The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  I look around, and the others nod in agreement.

  Okay, probably a good time to leave a final impression.

  I rise from my chair, look around, and spot Bobby Flanduzi at the end of the table. He’s checking his phone. I stride around the table and approach Janice. “May I, Janice?” I nod to her laser pointer, and she hands it over. “This is the problem.” I aim the pointer at the screen, circle a new column of acronyms and numbers. “This right here. This is where we must harvest true ROI. Not just the process-mitigation stuff, but the true transformative value-capture.”

  Janice stands back, nods again. I hold on to the pointer and meander back toward my side of the table. “Because . . .” I stop behind Bobby Flanduzi and point the laser to yet another column of data. “. . . this is the area that really concerns me, Janice. This is the area where I’m at a loss. I mean, how do we even start to document a new process over here?” There’s a murmur in the room, and Janice dives into a marathon monologue. I stand behind Flanduzi—nodding at Janice, maintaining the eye contact that is so important in any Bob Watson. After two minutes, I slip the pointer into my front pocket and take a knee behind Flanduzi. Janice barks out the acronyms—nearly breathless—and I lean in and whisper into Flanduzi’s ear.

  “Hey.”

  He jerks a little, stiffens, and turns around, his eyes wide. “Hey.”

  I lean in closer. Whisper. “I’ve seen the monkey drool.”

  He seems confused, then concerned. His skin pales. He tries to whisper without moving his lips. “What did you just say?”

  I look around. Everyone is watching Janice unleash more acronyms. I lean in a little closer. “Monkey drool.”

  He decides I’m crazy, that it’s just a coincidence. “Dude.” He frowns and pulls away. “What’s your deal?”

  Janice acronyms poetic. “We must cascade the L-PARs through the ROI and the SWAT metric.”

  “I’m sure there’s a more scientific name for it.”

  “Dude. Seriously.”

  “Like, baboon saliva?”

  His jaw muscles begin to twitch, and he knows that I know about his monkey drool.

  “So, what kind is it?”

  “What do you mean, what kind is it? And were you in my house today?”

  “The ‘drool’ in the vials. What kind of drool is it? Mama calls it ‘monkey drool,’ but I’m guessing it’s baboon saliva, or lemur, or orangutan.” We look at each other. “No?” Another long stare. “Regardless, the Robards Clown Posse delivered the cash to Mama and me.” A pause as we look at each other. “And yes, I was in your house today.”

  Long silence.

  “And once we complete the L-PAR thrust, we penetrate deeper with HyperPHY.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Rick Blanco. Bottom-tier data transformation.”

  He searches my face.

  “And I need you to play nice. I need you to do as I say, because—come hell or high water—I’m gonna take the totally cool chick I’ve been chasing for years, I’m gonna take her to the Greek tonight to see the English Beat. And I’m gonna show my sister I can be trusted with her house. And I will quit this shithole.” He looks at me like I’m absolutely nuts. “So, you will cooperate. You hear me, Flanduzi?”

  “And we must spray the L-Docs all over the L-PAR.”’

  Slowly, he nods.

  “Okay. So.” I look for spies. “I have your forty-five K.”

  His lids fall. “Okay.”

  “So listen. This is what we’re gonna do.” I look around. “I’m gonna get you out of here. You just sit here, and when I tap you on the shoulder, I want you to get up and follow me out of this conference room. You understand? We’re gonna do what I like to call a Dual-Op Bob Watson.”

  He frowns.

  “I mean, I’m gonna get us both out of here. Okay?”

  He bites his lip. “But Janice hates it when people—”

  I raise a finger to stop him. “You want your forty-five K?”

  Nods yes.

  “Okay, then trust me. We’re gonna do this right under their noses.”

  He straightens up. “Okay.” Deep breath, and then a glance at me. “Mama sent you?”

  “And we’ll flank the Cando guys with the P-FIDs.”

  “She did.” I look up at Janice. “Okay, when I tap your shoulder, what are you gonna do?”

  Bobby Flanduzi closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t. I feel like I’m gonna faint. I’ll make a scene.”

  “You think I’m gonna pull you out and hurt you?”

  Eyes still closed. “I seriously feel like I’m gonna faint.”

