I looked for Mr. Kearns, and although I didn’t remember which interviewer he was, there was no one behind the counter who looked even vaguely familiar. I walked across the floor, stepped in front of the girl. “Hello,” I said. “My name’s Bob Jones. I—”
She smiled at me. “We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Jones.”
I’m late, I thought. It’s my first day, and I’m late.
But the girl continued to smile, and I realized as she handed me a manila envelope that it was not even eight o’clock yet. How could I be late? They’d probably been waiting for me because I was the only new employee they had today.
I opened the envelope. Inside was a paperback-sized booklet titled AII Employee Handbook, several pamphlets, a pen, and a sheaf of forms that I was apparently supposed to fill out.
“There are a few formalities we have to get out of the way before you go upstairs and meet Mr. Banks. You have to fill out a W-4 form, medical, dental, and life insurance applications, a drug-free oath, and additional information for our personnel file that did not appear on your application.” The girl walked through a small gate and stepped out from behind the counter. “We also have what we call our Initiation Program for new hirees. It’s not an official presentation or anything, but there’s a video that runs about a half hour and an accompanying survey. You’ll find the survey form in the packet I gave you.”
I stared at her blankly, and she laughed lightly. “I know that’s an awful lot to absorb at once, but don’t worry. Right now, we’ll just go down to the conference room, and you can relax and watch the video. Afterward, I’ll go through all the forms and everything with you. By the way, my name’s Lisa.” She smiled at me, then caught the eye of one of the elderly women behind the counter and pointed down the hall. The other woman nodded back.
She led me down the same hallway in which I’d sat while waiting for my interview, and I glanced at the closed door to the interview room as we passed by. I still did not understand why I’d been hired. From the questions I’d been asked, I’d gathered that they were looking for someone knowledgeable about, or at least somewhat familiar with, computers. But I had no computer experience at all. Not only did I not know anything about them, I had no interest in knowing anything about them.
Was this all a huge mistake?
We continued down the hall and stopped in front of a closed door. Lisa pushed open the door, and we walked inside. “Have a seat,” she said.
The room was empty save for a long conference table, its attendant chairs and a combination television/VCR on a moveable metal stand near the table’s head. I pulled out a chair and sat down while Lisa turned on the TV and VCR. She made a show of it, exaggeratedly bending over, obviously aware of the way she filled out her stretch pants, and I could see the outline of her underwear against the material. “Okay,” she said. “Take your pen and survey form out of the packet. You’re going to need them at the end of the video.” She straightened. “I’ll be back down the hall at the counter. Just come and get me when you’re done, and I’ll help you fill out the necessary forms. You can leave the videotape on, but turn off the TV when you leave the room. Do you know how to turn it off?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“It’s this button here.” She pressed a red square at the lower left corner of the console. The television flicked off. She pressed the square again, and the TV snapped back to life. “I’ll see you in about half an hour.” She pressed a button on the VCR, then walked around the table. She touched my shoulder as she passed by, patted it, and then she was out the door, closing it behind her.
I leaned back in my chair to watch the show, but I could tell after the first few minutes that I was not going to like it. The video was state-of-the-art industrial PR, but though it had the clean look and sophisticated techniques of a modern production, the narration and determinedly cheerful background music reminded me of those leftover educational films from the early 1960s that they’d shown at my grammar school. That depressed me. Nostalgia always depressed me, and I suppose that was why I never liked to think about the past. It wasn’t because it reminded me of what once was, but because it reminded me of what could have been. My past had not been that great, but my future was supposed to have been so.
My future was not supposed to be spent watching PR videos at Automated Interface, Inc.
I didn’t want to think about it. I refused to let myself think about it. I tried to tune out the sound track and concentrate on the images, but that didn’t work, and I found myself getting out of my chair, walking over to the window, and staring down at the parking lot until the video was over. I returned to the table as sound faded to silence and realized that I hadn’t paid attention to the survey question instructions at the end of the video, but I looked down at the form and it was pretty self-explanatory. I answered the questions on my own before turning off the TV and VCR, grabbing my packet, and walking back down the hall.
It took another twenty minutes to fill out the additional forms and answer the questions put to me by Lisa. Although I was required to fill out two pages of personal information for my health insurance, she told me that I had my choice of three plans and that the information would be forwarded to the insurance company of my choosing.
“If you have any other problems or questions, over anything at all, you can come to me.” She smiled, and there seemed to be more than friendliness in that smile. It had been a while since I’d been available or looking, and maybe I was misreading the signs, but it occurred to me that she was genuinely interested. I thought of the light pat on the shoulder in the conference room, thought of the way she’d bent over in front of the TV. She handed me the insurance brochures, and for the briefest of seconds, our fingers touched. I felt cool skin, lingering a beat too long.
She was definitely flirting.
I noticed for the first time that she was not wearing a bra, that I could see the outline of her nipples against the thin material of her blouse.
