The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  I close my eyes a moment, breathe in marjoram, and try to deny what’s happening. I can see the look of defeat on Mrs. Carmichael’s face as she stands there and gazes down at me, hands on her hips, jaw tight, while her son bounces the tennis ball off the wall over and over and over. But I close my eyes one last time and squeeze hard, trying to shoo away this feeling—this dark, oozing mass of dread.

  The doorbell rings, and a chill descends to the pit of my stomach.

  And just like that, my life is never the same.

  It’s my next-door neighbor Felix Ochoa and my sister, red-nosed and puffy-eyed. Sitting on the couch, both of them. Even Steve is sitting up now, holding the ball, watching. Felix tells me, softly, that my mom and dad were in a car accident tonight, and—I’m really sorry, Ricky—I’m afraid they’re gone.

  I feel light-headed and weak, and I want my mom.

  “They were supposed to be at dinner,” Ana sobs and looks at me. “Where were you?”

  I feel my mouth move. “They were coming for me.”

  Ana stares at me, her mouth open.

  “It was a drunk driver in a Lincoln,” Felix says. “And he’s also dead.”

  Ana says, “Your so-called date?”

  I nod, and stare into space.

  They’re dead. . . . Gone. . . . I can’t even . . .

  I blink and try to focus, my eyes falling on a framed picture of the Carmichaels—all of them—standing in front of the family station wagon, a campground behind them. They all seem so happy.

  “The movies?” Ana is scowling, and her voice is rising, getting sharper. “I thought you had your bike.”

  I turn and screw my eyes shut.

  Why did I ever chase after Danielle Meza on her way to history class?

  Why can’t I remember to do things?

  Why am I such a screwup?

  I open my eyes and look to the ceiling, tears streaming.

  Ana’s nearly yelling. “A girlfriend? This is because you wanted a girlfriend?”

  * * *

  Pulling into the Robards International parking lot in the Porsche 911 Carrera, I smile to myself as a realization sets in and spreads through my body: All of this craziness, because of a date.

  A date I won’t even have.

  Rolling to a stop, I realize I need to take a left. I have to. I have to take a left, then follow that little path there that veers even farther left and takes me to that executive parking area with the fourteen-foot security fence and its endless spiral of razor wire. I come to another stop, roll down the window, and press Dick’s badge to the gray reader, and the gate begins to slide open, providing a view of the executive parking lot. Burly men in dark blue suits. A variety of silver, gray, and black luxury cars shimmering in the sunlight. Do I—I mean, does Dick—have a designated spot? The guards study me and nod as I roll in, and I decide to take the farthest-away slot, figuring it’s probably the least likely to belong to someone. I turn off the motor and push myself out of the Porsche, feeling really awkward. I shut the door and realize I’ve left my—I mean, Dick’s—briefcase on the shotgun seat. I look back at the guards, meet their smiles, and nod before quickly turning away. I open the car door and stoop in to retrieve the briefcase, thinking, These guys. They must realize I’m not Dick. How could they not realize? I shut the door again and head toward them, looking for an entrance. They look down and ease away, like I might select one of them for an unsavory task. The youngest one, a redheaded guy who looks more like an Army recruit, rushes to a modest entrance, swipes his badge, and pulls open the door. His head bowed, eyes focused on the cement before him as if I might snap at him. He offers a polite “Sir.”

  I force a sharp “Hey” and enter the building, wishing I knew where I was going.

  Inside, the icy air cuts down my neck, into my suit. I stop, look around. It’s just a long hallway with about a half dozen shut doors, each with a gray badge reader mounted beside it. I’ve never been to this part of the building. The executive area. Where in the hell is it? I stop and look around, searching for clues. Nothing—the doors are unmarked. Screw it. I’ll just start using the badge and opening doors, looking in, maybe even going on a few “strolls,” meandering around until I find my—I mean, Dick’s—office area. I’m pretty certain I can recognize Shelley if I see her.

