The Job: Based on a True Story (I Mean, This is Bound to have Happened Somewhere)

by Craig Davis

  ***

  The weeks rolled past like a square wheel. Any remaining hope that he would ever plead his case before the Big Boss drained out of Joe B. His days became a parading procession of mindless sorting, dealing letters out to bigger players, endless decks of cards in a huge game of Pluto Hold ’Em.

  Each morning he slogged into work and punched in – though he felt thoroughly punched out – and his hands automatically went to their duties. But his eyes and thoughts wandered across the mailroom to the faces of his fellow workers. How did they end up there? Did anyone share a story similar to his? On the other hand, how many in the mailroom saw their jobs as a godsend, the one thing keeping them from falling destitute? As time droned on, Joe B. became familiar with all those faces, and learned at least a little about the person behind each one.

  Summer had arrived, and the sun smiled from its lofty perch, friendly leaves waving as tree branches combed the wind. Flowers graced the land, and birds fowled the skies. The mailroom remained just as dank and dark as ever. Then one day Joe B. noticed a new face, one set atop a tall body, young and slender. Just the hint of soft whiskers graced the face, and eyes not yet dulled by the drudgery of days shone from under a strong brow. The fellow seemed completely familiar with the mailroom from his first day.

  According to professional protocol, Joe B. waited the appropriate time before offering a handshake. “Hi, young fella,” he grinned. “Name’s Joe B.”

  “Hi, nice to meet you,” he said. “You can call me Manny, I guess.”

  “Glad to have you aboard, so to speak. This a summer job?”

  “Yes. I’m a student at the university. Have to make a little money for the fall semester,” he smiled sheepishly.

  “Well, I suppose this is as good a job as any for that,” Joe B. did not try to hide his frankness.

  “Are you here just for the summer, too?” Manny asked.

  “No, no, I’m here long-term,” Joe B. sighed.

  “I’m kind of excited about it, I guess,” Manny looked around at the equipment, long trails of conveyor belts and overhead tracks, hooks and pulleys. “I know this is all pretty simple technology – it’s easy for you guys to take for granted – but it’s kind of fascinating. Every gear, every wheel has to turn just right. One break in the system, and the whole process grinds to a halt. A lot of planning put it together, and constant oversight is needed to keep it going.” He smiled at Joe B. at the wonder of it all.

  “Yep,” said Joe B., realizing he had no idea how to make the machinery run – and even then, to understand how something works is a far cry from inventing it. He wasn’t even sure where to find the start button.

  “And that’s just this room,” Manny gushed. “I can’t wait to learn all about the rest of the operations.”

  Joe B. stared at the young man like he had antlers growing out of his head. “You’re going to have to put some time in before you learn everything about this place,” he offered sarcastic analysis. “And even then it might do you no good.”

  “Oh, I know it’ll take awhile. But I have high hopes.”

  “Well, don’t let them get the best of you,” Joe B. turned more serious. “I thought I was on the right track here, but then one day I found out my hard work had gotten me nowhere.”

  “So you’ve been working in the mailroom a long time?”

  “No, not at all. I was demoted here a – seems like a long time ago – but I’d worked for years as an executive.”

  “Wow, really?” Manny’s expression seemed truly concerned.

  “Yes, and I don’t know why. And I can’t find out why. But I do know why I’m frustrated. I can’t get any information from anyone, and I can’t see the Big Boss at all. I need someone to speak up for me, but I don’t know where to turn anymore. Surely there’s somebody here. So, anyway, I don’t think a kid like you is going to have any luck learning what goes on at this place.”

  “Yeah, well – I’m sure it’s hard for you having to wait and not hearing anything, but I don’t think I’ll have that much trouble.”

  “Really?” Joe B.’s sarcasm returned. “You think it’s just a hop, skip and jump from the mailroom into the high offices? Do you think the Big Boss is looking for junior executives down here in the basement? I’m telling you, he isn’t. I can’t get his attention even for a second.”

  “I know. But that’s not so hard for me,” Manny replied.

  “Oh, really? And why not?”

  “Because he’s my father.”

  Joe B. felt his jaw drop and imagined a fly buzzing into his mouth. He gulped anyway.

  “Your father?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re his son?”

  “That’s the way it works.”

  Joe B.’s thoughts rattled around in his head. One fell out of his mouth. “Well then why are you stuck in the mailroom? I mean, aren’t you going to run this whole place someday? Shouldn’t you at least be an intern in a divisional office?”

