by Dan Conway
I expected to be hauled off to jail in the next few moments, my life in tatters. But I really wanted those Vics. I did as I was told. The young guy took my money. The other guy said, “Wait a minute.”
I walked in the vicinity for a moment, looking around at the storefronts. Then he walked toward me and handed me the pills and calmly took off in the other direction. He’d given me four Vics, which was not the deal, but good enough.
I ducked into a heavily secured liquor store, bought a water, and took two pills before exiting. Then I headed back to work and completed my day as if nothing had happened.
I’d just committed a felony. If I was arrested, I’d lose my job and probably my marriage and family. In addition, I’d have a hard time finding another job, because corporations aren’t fond of hiring convicted felons to white-collar management positions.
But I had my Vics.
I swore I’d never go back to Pill Hill. Then, when my monthly prescription ran out, I’d find myself walking in that direction and repeating the same scene from The Wire, over and over again. But it never became routine, because nothing is easy when you’re a junkie looking for dope.
Everyone was always trying to rip me off. They’d say the pills were Vics, but sometimes they sold me Tylenol, blood pressure medication, or fakes. Other times, they didn’t have Vics, but they had OxyContin, a more powerful opiate I swore I’d never take. Once I started buying Oxys, I was up for any pill that was available: morphine, narcos, Percocet, etc. I could identify every opiate from its color, markings, and shape. Being able to identify a variety of pills was the only way I ever became street smart. The only one I didn’t take was heroin.
One time a sick-looking old man in a wheelchair sold me some pills. When I got back to the office, I noticed they were covered in a red substance, which I assumed was blood. I threw them out, of course. Actually, I didn’t. I flash-rinsed them under cold water, just a little, so that the pill wouldn’t dissolve down the drain. After that, I was certain I had AIDS.
I never intended to keep going to Pill Hill long-term, but I could never find the right time to quit. My biggest fear was getting busted, since there were cop cars everywhere. I never saw an undercover cop bust someone, but I knew it was a threat, because the drug dealers were on constant lookout. Sometimes they told me it was “too hot” and brushed me off.
About half the time, drug dealers assumed I was the heat and refused to sell me anything.
“Nice try, cop,” they’d say. I was a pretty sad-looking cop. With my sloppy computer bag slung over my shoulder and shaggy receding hairline, I’d clearly gone deep undercover.
Finally, I realized it was time to make a change. I needed to find a dedicated drug dealer. So that’s what I did. I asked for a guy’s number so that I could call him and order my drugs. I wouldn’t give him my number, of course, since this was a company device with all sorts of monitoring software. I needed to be careful. So I’d call him from the payphone at the Montgomery BART station. I figured if any co-workers saw me, they’d assume I was having an affair, which seemed all right at the time.
My guy’s name was James, and he looked about sixty, but he was probably much younger. He wasn’t a high-end dealer, just another junkie from the streets who sold pills on the side. He had a wife who was younger and sharper than him. I believe I was the most precious, detail-focused pussy of a client he’d ever had, and it bugged him. He spoke street and I spoke middle manager, which made our time on the phone difficult and frustrating for both of us. A typical interaction went something like this:
“Hello, James?”
“Yeah, motherfucker?”
“It’s Calvin.” I used a pseudonym. “Do you have any Vics?”
“I gots some, but you be trippin’ ifer down the way,”
“Excuse me, can you please repeat that? Did you say you have some Vics, and I can buy some?”
“That’s what I said, man. Yo, this isn’t the ones I been sayin’ ‘bout, so then you come and give it to me round Bush.”
“Ok, are you indicating that you’d like to meet on Bush Street? I can be there at either two or three-thirty. Do either of those times work for you?”
“Man… I sick. I see you there then ‘bout the time. Yo, don’t be callin’, I be sleepin’.”
“Ok, then, I’ll see you at two p.m. at that corner, does that work for you?”
CLICK.
Sometimes I’d meet him in the elevator at the BART station at Civic Station. Sometimes I’d meet him at a cafe in lower Pacific Heights. Once I met him at the McDonald’s a few doors down from my office on Market Street. A few times I met him at the Carl’s Jr. near City Hall. And that’s where I met him the night of the widget factory vote.
Despite my new drug addiction, I was somehow still able to keep my head above water at work. I was feeling pretty good when the supervisors voted to approve the widget factory. That set off a frantic flurry of emails up the chain as each subgroup that contributed to the win crafted their team-spirity note, carving out their credit. I got my share, which was good since I wasn’t a part of the much more important Globex deal. I felt particularly content because I’d pounded an OxyContin right before going through City Hall security.
CHapter Nine
A Not-So-Innocent Bystander
Unfortunately for the team working on Globex, that project was not going well. The merger was effectively killed by the State Department. There weren’t a lot of happy campers in Red State. I was relieved since I wasn’t officially part of this mess.
The traveling officers’ visit is every Acme region’s least-favorite ritual. It requires division staff to put on a dog and pony show for a collection of ancient Acme warriors, some of whom are close to death and others who’ve recently passed, but still enjoy the trip. They’d congratulate us on an outstanding year, regardless of whether they knew what year it was. Sometimes they actually forgot where they were. One officer, who talked mostly about golf and drank mostly Scotch, fell asleep two years in a row.
