You Got Nothing Coming: Notes From a Prison Fish

by Jimmy A. Lerner

  I left the boardroom wondering how things had moved so fast. I hoped I would get a chance to liberate my personalized stapler and some other supplies before my desk was designated as ground zero for the "repositioning of duplicative management layers." After almost twenty years a man gets attached to his three-hole puncher and (fake) brass business card holder.

  Wives come and go. Children grow up, get married, and leave. Love fades. But Corporate Culture is forever.

  Until it changes.

  * * *

  In the wake of the board meeting our trusty Rumor Control Center went to work, triggering a feeding frenzy focused on the contemplated corpses in the executive offices. Pagers chirped and vibrated, phones trilled, and laptops lured the idle with the promise of delicious e-gossip, the more savage the better. My own voice mail box announced, "You have seventy-three new… and nineteen saved messages."

  Old friends and even new enemies dropped by my cube (six square feet larger than any FNGs) to exchange information and paranoid speculations about the projected Baby Bell body count.

  "Hey, Jimmy— did you hear about Don Lee, the quality veep?"

  "Not yet, Paul. Why?"

  "He's fucking history!"

  Chirp! I return the page.

  "Yeah, Barry, what are you hearing?"

  "I hear Joe Stankus in H.R. is history. What does Rumor Control say? You're on headquarters staff."

  "We're hearing Stankus will elect to leave to pursue outside opportunities."

  "Yeah, I hear he's talking about becoming an entrepreneur. The moron can't even spell it."

  Chirp, beep, briiiiing!

  "This is Lerner, Strategy and Planning."

  "Jimmy, it's Rick. I hear they're relocating headquarters staff to San Antonio."

  "Nah— we're hearing they're just going to outsource the entire department to our crack consultant firm from Boston."

  "Hmm… actually that might make some sense."

  And on and on.

  All week we massed like lemmings by the fax machine, bloated résumés in hand. We scrutinized the fractional fluctuations in the stocks of Baby Bells West and South. The closing prices on a secretly designated date would affect the golden and silver parachutes. Possibly my bronze one.

  Chirp! Rick's home number appears on my display.

  "Jimbo, they're talking about a 20 percent premium for Baby West. What are you guys hearing?"

  "Rumor Control says 16 percent plus a juicy cash-benefit buyout package for us peons." I was excited. A few of my oldest friends in marketing had just formed ("launched") a dot-com start-up in San Francisco and were urging me to join them. This was a chance for me to jump ship with a bunch of cash, stock, and health benefits and finally do some challenging and interesting work.

  The timing was perfect. After many years as a workaholic, a model cubicle slave and kiss-ass extraordinaire, I was drained, bankrupt— emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually. In the last year, actually the last few months, I had completely burned out. I had lost all desire and ability to focus on phone company business.

  And I knew it hadn't gone unnoticed. I just couldn't get myself to care.

  Dr. Shekelman regarded my lack of energy at work and my inability to concentrate as "just part of the depression." The pills would take care of it. Eventually.

  My buddy Rick (who, nearing forty, recently started spelling his name "Ric") was happily shouting over the phone at me.

  "All right! Sixteen percent! That would be just too fucking much! What are they doing with the geeks over in R&D?"

  "Forty percent cuts— clear out your desk today and get an 'accelerated incentive payout.' Like one thousand bucks for each day you leave before the deadline."

  "No fucking way, Jimbo!"

  "Way, Rick— the elevators on their wing are jammed with future dot-com gazillionaires, plastic pen protectors stuffed with credit union checks for twenty grand."

  "Those fucking lobs can find the elevators?"

  "Sad but true. Who knows, next week we may be calling them Mister Lobs."

  We were having the time of our lives! Cushioned by 401(k)s that had skyrocketed in the "irrational exuberance" of the nineties or vested stock options or just the expected cash-benefit buyouts, we were corporate rats scurrying about the carpeted corridors, drunk on rumor and chaos. The sheer pleasure of watching some of the empty suits drown in panic outweighed the hypothetical pain of our own diaspora.

