Revenge of the Cube Dweller

by Joanne Fox Phillips

  I take a moment to read today’s e-mail but get interrupted when I hear the elevator chime. In my panic, I cannot remember if Baldwin’s computer was completely turned off or only logged off when I arrived. I decide just to shut the computer down and get the hell out. I hear voices coming my way and take a deep breath. I am in Marla’s office dusting when Baldwin and another man enter her vestibule.

  “Where’s Gloria?” Baldwin asks in a friendly tone.

  “No English, señor,” I reply, keeping my head down, focused on getting every inch of Marla’s desk lamp cleaned.

  “Must be new,” I hear Baldwin say to the other pear-shaped man as they go into his office and shut the door.

  I am shaking by the time I make it to the elevator but thrilled just the same. I am good at this, and it is a blast.

  For my next task, I change elevator banks and take the car up to the eighth floor where the rank-and-file HR folks work. This is a dangerous move, but if I can pull it off, it will be well worth it. The elevator opens onto steadily humming and clicking office activity and plenty of movement by employees walking in and out of offices and leaning in doorways to ask questions. I am surprised at the activity but then remember how busy the HR folks are getting ready for Friday. Abort is my immediate inclination. This is way too dangerous an environment in which to implement my new plan, so instead of getting out, I remain in the elevator and ride down to the lobby.

  Driving home, I realize that this has become sort of an addiction for me. The thrill becomes greater each time I am able to get away with my clandestine activity. It began on Easter Sunday, and it increased with hacking into Baldwin’s files, then spying on Mazie, breaking in the other night, and then again this evening. I love it. It is better than sinking a killer putt to win a championship. I do not want it to end, ever.

  And with what I am now planning, it will never have to.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I am pretty sure that no one other than department heads, HR, and I know that the Project Titanic layoffs are scheduled for tomorrow. Common practice among large companies is not to fire people on a Friday, since they have the whole weekend to sulk and are unable to take any proactive measures in their job search until the following Monday. The hopelessness can result in depression, spousal abuse, and even suicide. Once again, Bishop is behind the curve of best practices.

  The prevailing rumor is that the layoffs are scheduled for next Wednesday. Moe and Frank spend most of their days visiting with each other like a couple of old hens, speculating about organization changes. Other managers on the floor visit them, and then they all disappear together for hours on end. No work will get done until the axe falls.

  I take the opportunity to clear out what few personal items I brought to the office: a mug, my Windows XP bible, and an extra cigarette lighter. Without a family, there are no framed pictures, finger paintings from children, or doodads that people bring to make their workplace more like home. My cube reflects how truly temporary Tulsa is for me.

  It is only 9:00 a.m. If I think strategically and focus on a clean execution, I can get everything I am planning done by lunch. I can feel my excitement building once again; most likely it’s pretty similar to any addict anticipating the next hit.

  I open up Word, goof around with fonts and formats until I achieve the desired results. I make a quick checklist of what has to be done and the information I will need in order to do it. I cannot forget a single thing or I will be in big trouble. On this one, I can’t hide behind the cover of an auditor just doing my work.

  I wander down to IT and find Todd at his terminal, talking some bewildered employee through a password change. He looks up and gives me the “just a minute” gesture.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks. “And are there cupcakes involved?”

  “Actually, yes. I think I still owe you from two weeks ago.” I laugh, producing a small white box sealed with a golden bee sticker. “I didn’t make these, but they’re probably better anyway.”

  “Beehives! That is a treat.” Todd beams. Beehives is a tiny restaurant bakery near my condo that produces first-class treats. I didn’t have time to bake with all my snooping and my sister visiting, so I picked up four cupcakes this morning before work.

  I watch as Todd opens the box and gingerly selects a cake with his thumb and index finger.

  “I didn’t have breakfast. I’m starving,” he says, biting into his treat. “Want one?”

  “Oh, no thanks, Todd. These are all for you.”

