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

by Craig Davis

CHAPTER VIII

  The holidays had faded into memory and a new year begun, at least according to whoever that guy was who got to choose New Year’s Day. The Chinese might disagree. February crept by in its bitterly cold way, and the calendar reached that extra day that comes around every now and then.

  “Daddy, what is a Leap Day?” little Hope had asked that morning at breakfast.

  “It’s a day for kangaroos. The kangaroos got together long ago and lobbied Congress for a day, and they’re a very powerful special interest group. They have Congress in their pocket. They got together with these eleven lords, and they passed a bill. Then they passed a football, and one of them made a leaping catch.”

  “Dad, you’re weird,” said Faith as she left the table.

  “He’s lying, isn’t he?” Hope asked.

  Work that day was nothing more nor less than another cascade of letters and packages filing by. The conveyor belt churned away, dragging a parade of names and addresses before Joe B.’s bleary gaze. By this point he was able to do his job without thinking, blindly sorting and stamping while replaying last night’s basketball game in his head. But suddenly his eyes caught a sight that snapped him out of his daze – an envelope addressed to him. The oddly shaped parcel seemed more stiff than a typical letter. Joe B. felt like a squirrel with a nut, and he didn’t know why. Maybe this envelope held something good.

  It was a Christmas card. From Universal Whirligig.

  “Best Wishes for this Holiday Season.”

  Joe B. stared at the card until his fellow workers on the line screamed at the backup of mail. He stuffed the wadded message unceremoniously into a pocket and resumed throwing letters as hard as he could into bins. Did Universal Whirligig think only that much of him? A preprinted card sent out as a two-month-old afterthought? Or did the incompetence of his own mailroom delay the card so long? Would that be blamed on him too? At that moment, in his mind, Joe B. gave up.

  He bulled into Saklov & Ashe’s Tavern and slammed his body onto a stool. Elle O’Hara, the barmaid, cast him a discerning glance. “The usual,” he barked.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “You know, that – that stuff over there.”

  “All right. Something wrong?”

  “Oh, no, nothing couldn’t be better.” Joe B. sounded so bright and cheery, the guy next to him moved.

  “Good, ’cause I don’t want any trouble in here tonight. I’d hate to have to throw you through that window,” all five-foot-two of Elle replied.

  “That would really top everything off,” Joe B. groused.

  “Now, see, that makes me think something’s wrong,” and she turned on her mother eyes as she pushed his drink toward him.

  “Oh, same old thing. The world is a hard place sometimes.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Elle joined in. “My old priest once told me, ‘The more involved you are with the world, the more vulnerable you are to it.’ It’s hard to escape, though he did – he joined a monastery.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. Do they take kids?”

  “I don’t think so, unless they’re goats. They probably like having goats there,” Elle tried to lighten things up.

  “Well, apparently I’m a big ol’ scapegoat, so maybe I should sign up. The mailroom is probably the best job at a monastery.”

  “Still working down in the dungeon then?”

  “Yes, I’m still there, tossed into a corner like a fat, bald bundle of junk mail myself. There’s no end in sight. If I knew what I did wrong, I’d admit to it just to end this. But I don’t know what it was, and to be honest, I don’t believe I did anything.”

  “So, perfect in every way?”

  Joe B. took some offense at this suggestion. “Of course not. I can’t work every day for years and not make some mistakes. I’m sure the Big Boss would have done some things differently in my position. But I shouldn’t get demoted for doing my job the way that works best for me.”

  Elle wiped her hands studiously on her bar towel. “Look, don’t get me wrong. I’m on your side. I know I’m young and everything, but hear me out. A lot of people come and go in here, and I listen to all sorts of problems. I’ve seen you coming in more and more. I overheard you talking with your coworker long ago, and I have to say, he seemed awfully quick to accuse you.”

  “Eli? Yeah, the Termite. I’m such an outcast now, not even he will hang out with me anymore.”

  “I’ve noticed that, too. It’s a shame, and his attitude was all wrong, I thought. The problem’s simple, so just face it – you could never do your job just the way your Big Boss would. He’s a wholly different person. No reason to get away in the head about it.”

  “To get what?”

  “Away in the head – lose your senses. An Irish phrase, it is. But you will go crazy thinking you’ve got your Big Boss figured out. There’s no way you could get inside his mind and serve him perfectly. In the same way, what he does in return is his call, and you may never understand it.”

