the glass-walled offices. Before I left for Europe, the space had been a sales manager's office, and I suddenly wondered if the manager who had been booted had gotten another office. My items were arranged neatly on a desk and on the wall was a huge banner, filled with hundreds of signatures, welcoming me home.
My new office was crowded with balloons and flowers and standing around my new desk were managers and officers from the company, including Bernard Evonitz—founder and president of TravTech.
“Scott,” he boomed, silencing the ruckus around us. “We just want to welcome you back and let you know how proud the whole TravTech family is of you. You’ll be pleased to know that none of your time off will be deducted from your vacation time.”
A burst of laughter erupted in the room as Evonitz leaned over and spoke into my ear.
“…and as gratitude for your service to our country, the board has voted to give you twenty-five thousand shares of TravTech stock options and a raise in your salary.”
I smiled and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir, but it really isn’t necessary. My actions have already caused enough disruption to business.”
“Nonsense. And call me Bernie. I don’t think you realize how much you’ve done for morale,” he continued more loudly. “Besides…since your foray into international adventure, security contracts have increased seventy-five percent. That’s the biggest one-time jump in sales for the company since I founded it.”
“That’s great,” I said sincerely. “I’m excited to get back to work and into my old routine.”
“That’s my boy,” he said, smiling broadly and patting me on my back. “Okay people, let’s clear out of here and let Scott settle into his new office.” Then, turning back to me, he confided, “Let logistics know of any resources you need to get you going full swing…now that you've returned, construction will get started. It’s good to have you back, son.”
“Thanks, Bernie,” I said, trying to honor his wishes—but it felt strange calling him by his first name.
After they had all departed, Storc strolled around the room, looking at the bigger space. Bonny plopped down in my chair and put her feet up on my new desk.
“What’s first, boss? Are we going after more terrorists? Organized crime?” she asked, smiling.
“Boss?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Storc said. “You're the head of a new department. Special Projects. Bonny and I now work for you as well as three other people you have to pick…including a personal assistant to manage the office stuff.”
“Fuck!” I exclaimed before I could check the emotion.
Bonny rose from my desk quickly, looking at me with worry. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy to have autonomy.”
I shook my head. It was almost a full minute before I had calmed myself enough to speak.
“What’s a ‘Special Projects’ Department?” I asked to neither one specifically.
“It’s a special contract branch of tech security,” Storc volunteered, “for our new contracts with the government.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“Scott,” Bonny offered gently as she came around the desk. “It’s a cover contract. The CIA asked Bernie to set it up. The company is getting paid big bucks to provide them access to you. If I had known it was going to upset you this much, I wouldn't have saved it as a surprise.”
The blood drained from my face. I had expected special contracts from the government, but I hadn't foreseen an entire CIA technical substation being built and me being thrown in charge.
It's too much. It's too damned much.
I was looking forward to coming back to my cubicle, jamming my fingers on the keyboard, spinning code, and drinking too much coffee in privacy and quiet—I had autonomy before. Everyone left me alone because I fixed stuff no one else could. This new arrangement was not autonomy. It was the opposite of autonomy—and the opposite of normal.
Dr. Hebron’s words came back to me. “Events that alter us happen every day. It’s not a matter of if we change because of our experiences—they will change us…the better question to ask is: Will we allow those events to be bigger than us?”
I dropped my tattered shoulder bag on the floor next to my desk and plopped down into the chair. My eyes drifted down to the bag, staring at it listlessly, remembering the morning Kathrin had so eagerly traded it for my backpack in Amsterdam.
It was several seconds before I realized Bonny was speaking to me again.
“Scott. If you need more time, we’ve got instructions for that. No one is rushing you,” she insisted supportively. “You’ve been through the shit and everyone knows it.”
“I wish everyone would forget it…I wish I could forget it. I wish—” I was about to say I wish I had never met Barb, but that seemed to go too far, and it wouldn’t have been the truth.
“Why don’t you go back home? We’ve got it under control here,” Storc offered. “No one expects you to jump right in.”
“Nope!” I blurted, suddenly feeling it was time to pull myself together. “I’ve got to sack up and get to work. I’ve been on paid vacation long enough.”
“That’s my boy!” Bonny exclaimed, throwing her arms around me. “Welcome back, Scottmeister!” She kissed me on the cheek before hopping up onto my desk. “What’s first?”
I looked out the window into the tech cube farm, seeing heads popping up occasionally to look in my direction.