  “Fine.”

  I stand up, straighten my back, and watch Janice as she pounds her fist to an oddly rhythmic listing of acronyms—“First, it’s the R-PID, then it’s the L-Docs, and then it’s the L-PARs.”

  I watch a little longer—nodding, making eye contact—and I realize Janice is so deeply engrossed, and her subjects are so deeply hopeless (lost in their own daydreams and meditations), that this Bob Watson is a slam dunk. No need to create a distraction or a new hot topic. No need to wait for her to turn her back or for someone to get into a debate. This one’s easy—for me, at least. The trick is, you just walk briskly to the door and leave, like you have every right, like you have a long-standing hall pass, and like you’re obviously coming right back.

  I lean over Bobby Flanduzi’s shoulder. “Stay here,” I say. “I’m coming back with your money, and you’re going to answer some questions.”

  Flanduzi nods, and I walk out of the conference room as Janice says something about L-Doc enrichment.

  * * *

  I race back to my cube and see that the bag of cash is gone.

  Ernie is at my desk enjoying a YouTube video of Big Bird, my white earbuds burrowed deep into his head—his eyes huge and moist, a tiny grin dimpled into his face. He has the sound so loud, I can hear Big Bird—his back hunched, his yellow feathers radiant—as he talks to Elmo.

  I scan my cube; the Nike bag is nowhere. “Ernie,” I rasp, breathless.

  From inside Ernie’s head, Big Bird says, “A break is fun, too.”

  “Ernie, where’s the bag?”

  Music starts, and Big Bird begins to sing to Elmo.

  I’m taking a break, I’m taking a rest.

  I grab his shoulder. “Ernie.”

  I’m taking some time . . . to be at my best.

  Ernie glows, hums along.

  “Ernie.” I pull out an earbud and speak into his hole. “Ernie, where’s the cash?”

  Oh, won’t you take a break . . .

  Won’t you take a break . . .

  With me?

  I pull out the other earbud and yell, “Ernie.”

  Finally, Ernie looks up as the earbuds broadcast Big Bird’s happy plea.

  We can dream a dream

  We can wonder why?

  We can take the time to let the world . . . go . . . by.

  Oh, won’t you take a break . . .

  Won’t you take a break . . .

  With me?

  I see my hands take him by the jumpsuit lapels and shake him. “Where’s the goddamn money?” He hardens, offers a growl, and I release him. “Dude,” I whisper. “I asked you to sit here and watch the bag. I come back and the money’s gone and you’re watching Sesame Street.”

  Another growl, and Ernie swivels and opens my overhead cabinet, revealing the Nike bag.

  “Boy,” Elmo says. “Taking a break is fun, Big Bird.”

  * * *

  Ernie and I pause outside the conference room.

  “Okay, dude.” We fist bump. “Let’s do this.”

  I rest my hand on the doorknob, imagining that I can feel Janice’s vibrations through the cold steel, like I’m some kind of Bob Watson maestro clairvoyant—extrasensory, open to the universe and all the information it’s sending me, absorbing it all, sending it through my eardrums and optical nerves and dozens of other glands and organs, all of it funne
ling into my cerebral cortex as I prepare to execute yet another beautiful, luscious, perfectly formed Bob Watson.

  I caress the knob, feeling cocky, like a Bob Watson badass, as I watch Janice through the porthole, reading her movements, measuring the tautness of her face, gauging her intensity, hoping for a high point that will render her—once again—oblivious to the world around her. She seems to strain her neck as she barks into the air, and she turns her back to the others as she uncaps the marker in her hand. I open the door, and my senses are assaulted once again—thick air, a ripened odor, the heat hitting my cheeks as I march into the screaming wind of Janice’s acronyms.

  “And we’ll leverage the SysCON for a new level of P-FID rationalization.”

  Everyone in the room is looking at their phone, except Blake the intern, who is nodding off. And then there is Bobby Flanduzi, the only one who’s noticed me as I cut through the room like I’m invisible, like I own the place. He looks up at me, his eyes hopeful, his hands clasped in his lap, his knees and feet together. His face sags a little when he realizes I couldn’t possibly be carrying $45,000. He opens his mouth. “You said—”

  I reach him and press a forefinger to his mustache. “Shhhhhhh.”