  “You got that right. I sure would like to try, though. I miss my old life, when he seemed to like me. I used to know every single transaction that went down in that building, what happened in every office, but I’ll never know what happened to me. That’s what means most to me – just to know.”

  “Well, should your Big Boss set up a meeting to explain every particular that he wants from you? Do you make the rules, or does your Big Boss?”

  “Who makes the rules around here?” Joe B. rejoined in a snit. “Shouldn’t you be getting me another drink?”

  Elle frowned at him slightly. “You’re not developing a drinking problem, are you?”

  “Who, me? Of course not. I don’t have a drinking problem.” Elle turned her back and clinked some bottles as Joe B. continued. “Now, my dog, he has a drinking problem. We call him Jack the Dripper. What a sloppy drinker! He thinks we have water to burn. But his real problem is on the other end. He’s got every square inch of our apartment marked as his territory. He’s like a garden hose. When it comes to staking out territory, you might say he has no peer. One day I told him, ‘I should call you Frenchy, ’cause you’re a peein’ dog.’ Get it?”

  “Very clever,” said Elle, setting his glass back within easy reach. “Maybe you should call him Jacque Pierre.” Joe B. took it silently.

  After a moment Elle rekindled the conversation. “I’ll tell you who makes the rules here, since you ask. There’s a Russian named Saklov and a Brit named Ashe. Saklov is in every day, checking on inventory, checking on payroll, tinkering with the equipment. Ashe never comes in. Saklov makes sure this place works, serving beverages in a safe way, providing a place to relax and enjoy friends’ company. Ashe doesn’t care a thing about that – dumb Ashe! – he only cares about the money. Black and tans – what a way to waste the Black Stuff! He does my head in!”

  “What?” Joe B.’s face twisted into a question mark.

  “Sorry, Irish again. He drives me up the wall. But even with him, there’s higher purposes behind this tavern. Saklov and Ashe may have wives and families, or old debts to pay – things that I don’t know about. I don’t presume to ask. My place here is to just do my job as it develops each day.”

  “Sure, that’s all I ever did,” Joe B. drew his finger through the water rings on the bar. “I had no secret agenda, and I tried hard not to break any policy. Listen, from day one I never worked simply for promotion. I was careful not to join in office gossip, I didn’t slough around during work hours, I wasn’t cruel to my secretaries or anyone else working for me. I didn’t throw my accomplishments in other folks’ faces, or take pleasure when others struggled. Doing a good job for the Big Boss was always the most important thing to me. I always ’fessed up to my mistakes, and I’d do it all the same way again if I had the chance.”

  “Well, the Big Boss has your attention now, so maybe you’ll learn eventually that you did make some mistake. But even then you may not know what his purpose is – you seem sure you were demoted for some kind
of discipline, but maybe it was not about that at all.”

  “Either way, only the Big Boss can help me, and he’s not stepping up to the plate. If he told me what he was up to, I’d tell everyone. I’d climb the spire of the Universal Whirligig building and shout it. I’d sing it to the tune of ‘Material Girl.’ ‘I’m living in a Whirligig world, and I am just a Whirligig girl,’ ” he sang, snapping his fingers. Two more people moved away.

  “Now you sound like a little kid, like a child on a playground. You brought your ball, but the Big Boss won’t come out and play. You whistle a tune, but he’s not dancing. He’s not at your beck and call.”

  “Yeah, well, whatever. Hit me again.”

  “What?”

  “Get me another drink, wench. And don’t talk to me about children.”

  “Sensitive subject?”

  “You can’t believe what all this has done to my kids. This culture pushes children into becoming physical adults way before their time, but nobody raises them to be metaphysical adults. For girls, it’s all make-up and piercings and fashion before they’re teens, but they’re married with their own kids before they learn how to make a decision or take responsibility. But my oldest, no, she has the weight of the world on her. She’s had to be an adult since Marie was born. Now this financial hardship on her shoulders as well has made her old. Her eyes look tired. She deserves a better childhood – she deserves a childhood.”

  “She must be amazing.”

  “Amazing isn’t the word for it. She’s everything good I see in myself, and my wife.”

  “Wow. You really love her.”