  “I’m having dinner with my parents tonight. I’ll save the rest for them,” Todd says, wiping his hand on a paper towel salvaged from his desk drawer.

  I wonder about Todd and what will happen for him after tomorrow. IT is usually in demand even during hard times, so I suspect Todd will find something else fairly quickly. I hope so.

  “Now how can I help you?”

  “I have been asked to do a count of the cell phones turned in by the executives terminated on Monday. Do you know who I should talk to?”

  “Yeah, follow me.”

  He introduces me to Sophie, a just-out-of-college type who is in charge of phones, laptops, and other small hardware items. I tell Sophie who I am and that Internal Audit is doing an inventory to make sure that all the company cell phones have been turned in by the former executives.

  “I will need a list of names and phone IDs,” I explain. “And then I will need to actually see each of the phones.” This really is bullshit, because any auditor would have come with her own list, but Sophie doesn’t know that. I can tell she is nervous about an auditor making sure she’s done her job correctly.

  “The phones are kept in this closet over here,” she says. Quickly, she prints out a schedule of fifteen or so names, and then she walks me over to a closet door and unlocks it.

  She watches me as I look at the list and dig through the shelves, looking for the corresponding phone. “It’s better if I work alone on this,” I say in the most authoritative tone I can muster. “I will let you know the results when I am finished.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Sophie says, and she leaves. I quickly look through the list, find Hal’s phone, and put it in my pocket.

  After about twenty minutes or so, I return to Sophie’s desk.

  “I found all but this one,” I say, pointing to Hal’s name.

  “I was sure I had them all.” Sophie looks upset.

  “Maybe it’s just misplaced,” I say. “Please just follow up and let me know if you find it. It’s not a big deal, Sophie. I won’t write it in the report.”

  “Oh God. Thank you,” she says. She is almost in tears when I leave her for the stairwell.

  There are only a couple of bars of reception on Hal’s phone and the battery is weak, but I have what I need.

  “Bishop Group,” the cheerful receptionist answers.

  “I have planted bombs on three floors of your building,” I tell her using a fake voice. “They are set to go off at exactly eleven o’clock today. Fuck your company and everything they stand for.” I hang up.

  I know what the protocol is on something like this, as I audited the very process earlier in the year. The receptionist is supposed to call 911 immediately, followed by Building Services. A floor-by-floor evacuation then commences, and each department meets at a predefined location a block away from the building. Floor wardens and safety marshals wearing lovely orange vests will have checklists to make sure that all employees are accounted for and follow up on the ones they can’t find. I have about five minutes before the process starts.

  “Frank,” I say, poking my head in his office, “I’m going up to the twentieth floor to find some files.”

  “Okay.” He doesn’t even look up from his desk.

  I take my things and go to the ninth floor. I use my janitorial keys to let myself into a locked supply closet and wait, putting on the orange vest I took from my neighbor’s cube before she got to work.

  The alarms sound. I am sure most employees
think it is a drill. I can hear the sound of orderly footsteps headed to the stairwells, just as they had been prepped in the annual rehearsals supervised by the Tulsa Fire Department.

  “Please go to the lobby exit and meet at the northwest corner of the garage,” the warden repeats over and over.

  It takes about five minutes for the ninth floor to get to the stairwell and begin the long march down to the street. When I hear the all clear from the safety warden, indicating that there is no one left on the floor, I emerge from my hiding place and go to Mazie’s cube.

  It is still logged on, and I access the vendor maintenance screen, where I change the Cayman account number that receives the payments for Larson Consulting to my own.

  I move over to Amy’s cube. Her automatic logoff has kicked in, so I use the parsley password I found last week to gain access. I enter my invoice data and note that the wire has been put in the final approval queue. I log off and drop my self-constructed pre-approved invoice into one of the baskets in a neighboring cube.

