“Did you have a nice Easter, Hal?”
“Yes I did, Tanzie, yes I did. We all went to church, of course. Then we had everyone over for lunch and the Webber Annual Egg Hunt. Little Mike won again this year; that’s three in a row.”
I smile politely at my boss and listen attentively as he continues the blow-by-blow coverage. Engineers tend to be even more detail oriented than accountants, so Hal’s descriptions leave nothing out: what everyone wore, what was in each Easter basket, and what was served for lunch.
“Nancy baked a ham and made one of those casseroles, what are they called—with the green beans, onions, and canned soup?”
“Green bean casserole?”
“Oh yes, that’s it! That’s it. Green bean casserole. You girls sure understand a way to a man’s heart. And pie. No restaurant can make a crust like Nancy. Don’t ask her to balance a checkbook, though. Girls have so much trouble with math. Don’t know why; maybe God just made them that way.” Hal leans down toward me. “And I’m glad he did,” he whispers.
“I have a CPA, Hal. I can balance a checkbook,” I say and smile.
“Whoa, now, miss women’s lib. SORRY!” He backs away, waving his hands in exaggerated regret. “I forgot you’re from California. I meant most girls.” Hal chuckles. “Some girls, like you, Tanzie, are great with numbers. Very good trench workers.”
“Thanks, Hal. I appreciate the compliment. Do you think—”
“Keep dressing up like today, Tanzie, and it won’t be long before you find a new husband and can quit this job.”
I let out a sigh as I sit back down and watch Hal walk toward his office. I look at my clock. I have about five minutes before the staff meeting, so I visit the ladies’ room for a fresh coat of lipstick and a quick quality check for lint or stray hairs. I take some deep breaths and rehearse in my head exactly how I am going to present my findings.
There are only four of us, so we fit around Hal’s small table rather than tie up a conference room. I am the lowest on the totem pole, but I report directly to Hal. That is a political move, because he has two managers and doesn’t want to upset either of them with a disproportionate reporting structure. Thus, even though both Moe and Frank assign my work, and I have only limited contact with Hal, I am invited to the Monday morning roundtable.
The meeting begins with an update of what is on Hal’s calendar that week: meetings, business trips, and lunches with important people. Then he goes around the room asking Moe and Frank to let him know what they are working on and about any progress that has been made since the last meeting. Generally, I don’t have a speaking part, and Frank and Moe answer for me because I work under their supervision. Frank begins his update using the checklist on the memo pad he uses to keep track of his reportable events. I watch him tick the little boxes he has drawn beside each item as he goes down the list.
The most noteworthy thing about Frank is that he is not noteworthy. He is completely ordinary in every respect: neither handsome nor homely; he smiles infrequently and laughs even less; he is medium height, medium weight, about thirty years old with a blond number-three buzz cut. Eyewitness descriptions, should he venture into a life of crime, would narrow the field to about every third man in Tulsa. If not for the cheap polyester ties he favors, Frank would blend in with any beige wall in the Bishop building.
My second day on the job, Frank asked me to review some reports for him and give input. Trained in the old-fashioned way of Big Eight public accounting firms, I went through the report footing the columns and making sure everything was tip-top. As Frank walked by my cube, I asked him, “Do you want me to make a list of the errors I find and discuss them all at once, or go over each report separately?” I was pretty sure Frank was testing me to see if I could help with reports, and I was sure he would be impressed by my experience.
“What mistakes?” Frank asked sounding irritated.
“Well, the gross margin table in this report doesn’t calculate, for one thing,” I said. “I think there’s a typo in one of the numbers.”
Frank pursed his lips and tilted his head sideways as he looked down at where I was pointing on the report. I was a little surprised at his reaction and even more so when he grabbed the papers abruptly and stared at the numbers I had circled in red.
“Please step into my office, Tanzie,” he said.
I followed him in and he shut the door behind me.
I sat down, but Frank did not. His office was as utterly dull as its occupant. No framed jerseys on the wall or encased balls on this credenza. Just neat stacks of papers anchored with paperweights that I thought had been rendered obsolete with the onset of the technology age. There was a bookshelf, but so far Frank had not accumulated many materials worthy of display. Other than a framed photo of his bride on their wedding day, there were absolutely no personal items that might give insight into Frank’s interests or hobbies. From what I now know about Frank, it is entirely possible that he has none.
“First of all,” Frank said, “when you find something like that, you should never assume you’re right. You should have said, ‘Excuse me, Frank, but I am very confused about something in the report. I am not sure I understand how the gross margin table works.’ Rather than accusing me of making an error. I didn’t appreciate your tone.”
This really caught me off guard. There is nothing remotely confusing about a typo. This was male dominating bullshit as far as I was concerned, and all the more galling being delivered by a thirty-something kid.
“I’m so sorry, Frank,” I said. “I don’t think making a typo is any big deal. I didn’t mean to offend you.” Oh brother. Right then I knew it was going to be torture tiptoeing around Frank and his inability to be wrong. It turned out all the reports had already been issued, and Frank had just been giving me busy work. He was horrified, too, that I corrected his grammar. Midwesterners in particular have a problem when it comes to the past participle of the verb “to go.” They say, “I should have went there” or in Frank’s case in this report, “The auditor had went to the job site to observe the inventory.” I changed the “went” to “gone.”