  We were survivors, dwellers forever in the cracks of the vast organizational chart. Disperse us, downsize us, squash us, transfer us, and we will reassemble someday, somewhere, to once again build new layers of redundancy, waste, and glaring irrelevance.

  At a certain point in my musings I made a worried note in my corporate-financed leather Day-Timer:

  Appt with Dr. Shekelman re adjusting Prozac.

  Shekelman had recently increased (once again) the dosage to "help smooth out some of the rough edges of divorce."

  The pills made me a tad excited.

  * * *

  After an exhilarating afternoon of tapping into Rumor Control's bottomless reservoir of misinformation, I left Cube World behind at 3 P.M. to go pick up the girls for their dental appointment. The F.W. didn't get back from San Francisco (the City, as Danvillites called it, and not fondly) until about six, so I made sure the girls (and sometimes two or three of their friends) adhered to their hectic postschool schedules.

  Orthodontist appointments, soccer, softball, track, Girl Scouts, choir rehearsal— these kids were busy! Plus we had to make time for a McDonald's Happy Meal after all the errands.

  School summer vacation was fast approaching, and both girls would go off to camp for two weeks. It was the first time both of them would be away from home at the same time. I missed them already.

  After depositing the girls into the far more capable hands of the F.W.— a wonderful mother, I would also like the record to reflect— I arrived at my new crib on Maple Street.

  Where the Monster, pick and shovel in his hands, is digging up my front garden.

  So intent was he on his digging (was there oil beneath my leased property?), he never heard me pull into the driveway.

  "Dwayne, what the hell are you doing?" I step out of the Camry and tap his shoulder, then jump back quickly, out of range of the pick.

  "Hey, buddy! You sure put in the hours for the old phone company— hey, I see in the newspaper that your Baby Bell's been taken over. Are you out of a job?" Dwayne tosses the pick and shovel on a flower bed that a moment ago was pacifically producing baby buds and pleasant fragrances.

  "Just a rumor, Dwayne. Why are you digging up my garden?"

  Dwayne is in full gardening bloom today, shirtless in the summer heat but wearing the same green-brown camouflage pants favored by disgruntled postal workers and kids who think Vietnam was a video game. He even has an ammo pouch on his belt to hold his cigarettes.

  "Just putting in your sprinkler system, pal. Want a beer?" The Monster takes off his work gloves and pulls a Heineken out of a cooler.

  "No thanks. I don't recall asking the owner to install a sprinkler system." I remove my briefcase and suit jacket from the car.

  "You didn't, pal— it's for the previous renter, Mrs. Bush. If it's the money you're worrying about, don't sweat it. Old lady Bush already paid me eight hundred bucks before she died." My leasee predecessor, Mrs. Bush, had conveniently died just as the F.W. and I were scouring the classifieds in search of a suitable residence for me and the girls.

  "Dwayne, help me to understand. Mrs. Bush is currently a resident of the Heavenly Gardens Gated Community— why are you tearing up my garden?"

  Dwayne responds to this question by unsheathing a bowie knife from his webbed "infantry" belt. The knife is long enough and sharp enough to remove the hump from a whale.

  I'm still not sure whom I'm talking to: my friend Dwayne, fellow Brooklynite and stoopball aficionado, or the Monster. Just in case, I raise the briefcase slightly to my chest. I hav
e packed enough bullshit on the viewgraphs inside to stop a surface-to-air missile— it should at least slow Mr. Bowie down a bit.

  Dwayne flicks the tip of the blade upward, fast as a cobra, popping off the bottle cap. Takes a sip and studies me. It's the Monster who speaks next.

  "Because Mrs. Bush paid me, buddy, so I owe her the sprinkler system. It's a question of honor— and I always pay back my debts."

  "Well, Dwayne," I say, lowering the briefcase, "that's a very… honorable attitude."