My face felt hot, but I tried my best to cover it by smiling, nodding my thanks, and backing smoothly away from the counter. I was flattered but not in the market, and I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression.
“Mr. Banks’ office is on the fifth floor,” Lisa said. “Do you want me to show you where it is?”
I shook my head. “I’ll find it. Thanks.”
“Okay, but any problems, you give me a yell.” She waved at me, smiling.
“I will,” I said. “Thanks.”
I stood by the elevator, waiting, willing it to hurry, not daring to look back to where I knew Lisa was still standing, watching me. Finally the metal doors slid open, and I stepped inside, pressing the button for the fifth floor.
I waved good-bye as the doors closed.
I had no trouble finding Ted Banks. He was waiting in front of the doors when they opened, and he reached out and shook my hand the second I stepped off the elevator. “Glad to see you again,” he said, although he seemed anything but glad. I remembered him now. He’d been the surly older man at my interview, one of the two who’d sat silently through the proceedings. He stopped shaking my hand and smiled at me, but it was a pretend smile and did not reach his eyes. Not that I could see his eyes very clearly behind the thick black-framed glasses. “What do you say we walk over to my office so we can get acquainted?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Good.”
I followed him to his office. Neither of us spoke along the way, and I found myself wishing that I had taken Lisa up on her offer to accompany me here. I could not see Banks’ face, just the back of his head, but he seemed to me to be angry. There was something about the way he carried himself that seemed… hostile. I found myself wondering if I’d been hired over his objections. I got the feeling I had.
In his office, he sat behind his desk in a high-backed leather chair and motioned for me to take the seat opposite him. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
We talked. Or rather he talked, I liste
ned. He told me about the corporation, about the department, about my job. Automated Interface, he said, was not only an industry leader in the development of commercial business software, it was also a great place to work. It offered a comfortable yet professional working environment and limitless opportunity for advancement for those with ability and ambition. The most important department within the organization, he said, was Documentation Standards, since it was by the clarity of the software documentation that customers tended to judge the user-friendliness of a product. Documentation was in the front lines of both public relations and customer support, and the continued success of the corporation rested in large part with the quality of documentation. In my position, according to Banks, I would be directly affecting, for better or worse, the statue of the department and, by extension, the entire company.
I nodded as Banks spoke, agreeing with him, pretending like I knew what the hell he was talking about even though I had only a vague idea of what was being discussed. Software documentation? User-friendliness? These were not terms with which I was comfortable or familiar. These were phrases I’d heard but had always made an extra effort to avoid. This was someone else’s language, not mine.
“Do you have any questions so far?” Banks asked.
I shook my head.
“Good,” he said.
But it was anything but good. He continued to talk, and I continued to listen, but… how can I describe it? The atmosphere was uncomfortable? There was no rapport between us? We were different types of people? All of these descriptions are correct, but they do not really reflect what I felt in that office. For as we sat there, as we looked at one another, we both realized that we did not like each other—and never would. There is a sort of instantaneous antipathy between people who don’t get along, an unspoken recognition acknowledged by both parties, and that was what was happening here. The conversation remained polite, official, and the surface formalities were observed, but there was something else going on as well, and the relationship that was being forged between us was not one of friendship.
If we’d both been ten and on the playground at school, Ted Banks would have been one of the bullies who wanted to beat me up.
“Ron Stewart will be your immediate supervisor,” Banks was saying. “Ron is Coordinator of Interoffice Procedures and Phase II Documentation, and you’ll be reporting directly to him.”
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. “Come in!” Banks called.
The door opened, and Ron Stewart stepped into the office.
I disliked him on sight.
I don’t know why. There was no rational reason. I didn’t know the man at all and really had nothing to base my judgment on, but my first impression was strong, very strong, and definitely not favorable.
Stewart walked confidently into the room. He was tall and good-looking, dressed impeccably in a gray business suit, white shirt, and red tie. He strode into the office smiling, offering me his hand, and there was something about his bearing, about the arrogant way he walked, stood, and carried himself, that immediately rubbed me the wrong way. But I put on a smile, stood, shook his hand, and returned his greeting.
“Glad to have you aboard,” he said. His voice was brisk, curt, businesslike. His grip was strong and firm. Too firm.
Glad to have you aboard. I’d known before he opened his mouth that he’d say something like that, that he’d use some sports metaphor, that he’d welcome me “aboard,” tell me he was glad to have me on the “team.”
I nodded politely.
“I’m looking forward to working with you, Jones. From what I’ve heard, I think you’ll be a valuable asset to AII.”
From what he’d heard? I watched Stewart as he sat down. What could he have heard?
“I’ve been talking to Jones about our overall operation,” Banks said. “Why don’t you tell him a little bit about Interoffice Procedures and Phase II Documentation.”
Stewart began talking, repeating an obviously memorized spiel. I listened to him, nodded in the appropriate places, but I found it hard to concentrate on what he was saying. His tone of voice was unrelievedly condescending, as though he was explaining a simple concept to a slow child, and although I allowed no reaction to show on my face, his tone grated on me.