Following the Globex deal collapse, the traveling ancient officer visit would be much different, and it didn’t sound good. All of our assistants received a curt message to hold February seventh and eighth open and to cancel all other meetings on those days. That’s a message an officer’s assistant was born to deliver. They listed three people who would give presentations, and I was one of them. This definitely wasn’t the usual missive from the memory unit.
The company was in a foul mood about the Globex deal and opposition to it in California. We’d heard grumblings and jokes too close to the bone about how California “let this one get away.” Of course, I personally couldn’t be blamed for losing the World Series, since I was sent to the minors before Game One. And that was my dilemma. What was I supposed to do, remind everyone, “I wasn’t even smart enough to be a part of the team, so you can’t blame me!”
The ancient officers had been left home, and in their place were a number of sharp executives prepared to deliver a beating.
Sterling would be the lead voice for this group. He was a hybrid New York/Red State player and one of the most senior people in our division. He was the smoothest, most elegant executive I’d ever seen. He had a deep, Godfather-like voice that made you lean in closer. His eyes were moist and empathetic. Everything he said was strategy, and it was the real deal. He was practically created to thrive in corporate America. He was a beautiful man. If a movie was made about this situation, Sterling would play himself, because no actor could capture his pristine gravitas. Let me be even more clear. If I were forced at gunpoint to make love to a seventy-year-old-man, Sterling and I would be in the penthouse suite on Park Avenue, sipping champagne in bed.
Representing California was Prince Charming. The more I worked with him, the more impressed I was at his ability to endure in this chaotic environment. He never ceded a point, never portrayed weakness. He had a survivor’s ability to curate information and use it to his advantage. A worthy adversary, to say th
e least.
I was also there.
I wanted to make sure I had a lot of energy at this meeting, since I was perpetually exhausted. I borrowed an Adderall from a friend who had a prescription. Adderall is speed. It helps people with ADD focus, but it also provides unlimited manic energy to anyone who consumes it.
The meeting was meant to be a slaughter. You could tell from the somber looks on the faces of the execution squad when they came in. Some of our perennial adversaries betrayed their hidden glee with bursts of pure laughter as they picked over muffins before the meeting began.
After Prince Charming gave a level-setting deck reviewing the California team’s collective accomplishments, I was up. I knew what this situation called for: adrenaline. I was scared but chose to mask it with an extremely assertive approach. I tapped the same well of energy that allowed me to pitch the press with abandon, fully committing to the sale. I would be the alpha male of this presentation, motherfuckers. The Adderall was a big help.
The thesis of my presentation was that implementation was key, not strategy. First I reviewed all of the work my team had accomplished. In my mind, none of those things would’ve happened if we had sat around in meetings all day talking pretty and congratulating ourselves. In other words, all of the fancy thinking and clever-sounding emails were not nearly as important as securing press, building allies, getting real shit done outside of the internal Acme echo chamber.
I believed all of this, completely. We spent much more time talking to ourselves and making ourselves feel smart than we did on the actual work. But this was the exact wrong time to give this presentation. We’d just lost Globex because we had overdone the tactics. The company was taking a step back and wondering if it had fired before aiming, yet I seemed to be recommending we just do more stuff, indiscriminately.
While I still believe my critique of Acme’s approach was accurate, that the ratio of smart meetings to actual work was pathetic, I couldn’t have picked a worse time or a more inappropriate audience for this message. For God’s sake, I was sitting across the table from Sterling, a legendary political strategist who hadn’t thought about tactics in years.
I concluded my presentation with a quote from Sir Winston Churchill. “However beautiful the strategy, you should occasionally look at the results.” Yes, this appeared to be a direct dig at the Globex team, which was basically everyone other than me.
On the other side of the table, Sterling stared at me for a moment. For a man who selected his words carefully, he became quite loquacious. In front of the whole group, he said that he didn’t agree with my presentation or how I approached my work. He provided a few examples of how my outpost should view the world, and it made perfect sense. He then launched a broader critique of California, how we got too caught up in minutiae, how we didn’t see the forest for the trees, how we needed more ambitious goals and a more daring approach. He was hitting his stride. His logic, delivered in a measured voice that sucked the air out of the room, was incisive and devastating.
“So we have a gap right now between the quality of work we need and the current situation.”
When he started winding down, other execs from Red State and New York picked up the slack. They had come here to deliver a message, and they delivered it. Even the timid ones took their turn before settling back into their seats as if they’d just delivered a best man’s speech.
“I think we are going to need to get out here more, to make sure you all have the proper support,” one of them said.
I met with Sterling immediately after the meeting. He said he’d like me to go out to Minneapolis right away and spend time with one of my peers—a person who was actually succeeding in their job. He said he was going to be coming out to visit me a lot more this year. He wanted to evaluate how I handled my team. He said all of my peers were playing chess while I was playing checkers. I didn’t know how to respond to that one. I couldn’t think of a more damning statement, considering the scope of my position at Acme. I was being called an idiot in an even voice, without any prejudice—it was just a fact. It was like a girlfriend had sat me down, looked me in the eye and said, “The reason I’m breaking up with you is because you are stupid, ugly, and a bad person.”