  "Bet your ass it is, pal! If that lying fuck Nixon had kept his word, all that shit about 'peace with honor,' this country wouldn't have left its balls on some stinking swamp of rice paddy in Viet Fucking Nam!"

  His eulogy to America's lost honor apparently over, the Monster turned his wrath on me.

  "Speaking of honor, of keeping your word, why did you rush off this morning? I thought we were going to Denny's for breakfast." The Monster's tone has suddenly taken on the injured air familiar to any parent with small children. "Hey, I know it's not Nathan's, but it's closer." Dwayne is back now, smiling ruefully.

  "Dwayne, I got your e-mail and definitely did not respond that I could make it for breakfast. In fact, I deleted the message."

  Dwayne starts whining. "But on Mondays they have the western omelet special." He has conveniently shelved the issue of my nonresponse.

  "How did you get my e-mail address, my screen name, Dwayne?"

  Dwayne starts rummaging for the lie in the ammo pouches on his belt. Decides instead to delay by extracting a Marlboro.

  "Fuck, all this shoveling shit really aggravates my shoulder injury." Next, I'm sure he's going to tell me how he "caught some shrapnel" in Vietnam. Instead he pulls a couple of prescription pill bottles out, drops two or three from each bottle into his mouth.

  "No big mystery, Jimmy. It's not a password or anything. I simply did a keyword search on your AOL profile. You might think about not putting your real name and address in the profile fields."

  "I don't, Dwayne. All I have in my profile is 'Jimmy,' my age, and the town of Danville."

  "That's all I needed, pal. You should really adopt some stronger security precautions if you don't want your friends e-mailing you."

  I'd had enough of my new neighbor (and former sponsee) for the day. I needed to go inside, shower, then call out for a substandard California pizza.

  "Look, Dwayne, the sprinkler system is appreciated— I could use it. Gotta go now."

  I had the front door open when Dwayne called out.

  "Hey, buddy, how 'bout some steaks again tonight?"

  "I'll take a rain check, Dwayne, but thanks anyway."

  As I closed the door the Monster was on my front porch, shouting.

  "Hey, you gotta eat! I'll bet you haven't even gone to Safeway yet. How about those steaks, buddy?"

  I locked the door. Then put the chain up.

  I needed a drink.

  By myself.

  * * *

  The two burly visitors from Planet Repo returned a few days later, early in the morning. Their tow truck touched down dead center in the Monster's driveway. The two black tank tops marched directly to Dwayne's front door. After a few polite pushes of the bell they quickly resorted to the more natural rhythms of their planet:

  Savage pounding.

  Then the alien wolf tickets.

  "Come on out, asshole! We know you're in there!"

  "Give up the Rover, Grover— Repo Man taking over!"

  "Don't be a fucking pain, De-Wayne!"

  I've always been partial to street performance artists, so I clicked off Good Morning America and eased (fell) out of my La-Z-Boy to watch from the window. Resplendent in my ratty old bathrobe, I sipped cold instant coffee and gnawed at a piece of frozen Domino's pizza with icy anchovies embedded in the crust.

  Breakfast of Champions for a soon-to-be "cash-benefit buyout" bachelor.

  "Yo! De-Wayne! Come on out, you deadbeat piece of shit!" Silence from the Monster's lair. Not a creature stirring.

  Till the Monster's garage door rumbled open and the Rover rocketed out in reverse, tires— and driver— shrieking.

  "YO REPO COCKSUCKERS! EAT SHIT AND DIE!"

  The Monster waved a middle finger, his face a clenched fist. His exit blocked by the tow truck, the Monster lurched the Rover into drive, spun, then escaped alien capture by fashioning an alternate route through his front garden. The Rover bounced over the curb, then skidded uncontrollably across the street before leaping the opposite curb and extending the escape route through my front garden, over the crushed bodies of innocent little flowers.