  I come to the first door and swipe my badge, but the lock doesn’t unclick. The second door does unclick, and I yank it open. Inside is a windowless, dimly lit room packed with large monitors and tower computers. In the middle are two young men in dark slacks and white collar shirts. When they see me, they sit upright, then stand with forced grins. The shorter one fists his hands and puffs out his chest. “Mr. Rayborne,” he says, forcing a smile. “What a surprise. What I mean is, it’s an honor to meet you.”

  I look around, scanning the screens for clues. “What is this?”

  “Sir?”

  “I mean, how’s it going here?”

  “Sir, may I just say, it’s going well. And we both just want to say thank you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know. Just thank you. For giving us second chances—sex offenders are lepers, we know. But like you said, that doesn’t mean we’re thieves, and it doesn’t mean we can’t contribute to society.”

  Sex offenders? My stomach sinks.

  The taller guy says, “And we also want to thank you for allowing us to wear regular clothes.” He looks at his cohort, and they exchange proud looks. “The jumpsuits? We think our work transcends normal jumpsuit jobs. Like you said, it’s us two against all those employees—all those, hyenas, as you call them—surrounding our benefits fund, ready to ravage it to the bone. It requires smarts, strategy. Thinking that must go far beyond those other jobs.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Sir,” says the shorter one. “Have you seen the latest reports? The results are astounding.”

  “Eighty-seven percent.” The taller one is beaming. “An all-time high.”

  “What do you mean, all-time high?”

  “Eighty-seven percent, sir. The percentage of targeted employees who eventually give up.”

  “Give up?”

  “Give up trying to enroll for benefits. You know, the fifteen percent of the workforce we target from Day One, whose systems always crash whenever they try to enroll?”

  “Oh, yes,” I say and grind my teeth. “By the way . . . Out of those fifteen percent, why wouldn’t all of them give up?”

  They exchange worried looks. “Well, sir. We’re like you. We know you’ve been disappointed about that less-than-perfect score. And yes, eighty-seven percent is not one hundred percent. But you know, some people are just plucky. They find loopholes. Or the system for some reason—that one time, it inexplicably works for them. And we’re trying to fix those bugs, sir. But we just want you to know that we’re not happy, either, sir. Not until one hundred percent give up.”

  “And then maybe, sir. Maybe, we can talk about increasing the IT-headaches target to seventeen or nineteen percent of all new hires.”

  I look at the shorter one. “Would you happen to be Peter Randell?”

  They laugh. “Of course,” Peter says. “You’re funny, Mr. Rayborne.”

  And I say, “I’d like you to present all this to some big shots today, okay?”

  * * *

  When I finally find the executive area, it’s easy to spot my—I mean, Dick’s—space. There’s Shelley sitting at her station, in front of Dick’s glass office, and there’s a bodyguard sitting right outside my—Dick’s—door.

  My stomach tightens, and a cold bolt shoots to my extremities.

  Why is he here? I stop and survey the scene, thinking. They know. I try to steady myself. They know, and he’s been waiting. Shelley straightens and gives me a long look—her mouth tightening, an eyebrow lifting. The guard looks up, stiffens at my sight. “Sir,” he says. “You look . . .”

  “Different,” Shelley says, staring, eyes thinning.

 
; I try to change the subject. “I have your check, Shelley.”

  The guard tries to smile, make the moment lighter. “Your face looks . . .”

  “Younger,” she completes.

  I summon my inner Dick, force a squint at Shelley—as I imagine this is what he probably does every day with this poor woman. I point a thumb at the guard. “What’s he doing here?”

  She pulls back, eyes enlarged, like she’s just heard a demon.

  Oh yeah. I tighten. I don’t sound anything like him.

  The faintest grin spreads across her face as she takes a quick look and glances away. “He’s always here,” she murmurs, her chin tucking and eyes enlarging, locking on to mine, like she’s saying, Play along, goofball. “Just the way . . .” Saucers her eyes again, raises her head. “. . . you like it. You know, on account of all the death threats you get from—you know—the employees.”