  Janice begins to turn and face the group, so I drop to a squat behind Flanduzi.

  “Of course, the P-FIDs can be reverse engineered using the 459 process.”

  I whisper into his left ear. “You ever want to see your money?”

  Shaky, he nods yes.

  “Then you will need to answer some questions.”

  Slowly, he cocks his head, like he’s thinking about it, saying, I’ll see what I can do.

  I lean in, whisper, “Starting with the monkey drool.” He jerks at the words. “C’mon, bub. What are you doing with a cooler of something like that?”

  “Of course, we need to think about the Bonzo tables.”

  Flanduzi stares ahead, watching Janice, then turns his head back my way. He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and folds his arms.

  I lean in again. “I was in your house this morning.”

  He straightens, scratches the back of his neck.

  “What kind of guy keeps a cooler of monkey drool—infected monkey drool, is my guess—in the family fridge?”

  His chest rises, and he reddens. “Someone who loves his daughter . . .” His whisper cracks with emotion “. . . more than anything in the world.”

  This softens me. “Dude,” I say. “What are you doing selling animal saliva on the black market?”

  He’s nearly panting, looking straight ahead. “My daughter.”

  “The money? The cash is for your daughter?”

  He bites his lip, fighting off a full cry. “Mmmm-hmm.”

  “Your kids look young. Why does she need forty-five thousand dollars?”

  Flanduzi takes a breath, composes himself, shakes his head. “I need it. For my daughter. So she can see the right doctors.” He huffs and puffs, and yells out, “The goddamn paperwork.”

  Paperwork? Isn’t Mama always calling me Mr. Paperwork?

  Janice is frozen. Staring at Bobby Flanduzi, then at me.

  Oh shit.

  “Yes,” she pants, nearly breathing fire. “That’s right. The paperwork. The J-Configs are too much. Just way too much paperwork.” She pivots and turns to the whiteboard, uncaps her marker. “Which is why the K-KARs are so critical.”

  Flanduzi whispers, “It’s all the paperwork they make you do, just so you get your kid in to the right doctor—you know, for a treatment that could change her whole life.”

  I look at him, trying to follow.

  “Ever heard of Kawasaki disease?” he asks. “The inflammation of arteries. Treatable, as long as you can see the right doctors. As long as the medical insurance people don’t run you through a bunch of hoops—a bunch of paperwork—and slow you down.”

  “Insurance slowed you down?”

  He nods. “More and more paperwork. More calls, more paperwork.”

  I feel my throat tighten.

  “And finally, the wife and I decide we can’t wait another day. The paperwork keeps coming, delaying coverage. They keep running us in circles—and, of course, the real reason is that the treatment’s not cheap. So finally the wife and I, we say . . .” His voice cracks again. “. . . we just gotta do this right now. So we pay out of pocket, which is what insurance wanted all along—it’s what keeps the Robards premium costs down, of course, and that’s what it’s all about.” He lets out a dry chuckle. “Keep the premium costs down for Robards.”

  “So what you do is, you essentially milk the Bonzo tables.”

  “The good news is, Emma’s safe and well. We’re just broke.”

  “So the monkey drool?”

  “You’re right—baboon saliva.” He looks around; everyone’s come alive and is babbling about Bonzo tables, oblivious. “Long story, but someone’s looking at some new genetic research and—”

  “Huloojasper?”

  “Yeah, what a name. Probably fake. Someone that a friend of a friend knows. Biomed. All I knew was, they needed someone to pick up a cooler of samples—vials of saliva from a grasslands baboon. Some type of research. They didn’t want the vials to go through customs, for whatever reason, so they needed someone to retrieve the samples in Jalisco, bring them across the border, get them to this Huloojasper guy, the lead scientist at this start-up. He pays me forty-five thousand for moving some baboon saliva. Pretty tidy sum, right? But then I freaked out, worried about getting arrested or something, decided I needed intermediaries, and I had the bright idea . . .” Another dry laugh. “. . . of hiring some conployees to complete the transaction—figured an ex-con would know how to do a discrete drop-and-pay. I didn’t want anyone seeing me reaching out to conployees—just in case this whole thing blows up—so I put out a Craigslist ad seeking Robards International conployees who want extra work, and I get two responses—one from the Robards Clown Posse, and one from this old lady who was Googling ‘conployees’ for her research.”