“Ok,” I said.
Later that day, after I’d wandered around outside trying to think of what to do next, Prince Charming called me into his office. “Have a seat, Dan.” Oh, shit, am I going to get reamed a second time? I wondered. Prince Charming wasn’t usually this cordial. He was usually distracted and only half paying attention to those in his presence. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing ok.That was quite a meeting. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. I expected that. I’m worried about you. I think you were treated unfairly.” This was an interesting sentiment, coming from him. “I’m going to let people know what happened here today. I don’t understand why Red State doesn’t respect you. You deserve better than this.”
Now I understood. My unfair suffering would be his lead message up the chain. I certainly wasn’t the only one being criticized in this meeting. I appreciated the support, but I could see what he was doing. By pumping up my suffering and the drama of how I’d been handled, his team’s inability to win support for the merger would be brushed aside as the less-interesting storyline.
I was a pawn, but, hey, I’d take it.
I got up the next morning after my meeting and told myself I needed to get my shit together. I went for a long run at five a.m. I swore that I was done with the pills, that I needed to turn things around now or else I’d lose everything. Then I went to work, and the day turned bizarre.
Prince Charming had moved quickly. Sterling, who had already left California, called. “How are you doing today, Dan?”
I didn’t know what to say. “Ok. I took a run this morning, and I’m ready to get to work.”
“That’s good. Hang in there. I’d like to get back out there soon to make sure you have everything you need. Is there anything I can do from here?” His tone suggested he was ready to give me a massage rather than a pink slip.
Prince Charming had pulled off a master stroke. In addition to saving my ass, his message benefited him big-time. It was a Get Out of Jail Free card for the Globex disappointment. It also bought him greater latitude to ignore Red State and the other leadership forces that hewed to their anti-California perspective.
The traveling death squad from our big meeting had their wrists slapped and slinked back to their executive offices licking their wounds. I could tell because the tenor of emails and the comments directed at me on conference calls changed dramatically, literally overnight. They even threw me a few compliments, which was awkward.
I was the person least likely to survive the battle. And just like that, had been spared. It was like I had been playing Pac-Man, and just as I was about to be eaten, I gobbled one of those treats that gave me temporary immunity, and I could run all over the board.
Some odd quirk in this corporate entity had saved me. I’d never figured out how to navigate the company, but at the right moment, I’d somehow stumbled into a safe room. The same arbitrary forces that ruled Acme and had tortured me from the beginning as I tried to achieve the impossible task of pleasing both California and Red State had suddenly saved me.
I felt relieved, of course. But I couldn’t get myself to leverage this good fortune with any kind of action plan. I was still cloudy. That afternoon, I met James in the Tenderloin to get my next stash of pills. He was surprisingly coherent and even-tempered. He said he was trying to clean up because he was driving to Sacramento to visit his daughter, and she wouldn’t put up with any shit. I was in awe. I couldn’t imagine having to do that.
After taking a couple of pills, I walked a few blocks up Nob Hill to see Maureen, who was at a rehab facility at St. Mary’s Hospital. She’d been in and out of facilities for months now, trying to recover from her bone marrow transplant. That afternoon, I’d stopped by Chinatown to get her some
Shio dumplings she said she’d been craving. For the past few months, she could hardly eat anything at all, and we were all obsessed with feeding her as much as possible. She was skin and bones.
I pulled them out of my bag and placed them on the hospital bed tray in front of her. She seemed to perk up. “Thanks! This is just what I needed.” But she didn’t touch them.
After our visit, I walked down California Street, heading towards BART. I realized I’d left my sports jacket but when I got back to her room, she was getting some assistance from a nurse. I peeked in and saw her point at the dumplings and say, “Can you please throw those away? The smell is making me sick.”
I’d get the coat on my next visit. My feelings weren’t hurt. I was just scared because she didn’t seem to be getting any better.
Chapter Ten
The End?
After the showdown between me, Prince Charming, and Sterling, I travelled to Phoenix for Acme’s Shining Leaders training seminar. All Fourth Levels were required to attend this annual two-night, three-day training. These seminars always had high production value, bright lights, loud music, and lots of interaction. The focus of that year’s summit was wellness and featured loud-talking inspirational speakers, each with their own sad backstory. If they hadn’t lost a limb, overcome addiction, recovered from delinquency, obesity, or bankruptcy, then someone in their immediate family had.
I settled into my seat at the table with six other people. “Let’s talk nutrition!” The speaker, a man with bulging muscles and a shiny head, told us what to eat. Then he told us how much to sleep. We were asked to talk among ourselves and come up with strategies for work/life balance, which was aptly illustrated on the screen by a photo of a lady of indeterminate race walking barefoot on a grassy field. She had extremely healthy teeth, perky breasts, and naughty eyes. I was interested in delving more deeply into her background.
