The Company Man
James Gianetti
__________
My father was the kind of person who tried finding the symbolism in everything. One time a small pheasant soared right into our kitchen window at breakfast time. My brother and I counted the feathers as they floated on the milk in our cereal bowls.
Let this represent the window of opportunity. Seize the opportunities before you, but if you try and attain your goals on the ordinary trajectory, it can wind up being your downfall.
My mother used to tell me she never cared what I wanted to be as long as I had a passion for it.
If you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life.
I hear her Long Island drawl in my head every time the copy machine jams. Gary from accounting has been voted (unofficially) the best “un-jammer” of the copier. He really just self-proclaimed the title and no one had any reason or time to doubt it. I was second best, and with Gary out on holiday at his timeshare in Bermuda, I was in charge. I only enjoy fixing it when my office crush Gillian from accounting is using it. She has a pretty face and shows enough cleavage to get what she wants. Natural sunlight always seemed to follow her. I walk past her cubicle when I go to the bathroom even though it’s in the opposite direction. It smells like lavender. Her colorful pens and office supplies are neatly stacked. She is type A. Like me. When I see her lunch with her name on it in the fridge, I’ll move it to its own section, untouched by the others. I even went so far one day as to type up a cover letter to her. Listing all her qualities and mine, eventually culminating into why I think we’re a good fit. I even signed it with my name and email. The document remains on my desktop for eternity. Sometimes, I half convince myself to muster up the courage to give it to her. When she jams the copier, it’s my only opportunity to ever engage in semi flirtatious banter with her. I inspect the organs of the copier the way mechanics inspect under the hood. I have a habit of making the fix seem more complicated. I use copy machine jargon that doesn’t exist like “base port converter”, but all I ever do is adjust the rollers. She always responds with the same compliment.
My copy machine savior.
My response is always a similar stammering version of “no problem”. Nowhere close to asking her out the way my internal dialogue does. My mom is in my head again asking
Have you met a nice girl yet? You’re not getting any youn…
My manager calls me and asks me to report to his office. A lead role just became available last week, and the grapevine whispers they may be rearranging employees “in-house”. I’ve been a good employee. Great employee. Several years at the company. Problem solver. Top earner every quarter. I recite variations of my promotion acceptance speech until the moment I knock on his door. The natural sunlight illuminating the room tickled my eyebrows. In the corner are golf clubs he never uses. His walls pay homage to outdated motivational quotes and a wood bat on display signed by the ninety-six Yankees.
Kevin! Thanks for coming in. C’mon in. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.
It’s Wednesday, so there’s no “how was your” or “what are your plans for” weekend small talk to be made. Neither of us are any good at making eye contact. His hand placement intermittently shifts. Starting from his lap to the top of his desk where his fingers interlock. His Windsor knot is snug against his throat. His facial stubble like sandpaper on his middle-aged baby face. He scratches the part of his hairline that has started to recede and leans on his elbows. His rant starts with a…
So…
I begin to feel weightless in the chair. Like he and I are both floating in the doldrums of the office.
As I’m sure you’ve noticed. There have been some notable changes and shifts going on with our employees. We had some “efficiency consultants” in last week and they’re coming back for a while to evaluate how we can better the company.
In between his cleared throat and stroking of his tie I try to find the symbolism in him telling me I’m moving cubicles. Again. I regurgitate “yes sir”. An awkward handshake that grips only his fingers.
Oh, and Kevin, I still expect that report by the end of the month. The consultants want to take a look at it.
My words a ripple on the water. Starting loud and ending at a mumble.
No problem, sir. I will be sure to get that to you on time.
*
Everything is a square. The building. The cubicle. The box I’m packing other rectangular office supplies in. There’s a farewell of sorts consisting of myself, my two cubicle neighbors Mike and Ted, and the mail clerk. Ted bought a Kit Kat at the vending machine because it was the only candy that split evenly four ways. Ted brought up old memories. The time we played “Bandwidth“ during Covid when we were one of the several people in the office. It’s like the penis game but the word is just “bandwidth”. Mike tells us to keep our voices down. He wears his paranoia on his sleeve, surveying the area every five seconds. We huddle up as he whispers. Our four heads nearly merge in the middle.
I heard the efficiency people are here already. Efficiency doesn’t mean efficiency. Efficiency means layoffs.
Ted chimed in.
Maybe efficiency really does mean efficiency.
This your first rodeo in corporate, Ted? Stay sharp out there fellas.
By the time I consider looking back, I’m already one hundred feet away. In office space, that’s essentially a mile. I heard the rumors and tales of the west end of the building. There weren’t asbestos signs, dried blood on the carpets, or names of deceased employees carved in the drywall. In fact, there wasn’t much of anything. Or anyone. Just vacant cubicles for as far as the eye can see. My name is already on mine.
Kevin Moore
The space is an eighty square foot barren wasteland of hideous checkered carpet, fabric covered panels, and metal shelves stuck in time. The only thing occupying the desk was a neon post-it note stuck in front of an old fax machine with the words “Bona Fortuna” scribbled on it. A projecting voice saved me from bewilderment.
It means good luck.
I looked around, practically doing a one-eighty.
The west wing isn’t so bad. We call it the rural part of the office.
The voice was gravelly. Suited more for a cowboy than an office man. Standing on my tip toes trying to find them, I ask him why “they” call it that.
Your neighbors are never too close to you.