  “Well, she’s my first, and she turned out great, sometimes in spite of her parents. In a way, we had to learn to be adults too – we sure made some mistakes when she was little. You know, young parents can be insufferable, especially when they exchange child-rearing ideas. We had this attitude that we’d arrived, that finally someone was going to do parenting right. Before long those learned philosophies give way to spanking. We learned quickly enough, and I think she appreciates that. Kids want parents to be parents, not their pals.”

  “And your younger children, too?”

  “Oh, yeah. By the time Hope arrived, we had switched on auto-pilot. Middle-aged parents are just too tired to think everything through. You just go on gut instinct. And Marie took so much of our time. Unfortunately, I sometimes let my job take me away from my fathering duties too much.”

  “I suppose that’s an easy habit to fall into.”

  “Are you kidding? I didn’t fall, I dived in head-first. Sometimes I used to wonder what was up with the guys who just wanted to work till five then go home. Now I’m one of them. I used to pore over my files like they were the most important thing ever – I let them own me.”

  “Well, do you think that was a good thing?” Elle wiped the bar.

  “Sure it was!” Joe B. burst with enthusiasm. “Everyone longs to cuddle with file cabinets! What do you expect me to say? I’ve almost forgotten about my files now. They’re gone and lost forever.”

  “Okay, stupid question. So you’ve realized that you were taking your job too seriously. If you’re not so obsessive about your work, maybe then you’ll see your Big Boss as more than just a way to make your place in the world. Maybe you’ll actually get to enjoy your work, and working for him, for its own sake.”

  “I think I’ve learned there’s no use to sweating over details that in the end mean nothing. I certainly realize my files were a vain work, though I admit it was fun puttering around with them. Alphabetize by the second letter, alphabetize by the third letter! Organize by department, by office and by desk!” Joe B.’s face fairly glowed at the glorious prospect of it all.

  Elle stared back blankly.

  “All right. I get the point,” Joe B. fell back to Earth. “I do see I made too much of those files. But that wasn’t the only thing I did at Universal Whirligig. I treated my co-workers just as well. Almost, anyway. You know, there were times when people would come to me for help or counsel, and I always came through for them. If they were in trouble, I’d take up their cause. Kindness and justice were my coat and hat.”

  “That makes for a nice outfit. Helping your friends was probably the best work you did. The good you did them turned around and became good service to the Big Boss.”

  “Maybe so, but he’s getting along fine without me now. My friends are, too – get a load of this,” Joe B. pulled a badly folded piece of paper from a pocket. “I found this printout of an email the other day. Apparently one of my buddies is a poet.

  “ ‘Joe B. thought his office was cramped

  And said, “My job must be revamped.”

  So he bribed the Big Boss

  With much pizza sauce,

  And that’s how his buttocks got stamped.’

  “Now, first of all they’ve got the story wrong. I was demoted before the pizza incident. Not only that, but I never complained about my office. It was great! But the main point is, I’ve become a joke among people I always treated well. They used to know I had the Big Boss’ favor, and that gave me credibility. Now that he’s turned on me, I’m no more than a subject for bad limericks. I want another drink.”

  “Steady on. After such an exemplary life, now is no time to look for answers in foolish behavior,” Elle said. “I’ve seen a few drunks in my time, and they only get thrown out and show up again later even drunker.” She looked sternly at him as she set down another glass.

  “That’s none of your bees wax,” Joe B. retorted, and wobbled a little.

  “Have it your way, then.”

  “I think I will.”

  An awkward silence fell over the bar. “The Good, the Band and the Ugly” played on the jukebox. Elle shook her head slightly.

  “You guys have some sort of meeting every month, don’t you?” she asked as if just making small talk.

  “Every first Tuesday of the month. I almost went once.”

  “It’s a big deal?”

  “Oh, to meet with the Big Boss, that’s so far out of reach for regular Universal Whirligig workers, it’s beyond a big deal. It’s like you’ve died and gone to Heaven. Some of the other vice presidents used to tell me that’s their only real career goal. No promotion, no awards, just to go to that meeting, just once.”

  “That’s remarkable.”

  “I know. That’s why I remarked on it.”

  “So a bunch of people meet with the Big Boss and tell him what they want?”

  “Well, not really. There are ways to fill the needs of your department without directly involving the Big Boss.” Joe B. thought for a moment. “I suppose you could bring up a particular request directly to him at the meeting, but only if you were really arrogant.”