“I need to get organized,” I murmured absently.
“Well,” Bonny said, thinking of a way to get rolling. “You could go ahead and hire the other three people. Start with the office manager. That should help you get organized.
“Office manager?” I asked incredulously.
Bonbon smiled knowingly. “We made sure that project management skills were a prerequisite when the job announcement went out. We knew you'd want someone who could keep up with you.” She grinned like that had been some sort of insult.
“Okay. Good idea. Who do I have to choose from?” I asked.
“Check your email. You’ve got hundreds of people clamoring to work for you,” Storc suggested. “A bunch of them have been copying me and sending follow-ups every day, asking if I've heard from you.”
“Me too,” Bonny chirped. “I haven’t been this popular since the costume malfunction at the Christmas party two years ago,” she added, giggling.
“I didn’t see any emails,” I replied in confusion.
“Ah,” Storc recalled as he got up, fished a piece of paper out of his pack and then sat it on my desk in front of me. “Secure server…new address. This section can’t operate on standard servers.”
I looked at the new mail server ID and the address I had been assigned—wolfeman. “It would have been nice to know this last week while I was gearing up,” I complained without looking up.
“I thought of that too, but Habib wanted you to clear out his project list first…and others,” he said, glaring at Bonbon, “wouldn't let me say anything.”
I nodded. It made sense that Danny Habib would want as much unfinished work completed before I officially left his department—and Bonbon was Bonbon…probably doing Barb's bidding.
I mentally girded myself for the new role. “Alright. You two pick a systems and networking person you are both comfortable with and another encryption specialist. I’ll look for the project manager.”
“Personal assistant slash office manager,” Bonbon corrected.
“I don't need a personal assistant,” I replied a little too sharply, still a little upset she had told the whole office about Europe. “My person has all the assistance it needs. I'll need a project manager and a researcher.”
I could tell Bonbon was a little put off by my response, so I softened it some. “Besides, once we get going, a researcher slash analyst will do me more good than an assistant.”
She smiled and nodded, but I could tell she was a little bruised. Storc intervened through distraction.
“The CIA sent over a list of approved people who'd pass the security checks,” Storc said. “I was copied on it. If you can’t find it in your in-box, let me know and I’ll forward you another copy.”
“Cool. Thanks, man,” I responded.
“No problem.” He rose to leave but turned before exiting. “Scott,” he said seriously. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, forcing my face into a smile.
Don't be a douche, Scott, I thought.
Bonny wandered over to the counter on the other side of the office. I hadn’t noticed it before due to all the flowers and balloons, but there was an elaborate-looking coffee machine sitting there. It was a rather large office—bigger than Habib’s. A large monitor hung on the wall between the two windows and behind me was a workstation, though empty of hardware, which could hold several monitors and servers.
“Do you want some coffee?” she asked, snapping me out of my visual inspection. Before I could answer, she continued. “Please say yes. I’ve been waiting for two weeks to try this thing out.”
I laughed. “Yes, Bonbon. I would love some coffee.”
“Espresso, cappuccino, latte, or regular?” she asked excitedly.
“Surprise me,” I chuckled.
By the time Bonny served me my latte, I had found the email containing the CIA-approved employee list; some candidates had asterisks next to their names, indicating a higher degree of approval—though I wasn't sure what that meant. Perhaps there was a particular personality profile that the Agency considered more desirable.
In any case, I'd make my choice based on my criteria. I wasn’t in the mood to play manager, so I just sent a mass email to all the “personal assistant” candidates who also had project management and researcher qualifications, asking them to stop by my office sometime today so we could meet and chat.
I also stumbled across a required facilities alterations list from the CIA, addressed to me, copying Bernie. Bernie had already replied to the message stating that the company and I would happily provide any resources required.
As I waited for the list to print, the first applicant showed up at my door and knocked. I looked up to see a very prim-looking woman in a business suit with her hair pulled back so tightly it probably stretched five years from her face.
“Mr. Wolfe?” she asked as her eyes flashed around my office, pausing briefly at Bonny, tensing—presumably due to her Goth attire or multicolored hair—and then returning her gaze to me. “I received your email. Is now a good time?”
“Yes. And for fuck’s sake, don’t call me Mr. Wolfe,” I said with a grin.
She tensed at the language. “Yes, sir,” she responded stiffly.
“—or sir,” I heaped on as I gestured to the chair in front of the desk. “You have a resume?”