  I quickly hurry to the stairwell and join the parade of employees, which has thinned to a trickle. The Tulsa bomb squad and K-9 unit pass by us on the other side, going up. Outfitted in my official vest, no one notices as I enter the eighth floor, where I’d had to abort my mission last night. With the floor empty of its perky occupants, I go immediately to the comp file room and locate the stack of rate change authorization forms, taking two, in case I make a mistake later on. I place the forms in a manila folder to keep them from getting creased and head down the stairs.

  My last stop is on six. Frank’s office. From there, I log in to Baldwin’s computer and download six or seven folders onto Frank’s hard drive. This access will show up on Raj’s radar screen like a giant red flag, and he will probably figure that Frank is responsible for the hacking. Raj doesn’t know that Frank isn’t capable of something like that. There won’t be any reason to get court orders for the other access attempts. Again I head to the stairwell, dumping my vest in an empty cube on the way. Then I go to the designated meeting spot and check in with the safety representative.

  “We were getting worried about you,” Frank says.

  “I was up on the twentieth floor and the stairwell was packed, so I thought I’d wait and get some of the files I needed.” I gesture to my manila folder. “This is a drill, right?”

  Evacuating all employees from a thirty-story building is no easy task, and getting them back in isn’t, either. Recognizing this, the Building Services Director sends a handwritten message to each group saying that all employees who are nonessential should feel free to take lunch early. As the poster child for nonessentialness, I take him up on his offer and head toward the garage.

  As I exit the elevator on five, I see Amy and Mazie over by the red Mercedes smoking cigarettes. I think about joining them but do not, offering instead a perfunctory wave and smile as I walk by.

  I get in my car and drive off. I refuse to think of myself as Mazie’s kindred spirit. I am not; for one thing, I dress better and have better hair. For another, I’m in it for the excitement and revenge. I steal from crooks, which is very different from stealing from regular people. Mazie doesn’t know what I know about the Bishop Group and how they operate.

  My rationalizations continue along those lines as I drive over the Arkansas River and throw Hal’s former company phone into the only deep spot for miles. If by some remote chance the bomb threat is traced, it will be Hal’s problem. For all I know, his name showed up on the receptionist’s phone when the call came in. No real risk for Hal, since it is clear to me that Bishop is not interested in any negative publicity at the moment.

  I try not to think about the theft or Hal or anyone at Bishop. The best rationalization strategy is to forget about it completely. What’s done is done. Move on.

  I get back to my desk around one o’clock and bring up my Cayman account. My $500,000 wire had been received at exactly 12:15. I knew from my audits that wires are sent at 11:00 each morning, but because of the evacuation, today’s had been delayed.

  The other evening, when I had planned out exactly what I was going to do, I had run the cost projections for college tuition, not just for Lulu but for a scholarship fund in honor of my godson Matt. Returns on investments are grim at the moment, but if a significant corpus could be set up, it would be poised for the next bull market. It is only prudent investing.

  I just about choke when I see that three more wires have also hit the account, each for $50,000. I guess these were ones Amy had already put in the queue herself. Wow. An extra $150K. Thank you, Amy and Mazie. I cancel the account online and move the balance into my account in Houston. There might be some taxes and paperwork involved, but it is free money, after all, so who cares? The unexpected windfall can be used for personal benefit.

  One thing becomes clear as I sit in my cube, adjusting the waistband of my pants as they cut into my midsection flab. My appearance has reached a critical low point, and I have to do something. Being an accountant, I prepare a cost analysis and timeline to support what I think I will need for this new project: my transformation from Ernest Borgnine to maybe not Madonna, but something closer to that end of the spectrum. All in, I am looking at around $100K, which includes some cosmetic surgery and a few months at La Costa, shedding blubber and getting my golf game back.

  There will also be enough to get me set up back in Houston with a membership at Ravenswood Country Club. I call the Atlanta plastic surgeon, and due to the poor economy, I am able to set up a consultation for early next week. I marvel at what I am able to accomplish. Not a bad morning’s work.