  “We’ve got two new ones today,” says the guard. “But like you always say, if you didn’t get threats on a regular basis, you wouldn’t be doing your job.”

  Shelley looks away, that grin growing.

  “You do look different,” the guard says, brows wrinkling. “And sound a little different.”

  I frown, and walk past him and into Dick’s office. “I had some work done,” I say and let that sit for a moment. Then I sharpen my voice. “And it’s screwed up everything. I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Shelley covers a chuckle.

  “Well,” the guard says, “you look good, sir.”

  I turn, and there’s Shelley—in my office, still smiling and looking away to avoid eye contact.

  “You okay, Shelley?”

  She picks on her fingernails, says lightly, “You’re not Dick Rayborne.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “First on the phone you were Bizarro Dick.” Finally, she looks up, her eyes consuming me for a quick moment, trying to solve a peculiar problem. “Saying crazy things. Saying them in a low tone.”

  “Like I said.” I offer my most serious eyes. “The plastic surgery screwed everything up.”

  Looking at her hands. “Okay.”

  “And I’m not myself.”

  “Sir?” She looks up, allows a friendly smile. “I’m not sure what’s happened to the old Dick Rayborne.”

  My heart is pounding. “We’re going to do something important today, Shelley. For real people.”

  “But, sir? I think the new one is better.”

  There’s a tap on the door, and the guard is looking at me. Behind him is a balding, middle-aged white man in a jumpsuit. “Sir,” says the guard. “There’s a Carl Blakenship here to see you.”

  A minute later, Carl and I are seated across from each other.

  We lock eyes.

  “Do you know Mama?”

  Carl squints, shakes his head no. Gives me a suspicious look.

  “Mama wanted me to speak with you.”

  Carl searches my face, hoping for clues. “Mama?”

  We look at each other a bit more, and I notice his really bushy mustache. Finally, I decide to take another approach. “Carl, can you tell me why I called you in here today?”

  God, I hope he has an answer.

  Carl shifts his weight as he considers me. “I have a pretty good idea.”

  “You do.” I sit up, relieved. “Good. I want you to tell me, Carl. I want you to feel completely safe with me, okay? You’re free to tell me everything.”

  He freezes, looks away. “But you’re Dick Rayborne.”

  “I’m not the Dick Rayborne you think I am.”

  Soon, Carl is telling me that six years ago he was a happy, successful accountant at Robards International—a ten-year veteran of the company, doing his thing and chugging along just fine—when everything changed. What happened was, the company’s annual enrollment process was re-architected by a newly arrived HR executive—that would be me—er, I mean, Dick. The new process required every employee to reenter all of his or her benefits decisions within a three-day period—no exceptions. Benefits elections from the previous year were no longer loaded into the system as a default. In the past, if the employee did not go into the system, his choices from the previous year would continue for the following year. Not anymore. Under the new rules, if you failed to get into the system and reenter all your choices within a three-day window, you’d lose all your benefits.

  “You see, Mr. Rayborne, I followed the rules. I thought it was weird that my choices wouldn’t roll over—everyone felt that way—but I was ready to go in there and reenter my choices within the three-day period. No big deal, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I never could’ve guessed it would change my life.”

  “I’m not following.”

  Carl looks up, stares into space. “It was supposed to be a simple, ten-minute exercise on the benefits system.” He looks down, and his eyes glaze over. “The next thing I knew, I was chasing that asshole in the truck and plowing the minivan into that 7-Eleven.” He slumps his shoulders, looks away in remorse. “Getting hauled off.”

  So. The question is, What do you do?