  “Mama?”

  He nods. “She insists on getting involved, comes over and meets the family—says she wants to help. Before I know it, we’re telling her everything. First she gets all pissed, cussing out Dick Rayborne. And then she says she has a couple of ‘boys’ who can do the job for us. But I already have the Robards Clown Posse set up. But I guess Mama didn’t understand.”

  My chest hardens, and I feel my jaw muscle twitching. “All of this because of the medical coverage bullshit?”

  He nods. “They have a term for it—paperwork blitz. Whole idea is to overwhelm a claimant with so many requirements, so much paperwork, and then countless runarounds and rejections and technicalities, that you just throw your hands up and surrender.” He pauses, swallows hard. “Problem is, after four weeks, we just couldn’t wait any longer.” Another big swallow. “So, I guess you could say they won—we paid out of pocket. Maxed out the cards. Drained the savings.”

  I blink hard, try to take in deep breaths. I place a hand on his shoulder. “So basically, you’re trying to save your daughter’s life. How old is she?”

  “Seven.”

  “Seven.” I steady myself. “And you’re trying to claim your coverage. And you get the Dick Rayborne Special?”

  “Mama says Rayborne has been praised for being a trailblazer with the practice of paperwork blitzes. In some journal—”

  “Headcount.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. She shared a clipping.” He bristles, looks away. “It’s disgusting.”

  Rayborne. What a complete prick. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. Steady, big boy. Steady. Time to calm down. I take another breath and let it out slowly as Janice barks something, the syllables distant echoes in my head.

  What kind of person does something like that?

  “Now,” Janice says. “Let’s talk about Phase 21.”

  I lean into Flanduzi. “Okay, so I met the Robards Clown Posse, and they’re taking the vials to H
uloojasper, or whatever his name is.” I look around again, get even closer to Flanduzi. “And they gave Mama the cash, which I’m gonna bring to you in a second.”

  He lets out a sigh of relief, looks away. “We’re days from foreclosure. We need that money.”

  “Anyone asks? We never spoke, okay?”

  He nods.

  “And I’ve been in this meeting the entire day. Right?”

  “Actually . . .” He’s squinting, thinking about it. “. . . you have been.” Cocks his head, squint turning to frown as he challenges his memory one last time. “Haven’t you? But you said you met the Clown Posse and went to my hou——”

  I stop him. “Of course I’ve been here the whole time. I’ve been sitting in here with you since this dreaded thing started.” I look away, and I’m hit with the visual memory of a naked, pissed-off Angel chasing Ernie through this guy’s house. “All those comments I had about the J-23 and the right ROI analysis of the FODs?”

  “That’s right, that’s right.” He stiffens, screws his eyes shut in shame. “I’m losing it. Sorry.”

  “Of course, I had to step out for a few bio breaks and calls.”

  He frowns to himself again. “How’d you get the vials?”

  I think about something. “You may want to change the sheets on your kids’ beds. Just to be safe.”

  “Huh?

  “Time to give you your money,” I say, grabbing his shoulder. “Okay.” I look for spies one last time. “I’m gonna create a distraction. You understand?”

  He looks like a timid boy. “What do I do?”

  “Nothing. You just sit here.” I look around. “Someone’s gonna hand you a bag containing the money. I want you to accept the bag, take a peek inside, confirm the money is there. Okay?”

  Troubled eyes. “Won’t everyone see?”

  “Believe me.” I prepare myself. “They won’t see a thing.” He bristles, and I head for the front of the room. “Janice,” I say, “we can talk about the K-KAR and the SysCON till we’re blue in the face. But the fact of the matter is, it’s up to each of us . . .” I spin and look at the room, give them the eye. “. . . to do the right thing day in and day out. We must commit.” I notice a few eyes rolling, some long sighs. “So I am going to be the first one here today. To stand here and make a pledge. The bottom-tier data transformation pledge.”