  By the time the repo invaders had retreated to the radio in the tow truck, the Monster had shifted into warp three, screaming "cocksuckers" out the window as he vanished. The tank-topped invaders got on the radio and reported back to the mother ship.

  I shaved, suited up, and went to pick up the girls for school. I spent much of the day talking to Rumor Control, then spreading fear and loathing throughout Cube World.

  Score so far: Repo Planet 1, the Monster 1.

  Less than zero for my little flowers.

  * * *

  Although I didn't see the Monster for a few days after that I knew he was hiding in his foul cave— like Grendel's mom nursing her hatred. Late at night, from my living room picture window, I could look across the street and see cars pulling up, people getting out, going into the house for a few minutes, and then taking off. Then the next car would pull up.

  Sometimes I could see silhouettes moving back and forth behind Dwayne's semitransparent living room window treatments.

  On a Tuesday night I was returning from a late evening with the girls. We had gone to the nearby Blackhawk movie theater to see Little Women. We stuffed ourselves with popcorn and soda and Gummi Bears (they taste better at the movies) and played the pinball machines in the game room afterward. I dropped them off at about eleven at the F.W.'s and was cruising down Maple Street when I heard the shouts coming from the Monster's house. A solitary silhouette behind the curtain was stalking the living room floor, arms flailing at the air. The Monster was apparently alone.

  And screaming.

  Curious, I eased the Camry to the curb and idled.

  "COCKSUCKERS! THINK YOU CAN COME DOWN TO MY HOUSE! TO MY MOTHERFUCKING HOME?!" The Monster was a spinning shadow behind the front curtains. The raving was acoustically enhanced by the occasional crash of a dirty dish against the wall.

  I put my cigarette out in the ashtray. Didn't want to give away my position in case the Monster looked out his window and decided to try a little target practice with his closet arsenal. I paid attention at the jungle combat and night-fighting courses they put us through in Panama. And my MOS was 11B— 11 Bravo, Infantry, also known as "eleven bang-bang"— a.k.a. Combat Arms.

  Crash!

  "…LIKE IT'S ALL RIGHT… WELL, LET ME TELL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS SOMETHING— IT'S NOT ALL FUCKING RIGHT. NOBODY FUCKS WITH ME! YOU DON'T COME TO MY HOUSE AND FUCK WITH ME!"

  It wasn't clear to me if the motherfuckers in question were the tangible ambassadors of Planet Repo or the generic kind of motherfuckers that plague all of us: the sluggish, sullen supermarket checkout girl; the octogenarian driver doing thirty-five directly in front of you when the highway is clearly marked fifty-five; the telemarketer who somehow knows precisely when you are sitting down for dinner.

  So many motherfuckers. So little time.

  Craaaash! go Dwayne's dishes against the wall.

  "BUT YOUR DAY IS COMING, MOTHERFUCKERS! OH, YEAH, YOU CAN MAKE FUCKING BOOK ON THAT. YOU CAN TAKE THAT TO THE FUCKING BANK AND…"

  And on and on.

  * * *

  The Baby Bell "merger" was temporarily delayed by our regulatory "stakeholders" (the FCC, PUC, and Justice Department), who were starting to ask intrusive and irritating questions about the potential benefits to consumers. They even invoked the M-word— monopoly— like this is a bad thing.

  While the regulators met with the emp
ty suits, I, along with a thousand or so of my cubicle world soulmates, resumed my rightful place at Ma Bell's titty. It took all of us working together to exhaust the still generous residue of the conference, supplies, training, and travel budgets.

  Like ravenous bums at a free buffet, we gorged till we resonated and burst! Air and hotel reservations were booked to critical "interdisciplinary" seminars and market-focused workshops in Puerto Rico, London, Brussels, New York, and Hawaii. I ordered (through a "preferred minority vendor") multiple copies of cutting-edge, A.I.-based software and shameless quantities of "home office" supplies to support my "telecommuting" effort, concluding my orgy with a four-star-hotel reservation in Miami for an upcoming Strategic Planning conference in November.