  Todd from IT supplies an updated list of disbursements, and I start on my compilation of Mazie and Amy’s fraudulent transactions, making sure my wire is on the list to be written off, and I send it to Frank before packing up for the day.

  Mahogany’s Steakhouse is my next stop. I decide to celebrate my big day at the bar, alone, sipping a cucumber martini before savoring a spectacular lobster tail. The lobsters here are kept alive in a tank, so they’re not as travel weary as the other seafood in Tulsa. As I sip my drink and look in the mirror behind the bar I notice someone with a familiar face walking up behind me.

  “Hal! What are you doing here?”

  “Double scotch on the rocks,” Hal calls to the bartender by way of an answer.

  “You drink? I thought you were a Southern Baptist?”

  “It’s a recent development.” He talks loudly, the way people do when they’re drunk, and I guess this isn’t Hal’s first bar of the evening. “Just don’t ask me to go out dancing. Ha!” Hal swivels the stool next to mine and sits down.

  “I heard you were let go. I’m so sorry, Hal.”

  “Fucking Bishops! Gave them my whole damn life and they throw me away like yesterday’s newspaper.” Wow, vulgarity out of Hal too. I am definitely seeing a different side of my former boss.

  “I know what that’s like.” I give Hal a knowing smile and take a bite of the cucumber slice that garnishes my cocktail.

  “You don’t know any of it, Tanzie. Got a goddamn subpoena from the TCEQ this morning. My life is shit. What’ll I tell Nancy?” Hal downs his scotch and waves for another.

  “Slow down, Hal,” I caution. “How are you getting home?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like, Tanzie. Spent my whole life doing the right thing. Straight as an arrow. I make one mistake and I’m cooked.”

  “I’ve ordered dinner, Hal, do you want to move to a table?”

  “This is my dinner.” He holds up his fresh glass of scotch.

  I take a long look at the man. Lucy is wrong, I think. There’s plenty of gray area sitting right here next to me.

  “Let me tell you something, Tanzie. You make one mistake. Just one. Cross over that line and your life is never the same.” Hal downs the rest of his drink and signals the bartender for a check.

  “I’ve got this, Hal,” I say.

  “Did you just win the lottery, Tanzie?�
� Hal smiles.

  “Something like that.” I smile back. “Just came into some family money.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” Hal says and gets up from the barstool. Through the mirror I watch him stumble toward the door. The hostess guides Hal to a chair while she makes a phone call, presumably to a cab company. I think about giving Hal a ride home, but a waiter appears just then and sets my lobster tail down on the bar. My appetite is suddenly gone, and I flag the bartender.

  “Can I get this to go? I’m sorry, I just can’t stay.”

  “Certainly,” he replies and takes my plate away. I pull my iPhone out of my purse and look up Tulsa World. I write Dan’s name and work number on a cocktail napkin and walk over to Hal.

  “I don’t know what you’ve done, Hal,” I lie. “But give this guy a call. He may be interested in what you have to say. You shouldn’t have to be in this alone.”

  Hal grabs my hand as I put the folded the napkin into the breast pocket of his suit. “I always liked you, Tanzie. You’re a sweetheart, girlie.” He pats my hand as I pull it away.

  “Thanks, Hal.” I stop myself before I offer him a ride. What if he makes a pass at me or throws up in my Lexus? I decide not to take responsibility for Hal, even though I am more than a little bit responsible.

  I walk back to the bar to collect the white plastic bag that contains my dinner. I take the last sip of my martini and think about what Hal said. I crossed a line today myself. But I didn’t do it for greed, like Mazie and Amy. I didn’t do it to get ahead in my career, like Hal. I did it to screw those “fucking Bishops” and add some excitement to my boring life. The plastic surgery fund was an unexpected bonus. Mine is a different line, I rationalize.

  As I leave the steakhouse I pass Hal, who has fallen asleep in the chair by the exit. I give the hostess the to-go bag. “See that my friend over there takes this home with him.”

  “Of course,” she replies.