Finally, Stewart stood. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you on a tour of the department.”
“Okay,” I said.
We took the elevators downstairs, to the fourth floor, walking through the rabbit warren of modular workstations where the Phase II programmers were housed. He introduced me to each: Emery Phillips, Dave DeMotta, Stacy Kerrin, Dan Chan, Kim Thomas, Gary Yamaguchi, Albert Connor, and Pam Greene. They seemed nice enough, most of them, but they were all so involved in their work it was hard to tell. Only Stacy, a short, ultra efficient-looking blond woman, bothered to look up from her terminal when I was introduced. She met my eyes, gave me a brisk nod, shook my hand, then turned away. The rest of them merely nodded distractedly or raised a curt hand in greeting.
“Programmers necessarily have to develop and maintain a high level of concentration,” Stewart said. “Don’t take it personally if they’re not always as talkative as they should be.”
“I won’t,” I said.
“You’ll be working closely with the programmers once you become involved in systems documentation. You’ll find out they’re not as antisocial as they first appear.”
We walked out of the programming area and past a series of glass-walled rooms where testing and other peripheral activities were performed. He introduced me to Hope Williams, the department secretary, and Lois and Virginia, the two women from the steno pool we shared with the third floor.
Then it was time to check out my office.
My office.
The word “office” had conjured in my mind the image of a spacious room. Plush carpeting, wood paneling, an oak desk. A window with a view. Bookshelves. Something akin to what Banks had. Instead, I was led into a small, narrow cubicle slightly bigger than my parents’ walk-in closet. There were two desks here, ugly metal behemoths that took up almost all available space and were situated side by side, with only walking room between them. Both desks faced a blank wall, a white add-on separated into even segments by thin metal connecting strips running lengthwise from floor to ceiling. Behind them was a row of gray metal filing cabinets.
Seated at the desk nearest the door was an old man with a crown of white hair and the small, hard eyes and belligerent stare of the terminally petty. He glared at me as I stepped into the office.
This was his domain and I was trespassing, and he wanted me to know it.
All the hopes I’d had of coming into an interesting job in a pleasant working environment died finally and forever as I forced myself to nod and smile at the man Stewart introduced to me simply as “Derek.”
“Hello,” Derek said dryly. His features had a cast of blunt ignorance: pug nose, small mouth with jutting lower lip, tiny intolerant eyes. It was a face that showed no patience to members of ethnic groups, other generations, or the opposite sex. He reached across his desk, took my proffered hand, and shook, but it was clear from the expression on his face that I was too young for serious consideration. His palm was cold and clammy, and he immediately sat back down and pretended to ignore me, scribbling something on a piece of paper in front of him.
“Well give you an hour or so to get settled. Derek here’ll show you the ropes, won’t you?”
The old man looked up, nodded noncommittally.
“You can go through your desk, keep what you’ll need, toss out what you don’t want. After break, maybe, I’ll drop by and we can start going over your first assignment.”
As with Banks, there were several levels at work here. The surface words were standard, noncommittal, but there was an undercurrent in Stewart’s delivery that let me know that, however hard I might try, I would never be part of the “team.”
“I’ll catch you later,” Stewart said. Once again
, he shook my hand, pressing hard, and then he was gone.
I moved past Derek’s desk in the crowded, suddenly silent office and over to my own. I sat down awkwardly in the ancient swivel chair provided me.
This was not working out the way I’d expected. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I guess I’d thought it would be like How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. I’d seen the movie on TV when I was little, and while I had never even considered a career in business, that film had glamorized the corporate world for me, instilling within me a vision that not even years of subsequently grittier and more realistic movies had been able to erase entirely.
But the cleanly stylized offices and boardrooms through which Robert Morse sang were a far cry from the cramped and claustrophobic quarters in which I now found myself.
I opened the drawers of my desk, but I didn’t know what to clean out. I didn’t know enough about my job to know what I would and wouldn’t need.
I glanced over at Derek. He smiled at me, but the smile was not quick enough to cover the hard expression that had been in its place a second before.
“New jobs,” he said, shaking his head as though sympathetically identifying with a common experience.
“Yeah,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
I looked at the top of my desk. Both the metal in box and out box were full, and a selection of books were stacked next to them: Roget’s Thesaurus, Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, Creating Creative Technical Manuals, Dictionary of Computer Terminology.
Creating technical manuals? Computer terminology? I felt like a fraud already, even though I hadn’t officially started my work. What did I know about this stuff?
I was still not sure of my duties exactly. Lisa had given me a single-page job description, but it was filled with the same vague wording as the one handed to me at the interview. I had a general idea of what was required of me, but the specific tasks I was supposed to perform, the precise requirements of my position had never been spelled out to me, and I felt lost. I thought of asking Derek about it—he was, after all, supposed to be showing me “the ropes”—but when I glanced again in his direction, he was looking too intently and too obviously at a typed sheet of paper, and I knew that he did not want to talk to me.
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