by Janis Powers
I stepped closer to Helen and laughed. “Are you serious? That guy is a VP? What is he—12?”
Helen cocked her hip and put her hand on her chin in mock curiosity. “12? No. But hopefully over 21, because once O’Shaugnessy starts drinking, everyone gets sucked into the funnel.”
Dale rushed back to his chair, his face sallow. “Are you all right?” I asked. “Did you get electrocuted by all the gear up there?”
“Look, don’t get me all wound up now. Rajeev has gone loco. All the computer crap he has there is, supposedly, a dynamic version of the DED. If it works, it will make this piece of shit,” and Dale held up the DED, “look like an abacus.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s not much of a difference between entering our data into this device, rather than writing it down on a piece of paper, right?” he explained hurriedly.
“Yeah. I got that.”
“We all come to the game with our data files and binders. But everyone knows that once things get underway, all the suppositions go out the window.” He yanked at the collar of his Worthington polo shirt. “Things happen. Players get injured, the crowd gets excited, whatever. By the fourth or fifth inning, we’re all just guessing our asses off, hoping to win.”
“So that’s why Bobbie usually wins? He understands baseball?” It was a valid point. It seemed like the deck was stacked against everyone besides Bobbie. “But what has that got to do with Rajeev and his portable disco over there?” I looked back at Rajeev again. His eyes darted around the ballpark, as his hands typed wildly. “What the heck is he doing, anyway? He scares me.”
Dale exhaled impatiently. “Well, he’s probably loading ballpark attendance and weather patterns into his model. He’s already incorporated thousands of variables into the thing. All he has to do now is load every play after it happens. Then the model will compute the most likely outcome for the next play. And that he enters into the DED.”
“That sounds absolutely ridiculous,” I scoffed.
“It’s not ridiculous if he wins.”
“That doesn’t really seem fair, to have all that help. Don’t you guys have some rules around this thing? How far you can go to win?”
“Good God. You sound like the Securities & Exchange Commission.”
Snarky as his comment was, I resisted the urge to respond. I usually won our verbal arguments, and I didn’t want Dale feeling like a loser before he started playing Beat the Boss.
Helen, sensing the tension, said, “So, shall we get this party started? We might as well go for a beer run before the game begins.”
When we came back with the beer, Dale had repositioned himself next to Bobbie. If I hadn’t known Dale better, I would have thought that he was trying to sneak a peek off Bobbie’s entries into the DED. Dale did have a penchant for pushing professional boundaries, but he also loved competition. In the end, my husband would want to win on merit alone.
I handed Dale a beer, and he thanked me graciously. I offered one to Bobbie, who declined. That must have been his secret to winning every year: sobriety. Helen took the beer for herself confiding, “Bobbie’s a little concerned about losing to Rajeev, so he’s been an absolute pill.”
An unhappy Bobbie seemed the kind of person who could suck the energy out of a nuclear generator. But Dale seemed unfazed by Bobbie’s moodiness, which is probably why they got on so well. Standing together, the two men were a study in contrasts.
Bobbie was about as tall as Dale, with broader shoulders and long arms. His chest was sort of hollow and he had a small bulge protruding over his belt. It seemed that over the years, gravity had redistributed his body mass southwards. Nonetheless, he stood erect and seemed fairly fit.
While traces of youth were evident in his physique, his face showed a different history. He had thick lines under his eyes from permanent bags which were the war wounds from years of stress and fatigue. Two more lines from the corners of his mouth to the bottom of his chin engulfed a cleft in the middle. This jaunty feature, along with his bright eyes, enlivened an otherwise somber expression.
If Bobbie’s physique was any indication of what Worthington was going to do to Dale, then I couldn’t feel too bad about what pregnancy was going to do to me.
15
The National Anthem had been sung, the players announced, and the Mets pitcher wound up for his first throw of the game. All the Worthington heads dropped as they entered their bets. Dale entered an S, which I presumed meant he thought the first pitch would be a strike. With all the guesses entered into their respective DEDs, the Worthington heads bobbled up in eager anticipation. I couldn’t believe that this ritual was going to repeat itself for every pitch of the game. I had under-estimated how hideously boring this was going to be.