  “Dad says I have to know what it means to work at the company before I can ever take over running it,” Manny explained, then smiled. “Have to start at the bottom!”

  Joe B. stood in silence for a moment, awkwardly inspecting his hands. “You know,” he said softly, “I didn’t mean to say anything against your dad. I know he’s busy.”

  “I know. You’re frustrated, and I understand that. I’m waiting too. It’s never easy when you really want something.”

  “I just want to talk to him. I just want to know what’s going on. There must be some reason for putting me here, but for the life of me I can’t think of anything I’ve done to make the Big Boss unhappy with my work. And I refuse to believe he’s just randomly mean.”

  “I hope you get your answer eventually.”

  “It’s the ‘eventually’ part that’s killing me. The delay is getting too long for me. I’m beginning to see time slipping away,” Joe B. looked blankly over the mailroom. “Time is like a caterpillar on a leaf – it chews away and chews away until there’s nothing left for it to stand on.”

  “Yeah, we’re all kind of locked into time, but is it really all that important? Should we be its slave?” Manny pondered.

  “I think so – I mean, that it’s important – what is it you study, anyway? Philosophy?” Joe B. was nonplussed if not annoyed.

  “You might say that – kind of the ways people live out their priorities.”

  “In a way it seems like time is slipping through my fingers, and in a way time’s got me by the throat. The days are as long as the years, and vice-versa.”

  “Now that’s philosophical!” Manny said.

  “I think of it as more like irony. And irony can hurt when it hits you over the head.”

  “Well – it is made of iron.”

  “Seriously, I have a family at home to take care of. I have three daughters whose futures are only going to get more expensive. All the responsibility I took on years ago wasn’t based on me working in a mailroom.”

  “I’m sure things will work out. Dad – the Big Boss always seems to know what’s best in the long run.”

  “Well,” Joe B. started slowly, “With all due respect to you as my future boss, if I last that long, that’s easy for you to say about your father.”

  “Yes, I know. But you don’t know him like I do.”

  “No, I don’t, and I suppose I never will.”

  “I can’t say. Maybe you will – you’re getting to know me now. Can I ask you something? I’ve been wondering about this.”

  “What’s that?” Joe B. couldn’t think of what Manny would want to ask him about the Big Boss.

  “When you come across a letter without a bar code, how do you scan it to make an electronic record of its arrival?”

  “Oh,” Joe B. felt a little crestfallen, as though answering a question about mail was all he was fit for now. “These stamps have a temporary postal bar code,” he indicated a line of rubber stamps in a tray just beyond the conveyor belt. “They te
ll the computer to redirect the letter to that bin over there until its final destination can be determined and a permanent bar code applied.”

  “See what I mean?” Manny sounded enthused. “That’s just fascinating!”

  “Well, I guess. It’s part of our computerized record-keeping. The envelopes themselves provide the paper backup. That saves filling out an extra form.”

  “Good idea. The guy who decided that was on the ball.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re down here, or I might never have learned that.”

  “Well, anything I can do to serve,” Joe B. replied in a weary voice.

  A bell rang, the machinery suddenly clanked into motion, and with a jarring jerk a large canvas basket dumped a pile of letters and small packages onto a carousel separator. As if by magic, mail of different sizes mechanically sorted itself onto a half-dozen conveyors spreading out like fingers. Joe B. locked eyes with the young man, and silently they parted ways, each to his own post.

  The foreman wheeled up another huge canvas basket to Joe B. and announced gruffly, “Sort these.” Joe B. looked down and saw a great load of completely blank envelopes. In both hands he grasped a sampling of the mail and lobbed his boss a puzzled stare, and time hung in limbo. Without warning an eruption of envelopes shot out of the bin, Joe B. bellowing hoarsely as the gorilla exploded from his pile of fake letters, scattering them into the air, a Halloween mask disguising a fellow mail-sorter. At the top of his lungs the man screamed “happy birthday!” A dozen or more fellow workers piled onto Joe B. and wrestled him to the floor, whooping loudly and slapping his back. Joe B. struggled valiantly against his attacking friends, throwing each one off in turn, until he finally regained his feet, laughing and panting. His eyes caught Manny across the room, smiling broadly.

  Not until he got home that evening did he see, with his wife’s considerate help, the bar code rubber-stamped upon his forehead.