“Yes, s… Yes, I do,” she stammered as she sat and then timidly placed it on my desk.
I looked it over, seeing her impressive list of credentials and references. I had already made up my mind, though. If she was uncomfortable with the appearance of Bonny and my intentional F-bomb test, she would not be a good fit for this group.
I saw Bonny wildly gesturing over her shoulder, indicating she did not approve of this one. There was an asterisk next to her name.
It figures.
I wasn’t even paying attention to her verbal dissertation of achievements and skills. Once she finished speaking, I thanked her for her interest in the position and told her I would let everyone know of my decision soon after I had made it.
Two others had arrived while I was interviewing the first. The next was very much like the first, also with an asterisk next to her name—but equally unsuited for this group. And so it was for the next couple of hours; one candidate after another. Each highly qualified for the position but totally unsuited to be part of my team.
Bonny had taken to passing in and out of the office, standing behind the candidates, making faces or rude gestures indicating why they weren’t suitable. Most of them failed the Bonny test, all but one failed the F-bomb test. And none of them seemed the slightest bit creative. That was one thing I couldn’t abide.
Around twelve o'clock, a delivery person arrived with an assortment of pizza, subs, and wraps, courtesy of upper management. My office filled up with hungry techs from the cube farm outside my door, each eager to have a free meal and chat with me about things I couldn’t talk about—such as terrorists and Bosnian Serb mercenaries.
While trying to keep Bonny from lifting my shirt to display my scars to the lunch guests, there was knock on the door. A woman with black hair in dark business attire stood in my doorway. The collar of her blouse barely covered the top of a tattoo. She had several piercings in both ears, including a scaffold piercing at the top of her right ear and a tragus piercing on her left.
“Mr. Wolfe?” she asked shyly, looking to see who would respond.
“That’s me,” I piped over the lunch din and then turned to my lunch companions. “Okay guys. Free lunch is over.”
Moans and laughter followed the group as they meandered out the door.
“I can come back a little later if you need me to,” the young woman said quickly.
“No. That’s fine. Come on in and sit down,” I replied, and then remembered my lines. “And for fuck’s sake, don’t call me Mr. Wolfe.”
She didn’t even bat an eye. “Yes, sir,” she replied.
Bonny wandered in around my desk and leaned aga
inst the wall. The new candidate smiled at her shyly. “Hello,” she said softly.
Bonny smiled and nodded as I looked at her resume.
Jo Ann Zook. She had a great deal of experience; her skills list was longer than most of the other candidates. It included an elaborate project list, each lasting no more than three months for various managers and executives in this company and several others I recognized in the industry. I quickly checked the CIA’s approved list. Her name was there, but no asterisk.
Her resume included glowing recommendations from the managers she had worked with. Conspicuously missing from their statements were the common accolades for being a team player and being well-liked.
“Jo Ann. You have an impressive list of projects here,” I remarked.
A look of distaste crossed her face. “Thank you, sir. Please call me Jo.”
“Okay. And you could please stop referring to me as ‘sir,’” I advised, smiling. “I haven’t been knighted.”
“Sure,” she replied, relaxing her posture a bit.
“Why so many projects with such short duration?” I asked, placing her resume and the CIA list on the desk.
“I have a particular skill set that’s geared toward organization and problem-solving. More like a troubleshooter than anything else,” she said shyly and then reached for, stopped and then reached again across my desk to straighten the two pages I had just laid down, aligning the edges perfectly with the edge of my desk.
“I see,” I replied. “Why so many different managers?”
She didn’t even pause, but her posture became a little more rigid. “As I said, I have a particular skill set. Fairly specialized. When projects reach a stage for public or other human interface, I've been told I lack other skills needed to…integrate.”
I understood what she meant, but I wanted to test the boundaries of her honesty. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“I think you do understand and are testing me…which is fine,” she informed me, and then she gauged my expression before continuing.
I'm impressed so far, Ms. Zook, I thought. Keep going.
“My strengths are also my weaknesses. I tend to cut through bullshit to get to the heart of a problem. I'm just as quick to identify team flaws in a new project as I am system or data flaws. I couldn’t care less whose sensitive nature I upset. That’s fine for getting a project’s infrastructure and organization off the ground rapidly. But most managers find my methods abrasive and tend to thank me for my efforts and then shove me out the door before I can embarrass them once things are running smoothly.”