“It’s gonna be a strike, right?” said Melanie. Everyone stared at her for speaking during the moment of silence between when the ball was pitched and when the pitch was called. But she turned out to be right: the first pitch was a called strike. Dale appeared both happy for guessing correctly and annoyed with Melanie’s vocal participation. He glared at Mike, who pouted at Melanie. “What?!” she said defensively. “Don’t you guys know the next pitch is gonna be a ball?”
The next pitch was a ball. Melanie clapped enthusiastically. Helen stepped in to intervene, or at least to investigate. Melanie the towel girl apparently had some hidden talents—the kind I was interested in hearing about, anyway.
“Melanie, I had no idea you were such a baseball fan!” she said, trying to engage Mike’s date.
Melanie was on her toes looking out to the field. “I think this one’s a hit,” she decided and then turned to Helen. “I was a semi-pro softball player before I started working at the gym.”
I scanned her physique again and decided that she must’ve gotten the boob job after she retired because there was no way she’d be able to swing a bat with those things in the way. “What position did you play?” I asked.
“Catcher.” Sure enough, the next pitch was a line drive between first and second. “Hey, I’m three for three! Hey, Mikey! You get all those?” Mike cupped the DED to his chest and smiled.
As the next batter came to the plate, Dale spoke up. “Dude. That is not fair. You’re totally cheating!”
“How is it cheating if everyone can hear what Melanie’s saying? And don’t you even start comparing Melanie to that,” and he pointed up at Rajeev.
Bobbie glared at Helen, who had apparently not dealt with the situation to his satisfaction. Helen shrugged her shoulders back.
“You know, maybe you need your own DED, Melanie,” Helen offered. “That way you could keep track of everything without influencing the play of everyone else. And who knows—maybe you could be the first woman to win Beat the Boss! Can you imagine?!”
“No,” demurred Melanie. “I can’t. That DED thing looks too hard to use.”
“It can’t be that hard,” I said. “Patrick’s using it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” interjected Dale. “We don’t have any more at the ballpark.”
With all the commotion about Melanie the Ringer, all the guys had failed to enter their bets. That translated into an automatic incorrect guess for everyone. Sensing Bobbie’s irritation, Helen herded me and Melanie to a different part of the section. “There are about 250 pitches thrown in a baseball game,” she said. “Statistically, getting one wrong shouldn’t mean a lot, but these guys are rabid. We need to separate ourselves from the mayhem.”
Melanie looked disappointed. “Well, that sucks,” she stated crudely but accurately. “I don’t understand why I am penalized for being better than everybody else. It happens all the time.” I held back the laughter as best I could. She stood up defiantly. “I’m out of here. Tell Mike I’ll be back later. Maybe.” Melanie took off towards the Promenade, with the ultimate goal of probably trying to find a way to sneak into the Mets locker room.
As the innings progressed, the fiber of the Worthington masses started to unravel
. Not surprisingly, the leader of the pack was O’Shaughnessy. I had almost made it safely back to my seat from the bathroom when Patrick ran into me during the seventh-inning stretch. He bumped my tummy with his own distended gut and then made an exaggerated tumble backwards. The juniors were highly amused, especially after he fell down and knocked a Slurpee on his pants.
I tried to walk over him, but he was up in a flash, draping his arm over my shoulders. I slunk down, trying to escape his sweaty armpit, but he started talking. To Helen. About me.
“You know, Mrs. Macaluso,” he slurred, “You and Mr. Macaluso have got to have cocktails at Dale and Maxine’s apartment. These guys have a huge collection of vodka, gin and rum. It’s just mind-blowing!”
Patrick’s antics had now caught the attention of Dale, Bobbie and everyone else in the Worthington section. I kept trying to get free, but Patrick clamped down on my shoulder. Now that he had everyone’s attention, he wasn’t about to wrap it up.