“You know, Tanzie,” Frank pointed to my grammatical editing, “it’s perfectly acceptable to use ‘went’ in that sentence. People say it all the time here. They know what I mean. Don’t be acting like you’re a smarty-pants or something.”
At the time, I felt as though I had time traveled back to a middle school hallway. “Frank,” I said, getting up to leave, “I am very confused about the spelling of Mr. Bishop’s first name. I always thought there were two n’s in Bennet, but of course he might have made a change. I can’t be sure. I will be happy to follow up on that for you.” I smiled pleasantly as I waited for a response from Frank, who was frantically looking at the reports to find that particular misspelling. “That will be all,” he said finally, and I went back to my cube.
Moe is not much better than Frank. He’s an entirely different kind of mediocrity. While Frank is the suit-and-tie type found throughout the world of finance, Moe is the blue-collar sort who brags about climbing up a twenty-five-foot tank or shooting the shit with the plant guys. He’ll bend your ear during hunting season and keeps a shotgun in the back window of his mammoth, orange Ford 250 on oversized wheels with “MoPWR” license plates. Moe graduated from Oklahoma State and takes every opportunity to schmooze with Hal about the rivalry between the Pokes and the Sooners.
Moe is older and thicker than Frank, sporting one of those potbellies that hangs over his belt so he doesn’t need to adjust his pants size as his girth expands over the years. My interview with Moe was memorable because he never asked me any questions.
“I’ve read your resume. Impressive. Now let me tell you about me,” he began.
I smiled, relieved that I was off the hook about explaining why I was reentering the workforce but surprised nonetheless.
“I’ve been in this business for thirty years, and if you ask me, it’s full of crooks. Top to bottom.” He swivele
d his chair toward his credenza and picked up one of the framed photos. “See this?” Moe handed me the picture. “That’s me at my old job shaking hands with the CEO. The CEO of Midwestern Oilfield! I busted up a kickback ring in South Texas back in ’07. Three hundred grand! Assholes are still in jail, thanks to yours truly.”
I’d never heard the word “asshole” in a job interview before, but I stayed composed and gave a nod of interest.
“Wow!” I said, studying the photo long enough to feign admiration.
Moe took a used Kleenex out of his pants pocket and let out a productive blow, giving a final wipe on his sleeve before tossing the tissue in his wastebasket. He extended his hand to take back the picture and I bit my lower lip. I had encountered vagrants with better manners.
Moe then pointed to the wall behind me on which hung a framed cross-stitching that proclaimed, “Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and it annoys the pig.”
“See that?”
“It’s lovely,” I lied.
“My wife made that for me for Christmas one year. Words to live by.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” I really didn’t. Clearly Moe was a pig. Still, I thought it interesting that his wife commemorated this shortcoming—and for Christmas, no less.
“Mark Twain said that. It means that you can’t expect people to be something other than what they are. Don’t expect everyone to be able to do everything. We need to coach the pig to be the very best pig and not waste our time on other things.”
Sort of like making a mechanical engineer an expert on gas contracts, I guess. Moe spent the rest of the allotted interview time giving me the rundown on his days in the navy, his audit philosophy to find at least three “findings” before finishing any audit, and his preference for formalized communications. “I like everything in writing. CYA. Written proof.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said, forcing a smile as he shook my hand when the Human Resources escort appeared at his office door.
Now, I look around the table as Moe gives his update and Hal nods while taking notes in a leather-bound diary.
“One more thing,” Hal begins, and looks up from his notes. “We’ve been asked to look into gas contract settlements. It’s pretty complicated stuff; I can tell you that from personal experience. I know you two are tied up.” Hal looks at Moe and Frank, and I perk up. “I’m thinking of bringing in Boyd and Associates, your old firm, Frank.” I look down at my notepad, trying not to telegraph my disappointment.
A few months back I approached Hal about wanting to take on some additional responsibility. I didn’t mind doing the grunt work that I’d been doing, but my financial energy background made me a good fit to audit Bishop’s energy trading organization or some higher risk areas than I was currently tackling. Hal politely asked me to sit, and in a loving, paternal way he told me a story.
“Tanzie,” he said. “When my son Danny was sixteen and he got his driver’s license, he begged me to let him drive my Corvette. I keep it just for weekends, you know. He begged me, Tanzie. He promised to be careful, not to speed, to take no other passengers along. I told him: ‘Son, you do not have the experience to be trusted with something like that yet. You will someday; but not just yet.’ You see, Tanzie, if I had given in, he would probably have done all those things. Not because he is a bad boy. No sir. Because he doesn’t have enough experience. Being a good father means not giving everything all at once. That, girlie, is how to raise successful children and that is how you train people at work.”
Did this man actually think of himself as my father? I was fifty-two years old, for heaven’s sake. We were roughly the same age. I was at a loss for words. Actually, I had plenty of experience, certainly more than Frank or Moe. There was no point in arguing this, though. It would only have annoyed old Hal.