  “Oh. Only arrogant people ask the Big Boss for stuff?”

  “Well, yeah, I mean, there are channels. Who’s going to stand up to the Big Boss and demand more paper clips or something?”

  “I don’t know. Who would do that?”

  “Okay. I give.” Joe B. played pointy-finger with the ice in his drink. “I’ve given up on ever talking to him anyway.”

  “But even if someone did, your Big Boss wouldn’t necessarily give them what they wanted, would he? So it’s really no surprise he’s not taking up your requests to meet with him, either.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Probably just as well,” Elle polished a glass with gusto. “Who knows what might come out of such a meeting? You might say something you regret later, or force him into a drastic decision. Catch yourself on.”

  “Colorful Irish idiom again?”

  “Aye, and a darn good one – it means wise up. Be careful what you wish for. If it is his desire to have mercy on you, then that’s what he’ll do. If not, all your reasoning won’t change his mind, and might even make him bring down the axe quicker.”

  “I suppose.”

  “As long as you’re not fired, you have a chance at getting your job back. Challenge your Big Boss,
and you might push him past his limit. It would be like burning bridges behind you. But as long as you’re working for him in some way, even in the mailroom, then you still have a chance to get your old job back.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I wish you’d let me get a word in edge-wise,” Elle demurred, trying to take the brashness off her monologue. “But it’s true, if he fired you, then you’d really be in trouble. You wouldn’t have a prayer then.”

  “I’ve tried prayer. Nothing seems to be happening.”

  “Well, keep at it. People at the top can be hard to reach.”

  “I guess I’m always praying inside my head. I hope that counts. I don’t like praying aloud when I’m alone, because sometimes I think I’m just talking to myself. If I’m praying with someone else, then I know I’m not talking to myself, because the other guy would think I was crazy if I were.”

  “It’s a good practice, any way you work it – though it seems the answer you most often get is ‘wait.’ ”

  “That is certainly so.”

  “You can just never tell what the purpose might be.” Elle looked like she might be thinking of something else.

  “Well,” Joe B. was thinking of something else too, but not the same thing. “I don’t even know what to want anymore. There was a time when I thought I knew what I wanted, or what I needed. Now I just feel like a fish flopping around in the sand.”

  “Yes, I know that feeling. But some things you just can’t make happen by the force of your will – most things. If you’re striving against your Big Boss’ plans, you’ll only end up in a worse spot than you are in now.”

  “That may be, but right now it seems to me to be of no account. It certainly doesn’t pay to try to earn his approval.”

  “Well, maybe you can do greater work or lesser work, but that doesn’t make you a greater or lesser worker. Maybe that has little to do with being a good employee. Your Big Boss knows what you are, not just what you do. Maybe you should put more consideration to that.”

  “I sure thought my good work meant security. I guess I was wrong about that.”

  “But the Big Boss is still keeping you around.”

  “He must know what’s good for the company after all,” Joe B. offered lamely.

  “Yes, and in good time he’ll have you back in your office. And you’ll see how gracious he is to you, and how patiently he’s dealt with you. An oak tree takes a long time to grow – better to be an oak than a squash.”

  “Is that yet another old Irish saying?”

  “No, I made that one up. But that makes it Irish, begorrah, and it is a saying.”

  “It makes sense to me only because I’m drunk,” Joe B. sputtered and slumped lower over the bar.

  “You’re what?”

  “Well, I feel a little tipsy. I may need a cab to get home, so I’m not stumbling to the train station.”

  “Tipsy, eh? That’s funny.”

  “Funny? What are you talking about?”

  “Funny because you haven’t had any alcohol.”

  “What?!” Joe B. suddenly filled with indignation, and snapped into proper posture.

  Elle smiled knowingly. “I’ve been plying you with molasses all night. Surprising how it mimics the flavor of rum. The first drink was legit – the others are on the house.”

  “Oh, well, thanks. I guess I’ll probably thank you more in the morning.” Joe B. collected his coat. “And I suppose you don’t need to call me a cab.”

  “I will if you want me to.”

  “Well, perhaps – ”

  “You’re a cab.”

  Joe B. grimaced. “If I weren’t so sober, I’d have seen that coming.”

  “Are you away then? Cheerio!”