“You know, I would argue that the volume of Maxine’s vodka collection might rival that of an amateur wine collector.” Patrick rubbed my shoulder a bit and then plopped into his seat. I had trouble reciting the “amateur wine collector” comment, even when I was sober. When Patrick gave me a good-natured smile, I realized that the extent of his drunkenness was highly overblown. Still, his back-handed compliment, while friendly in intent, only tempted me to give him a massive middle-school style redneck as I stood behind him in the aisle.
Meanwhile, Mike seemed to be using every electronic means possible to locate Melanie. Heaven forbid he actually leave the section and go look for her. Dale and Bobbie were engrossed in some technical discussion about Inter-Tech. Ordinarily, I would have let them continue, but I was curious to see how the boys were doing.
“So—how is it going? You enjoying the game?” I posed the question to anyone who might answer.
“I think I’m doing pretty well,” admitted Dale. “But Rajeev has turned very cocky.” Indeed, Rajeev Gupta had taken the seventh inning stretch to literally put his feet up on his table and take a cat nap. “He says his model has worked perfectly. So who knows—maybe this year someone will bring down ‘Big Mac.’” Dale grimaced nervously as he absorbed Bobbie’s glare. Nobody used Bobbie’s Triple A nickname without permission.
I asked Bobbie, as a former pitcher, how he thought the Mets pitching staff was performing. In doing so, I realized that he wouldn’t answer, as his opinions would jeopardize his own attempts to win the competition.
An awkward silence ensued. Helen arrived bearing beer, much to everyone’s relief. While people snatched up the drinks, I could feel Bobbie’s eyeballs boring into the top of my head. He rubbed the lines around his mouth until his thumb and forefinger met at the bottom of his chin. He repeated this a few times while we all waited for him to speak.
“Dale has told me about your interest in spirits and liqueurs, Maxine. We might be able to utilize your expertise for a gala that Helen is planning. What would you think of that?”
Bobbie was very crafty. He had maneuvered me into a position where I’d have to commit to helping his wife, even though the scope of the activities had not yet been agreed upon.
Dale was more than happy to declare my complete availability. Helen looked like she had just won a cruise to the Bahamas on a game show. I decided right then and there to never go to a baseball game again.
Bobbie took a manly slug of his purified water. “Helen is President of the Long Island Heritage Society. Every year the gala committee is supposed to come up with something original for the menu. Helen can tell you all about it.” And with that, he resumed his conversation with Dale. Helen whisked me back to our seats as the game got back underway.
“So what is this gala you’re planning?” As I said the words, I realized that Helen would be the ideal party planner. She was considerate, tactful and fun. And she seemed to have amazing tolerance for alcohol because she was on her fourth beer and wasn’t slurring a word.
She spent the rest of the game describing the event. I was only half listening, because the baseball game was tied. I dreaded the notion of sticking around for extra innings. At the top of the ninth, the Cardinals didn’t score, so the Mets got their turn at the plate to win the game. “What happens if the game goes into extra innings?” I asked Helen. “Does the DED self-destruct?”
Before she could answer, the crowd erupted. It was a lead-off home run, putting the Mets on top, four to three. Game over.
All the DEDs were summarily handed to a neutral tabulation party, i.e. a set of up-and-coming junior associates tapped by Bobbie. While Dale and Mike nervously shuffled around, Rajeev sauntered over, dragging his worn flip-flops with confidence. “So, Mr. Pedersen,” he said with an Indo-British accent, “what is the highest winning percentage ever posted in this competition?”
Dale puffed out his chest and crossed his arms. “I’m not sure. Maybe Macaluso got close to 30% once?”
Rajeev bent over and slapped his knee with phony laughter. “30%? That’s it? I totally won this thing this year. My model had almost a 90% prediction rate.”
Dale released his arms and let them swing in front of his body. He squinted his eyes at Rajeev and said feebly, “I don’t believe you.”
“Yeah? Well, we’ll see!” he cackled. And within moments, the Worthington cell phones all started to buzz. Everyone feverishly scanned their devices with such focused attention I thought the Fed had lowered the interest rates.