“Hal, thank you for your time. I hope someday you will see that I have developed enough experience to be trusted with a high performance audit and not wrap it around a tree.” I smiled as I let myself out of his office.
Our meeting is winding down and I shift in my chair in anticipation of my big moment. I feel sure that the results of my security audit will indicate to Hal that I have the experience and have “proven myself.” Enough, anyway, to move up in the department or be given more complicated assignments—like gas contract settlements, perhaps.
“All right. Anything else?” Hal asks, signaling the end of the meeting.
“I want to give a brief update on the building security review I conducted over the weekend,” I say.
“Please proceed,” Hal says, looking at his watch.
“As you know, Moe asked me to perform an on-site review of building security.” I look around the table: Frank is typing e-mails on his iPhone, and Moe has removed a Kleenex-wrapped pen from his ear and is examining the wax from multiple angles. I carry on with the report as rehearsed, trying not to become distracted by Moe’s grooming ritual.
“I was able to penetrate the first level of security by informing the person on the security intercom that I was an employee and had forgotten my key card. I was clicked into the building without identifying myself. Once I was inside the building, a security guard was sent to escort me past security level two, the retractable flap barrier gate separating the lobby from the elevator bank. Once again, I was not asked for identification or credentials.” I notice Hal looking at his watch again.
“Tanzie, could I ask you just to write a memo on this so we can discuss it at the closing meeting with the building security team?”
I see Frank and Hal suppress smirks as they glance at one another.
“Of course, Hal, but there were some rather disturbing findings yesterday.”
“Such as?”
“The security guard asked me if I needed to go to the executive floors.”
Frank looks up from his phone, and Moe puts his pen down.
“What did you say?” Hal asks.
“I said yes. He never asked for a driver’s license or even a business card. He took me all the way to thirty and never once asked who I was.”
“Thirty! You went to thirty?”
“I didn’t think I would get there when I said it. I assumed he would require some ID or call the Building Services Director, like the protocol requires, but he didn’t. We just got in the elevator and rode up there, and—”
“You didn’t get out, did you?” Moe interrupts.
“Yes, I did, and he just left me there.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone. He just got back in the elevator and left me there all by myself.”
“Are you sure?” Frank asks.
“As confusing as all this was, yes, Frank, I am sure that yesterday I was left unattended on the executive floor with full access to every office.” I catch myself; the sarcastic tone might undermine my success here.
“You didn’t go into any offices did you?” asks a nervous Moe as he rolls a tiny wax ball between his fingers.
I take a breath. Things are not going quite as planned.
“No. But I could tell they were open, though, just by looking down the hallway.”
“Then you just left … right?” Hal leans slightly toward me.
“Um, right,” I lie. “I just called the elevator, rode down, and had the guard let me out.” I can tell that I am in trouble. All my preparation had assumed that my information would be favorably received.
“For pity’s sake, Tanzie. What were you thinking? What if you had run into one of the executives? What would you have said? That I sent one of my auditors up there to snoop around? How would that make me look?” Hal’s bald head turns red, and Moe shifts in his chair, visibly uncomfortable at having his underling blindside him at a meeting by having—in his view, anyway—so clearly misunderstood his direction.
“Hal, I thought it would be in management’s best interest to understand any existing vulnerabilities so they could remedy them before someone with sinister motives could exploit them.”
“Why didn’t you call me before you got on the elevator, Tanzie?” Moe chimes in.
“You really shouldn’t have went up there without checking first,” Frank agrees.
“So the guard asks if I want to go up to the executive floor, and I say, ‘Just a minute, let me call and ask someone’?”
“No, Tanzie.” Moe leans toward me pointing his finger. “You should have stopped right there. Once he asked you, that was enough for the report. Why can’t you see that?”
I think, Because, Moe, then we wouldn’t know that the guard would leave me alone on thirty, or that Marla leaves her password unsecured. But I can’t explain that to him now. If just being in the foyer on thirty causes this kind of ruckus, then snooping around, no matter how productive it had been, would send these guys through the roof and me out to the unemployment line.
“Don’t be so hard on Tanzie, fellas,” Hal says, settling into his fatherly tone. “What this is telling us is that Tanzie doesn’t have good judgment just yet. We need to be mindful when giving her assignments that may be above her skill level. Now Tanzie,” Hal says, looking me in the eye, “I want you to write up your notes on this, but just stop when the guard asks you if you would like to go up to the executive floors. Are we clear about that?”
I cannot help the stunned look that is surely plain on my face by now. I am totally lost in anger, and I know I need to disengage.
“Of course,” I begin. “Would you mind if I excuse myself to get started on that?”
“Good idea, Tanzie,” Hal nods. “I’m sure we’ve all learned a valuable lesson here. Am I right, boys?”
Frank and Moe nod, and I get up, smooth my skirt, and walk out of Hal’s office and back to my cube.
What just went on in there? I ask myself, rubbing my head with my hands, realizing afterward that I have probably smeared mascara all over my face. Under normal circumstances I would dash off to the ladies’ room to clean up, but I cannot muster the energy.
Revenge of the Cube Dweller Page 3