  What do you do when you’re Dick Rayborne for a day? When you learn that the benefits-sabotage system “you” designed with your conhackers did its job so well that it drove a highly rated, law-abiding employee to a new kind of road rage? When it turned a man with a spotless record into a felon convicted of attempted murder with special circumstances? When the system you created kept freezing and shutting down on this poor soul—time after time after time? When a good employee logged on to the system a total of seventy-eight times in three days in a desperate attempt to retain basic benefits for his family? When said employee submitted no fewer than fourteen urgent tickets with the Help Desk within a seventy-two-hour period, and the newly arrived conployees who staffed this Help Desk failed to even call him back? When, on his seventy-eighth attempt to make his elections online, the screen on his laptop went dark and flashed an alarming series of metallic orange and green colors before shutting down forever? When the defeated employee heaved his laptop at the office wall, turned over four filing cabinets, and tore through the floor in a rage he never before knew, heading for his minivan, knowing he must leave before he did something he really regretted? When he was soon speeding through Santa Clara—ring-eyed and mumbling to himself—as some prick in a Ford Super Duty F-350 XLT cut him off, and our unwell employee decided to chase him all the way through the front doors of a nearby 7-Eleven, coming to a stop near the forty-ouncers, nearly killing four people and breaking the legs of three others? When he was convicted, sentenced, and released early on good behavior with the completion of extensive psychoanalysis (diagnosis: something called triggered insanity)? When Robards International graciously offered him a new, lower-paying job in the greatly expanded Invitation to Cooperate Program for ex-cons with “limited” benefits (all he needed to do was log in to the benefits system, select his choices, and click Submit)?

  What you do is, you say you’re sorry. And you promise to change things.

  “Carl, I’d like you to stick around, if that’s okay. I’d like you to share your story with some suits I have coming in. All right?”

  “Sure.” Carl looks up, says it as pleasantly as possible. “And since we’re here, I was wondering if you could help me.”

  “Of course.”

  “You see.” Carl turns his shoulders in, picks at his fingernails. “The open enrollment came and went, as you know. And, well, the system kept freezing on me again. And I was wondering—Well, first I want to let you know this time I was able to control my anger a lot better, even after the forty-five attempts. But I was wondering if you could connect me with someone in IT who might be able to help me sign up for the basic medical coverage?”

  “I’m gonna have you meet some guys, okay? They’re in a room not too far from here, and I’m gonna have them take care of you, okay?”

  Relief spreads across his face.

  I thi
nk about the two conhackers I met downstairs and decide it’s prudent to add, “Just don’t show them any photos of your wife and kids, okay?”

  * * *

  I send Carl downstairs to meet with the conhackers and try to formulate my thoughts for this subcommittee meeting. I actually open up Dick’s laptop and poke around in his PowerPoints, even find a few troubling charts tracking our increasing inability to retain top performers. Then I find a few more slides highlighting the company’s plummeting quality metrics. Maybe I can use several of these for the meeting. Then I seem to crumble inside. What the hell am I doing? I can’t pull this off. Hell, I don’t even know what it is I am trying to pull off. I take my hands and cover my face, and try to summon Mama and her courage, her vision.

  Go crazy.

  I can do this.

  I have to do this.

  Keep Mama happy a little longer.

  Convince my sister I can be trusted with her house.

  Help the families of Robards International.

  Let my kid nephew be a kid once in a while.

  I glance at my—Dick’s—watch. It’s nearly go time.

  Shelley pops her head in. “The guys in the lobby called. You have a visitor.”

  Mama.

  “Can you have her brought up?” I frown at the slides. “I’m trying to figure this out.”

  “That’s the problem. They say she’s refusing to sign in. They can’t get her to provide a name or anything.”

  I look up at Shelley, offering a grin. “Signing in as ‘Mama’ isn’t good enough?”

  “Mama?” Shelley chuckles, straightens. “She’s actually claiming to be your wife.”

  “Well,” I say, grinning, “I’ve been meaning to tell you . . .”

  She smiles, folds her arms. “I think if you went down there and got your ‘wife’ yourself, they wouldn’t make her sign in.”

  A few minutes later, I’m rush-walking into the executive lobby of Robards International, my heart pounding at the possibility of being spotted for who I am—an impostor, an accomplice to executive kidnapping who’s now bringing in another accomplice. Thank God the lobby is empty except for the security guards behind the desk and—of course—Mama standing in the center, her neck glistening in vegetable oil, her pelvis pushed out.