Dale’s mouth slowly started to open. He couldn’t take his eyes off his phone. Mike slapped him out of his trance, literally, and gave him a huge man-hug.
“Congratulations! Holy shit! You won it, bro!”
Dale became flushed and he smiled at me through the onslaught of congratulatory handshakes and high-fives. Macaluso shook Dale’s hand solidly and said, “You eked it out there, Dale. You beat me by two one hundredths of a point. But in this game, the margin doesn’t matter. There’s only one winner—you.” Then he hugged Dale briefly, whispering something into his ear.
I supposed I should have been squealing with joy over Dale’s victory. I was truly proud of him, but I felt oddly deserted. If half of what Dale had said was true, then he would be spending much more time with Bobbie than with me. How was he going to help me with the baby if he was working all night with his boss?
I didn’t know what to say when Dale gave me a hug. Everyone else applauded, and I got a reprieve when Rajeev came pushing through the crowd, holding his laptop.
“Bobbie! Look here! My model had a 91.23% accuracy rate. Why does the email say that the DED I used had a 12.87% betting rate? Everything from my model was entered exactly into the DED. I should be the winner!” He pointed at the junior techs that had uploaded all the DED data. “You guys screwed this up completely!”
Bobbie held the laptop in one of his hands and started scanning through it. Almost immediately, he pointed to something on the screen and said, “These are the results you entered into the DED?”
“Yes! And they are correct! Don’t you remember DeSauza striking out to end the 8th inning? That’s what that is!”
Macaluso rubbed his chin, analyzing the data. “Rajeev, that result says K. Did you enter K into the DED for a strike?”
“Yes! Of course! K is for strike-out, right? Look at the scoring guidelines in the program!” Rajeev had the day’s program rolled up in a tube, which he was swirling around his head.
“Yes. K is for strike out, when the batter strikes out. But even in professional scoring, you don’t use a K for each strike, which it looks like you did in your model. You were supposed to enter an S into the DED for every strike, not a K.” Bobbie kept paging through the spreadsheet, looking for more corrections. “See? You did the same thing here with Marbry’s walk in the 5th. You put a BB in the DED. BB is for base on balls, or a walk. You were supposed to enter B, even for the final called ball.”
Bobbie shut the PC, having resolved the confusion. Rajeev slumped into a ch
air and uttered the words, “mother fucker.” Somehow they didn’t seem so coarse when he said them with a British accent.
Dale opened the PC back up and looked through the model himself. “The amazing thing is that the model actually worked. Rajeev just messed up the letters. I feel like I won on a technicality, Bobbie.” Dale shoved his fists into the pockets of his shorts and kicked an empty plastic cup from under a chair.
Rajeev stood up straight, adjusted his shirt and said, “That’s bullshit. You won, fair and square, Pedersen. Think about it. If Bobbie had given me $10 million to invest in stock SAS and I put the money in ASS, I would have screwed up royally. This is the same thing.” Rajeev extended a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix the model, and then next year, I will kick your ass!”
Dale and Rajeev shook hands, and then Patrick capped off the afternoon by pouring an oversized beer on Dale’s head. And now that Dale was officially Bobbie’s slave for the next twelve months, I figured the indentured servitude extended to me as well. I gave Helen my card and offered to help her with the gala dinner. In one afternoon, Dale and I had earned two more additions to our family: Bobbie and Helen Macaluso.
16
The most striking element to Beat the Boss was the camaraderie it cultivated among the Worthington staff. We at McCale had none of that. Maybe it was a cultural difference in industries; lawyers weren’t known for their work-hard-play-hard character. Nonetheless, we are an ambitious lot. And in order to be successful, I needed not only talent (which I had) and luck (which I couldn’t control) but also a mentor (which I had to cultivate).
Dale had Bobbie. I had Caine. Sort of. He was my designated human resources partner, the one who was supposed to guide my career by staffing me on projects that would showcase my skillset. Of late, he had fulfilled these mentoring duties by booting me from Parfum Aix and giving me zero guidance on the working mother transition. As a man, he wasn’t really qualified for the latter role, so I needed to move up the chain to Deirdre.