His voice comes from the cubicle diagonal from me. I chuckle as a courtesy.
So, how’d you migrate west? Let me guess. Manager gave you some superficial bull crap about “bettering the company”.
I take the tension off my achilles, feeling my heels touch the floor. A strange comfort blankets me.
Yeah? How’d you guess?
There’s a quiet squeal in his chair. I see what I think is the outline of the top of his head moving. His voice bounces off the glass window by his desk.
Been in this rodeo a long time.
I don’t realize my arms are crossed until I look down.
I thought I was being promoted. I feel like I did everything I was supposed to ya know? Checked off all the boxes.
That’s because you played by the rules.
My arms uncross.
And that’s a bad thing?
He’s back on his chair now. His fingers move quickly on his keyboard.
If you want to be Susan from marketing. Jim from purchasing. Gary from accounting.
Gary’s in…
There’s amusement laced in his tone.
Gary’s not on holiday in Bermuda, friend.
I sink in my new chair. Bewilderment finds me this time.
All of them were sent to this side of the building before they came for them.
The efficiency consultants?
You need to start thinking “outside” the checked boxes Kevin.
Each sentence begins with a stutter.
How do I do that? How much time do I have?
Hard to say.
His ambiguity frustrates me.
I can’t believe it. I gave my blood sweat and tears to this company!
Keep your voice down.
How will I know when they’re coming? How do I keep them from coming for me?
There are typically three tell-tale signs. Most often, the lights will flicker above you. Other times, there’ll be a noticeable chill in the air. Freezing sometimes. But if its serious, like serious serious, you’ll start hearing a soft “whooshing” sound.
Like white noise?
Like the sound when you put your ear to a seashell. Only louder.
Instinctively, I look up at the fluorescent lights. I shake my head.
This is a joke right? Some kind of “west wing” hazing. I was in a fraternity in college man I…
His desk drawer slams, rattling the panels of both our cubicles and making my shoulders jerk.
Best to not talk too loudly. Check your fax machine.
His footsteps are practically silent as he exits his cubicle. When I try to catch a glimpse of him, all I see is the back of his body turn down the nearest aisle. A green light blinks on my fax machine. A paper slides out slowly.
Lelund & McCallister
180 Buckingham Road
Lake Charles, Louisiana
TO: Kevin Moore
Lelund & McCallister
1-905-191-1259
FROM:
1-234-567-8910
DATE: 9/12/2024
PAGES: 1
URGENT
REGARDING: For lunch, eat salads. Greek specifically. No more fatty foods. At the end of the month, smear some blood on your report before you hand it in. They love blood low in cholesterol.
*
For the next week and a half, as I build my plate with lettuce, vegetables, chicken and feta, I do my best not to make eye contact with the cafeteria cook. Likely judging me for not ordering my typical carb induced lunch. I lost count of the times I said “I’m going crazy” in my head. The whiteness of the plate disappears under the pile of tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, feta etc. I retreat to my desk, listening to coworkers chirp “salad again, Kevin?” along the way.
In between mouthfuls, I lean back and stare at the lights. I wonder if my mysterious neighbor is back yet. I can smell his Chinese food. The fragrant spices of garlic, ginger, and soy linger in the airspace above my cubicle. My audible “I must be out of my mind” follows me tossing my salad plate into the garbage pail. I return to finishing my report. When I get into a flow state, I lose track of time and space. I could go hours without a break sometimes. In college, guys used to wonder how I’d stay so focused without Adderall. I can block out everything from my peripheral vision. Even the fluorescent lights above me that start to flicker. The gravelly voice returns, snapping me out of it.
They’re coming.
The hairs on my forearms stiffen.
Holy sh…
I swing my chair in a panic. The arm handles crashes into the desk.
I’m supposed to have a few more days for the report. It’s not done yet.
The flickering quickens. I print the report.
You better hurry, Kevin.
I hear footsteps. Marching. Pounding the checkered carpet. I wait for the papers from the printer.
Cmon, cmon, cmon.
I pluck the last sheet and staple. The footsteps get close enough to feel the thumps in the floor.
Kevin. Blood.
My hands swipe around my desk for something sharp. My heartrate pulses up my neck into my ears. I snatch a pair of scissors. The blades separate and I press my finger on the cutting edge.
My mouth whispers This is crazy, this is crazy on repeat.
Blood rushes to my fingertip as I apply pressure.
Wait I whisper.
I drop the scissor and run my finger along the edge of the report. I count to three. A second between each second. I slice it against the paper fiercely. The skin tears. The footsteps close in. Hundred feet at most. I squeeze my finger and press it against the report. The bloody fingerprint stains beside the header.
Knock Knock.
It’s not the rustic voice of my mysterious cubicle neighbor. I turn to face my manager. Still not good at making eye contact, he looks at me in between his glances at the floor and ceiling.
Figured I’d make my inaugural visit to the west coast.
His right cheek pulls his lips, forming a cheap grin. He stands straight. Chest out. Shoulders stiff.
Do you have that report?
He plucks it from my hand and begins flipping through the pages. That’s when I hear them behind him. Their rough panting against his neck. He scrutinizes my desk, becoming giddy at the sight of my fax machine.
Oh, I thought we got rid of that old artifact.
The plastic makes a rustling sound as he cradles it against his chest.
Let me know if there’s anything, you know, you need from me.
My lips move. A muted “will do” but he’s already walked away. I imagine this is how dogs feel after being neutered. My body stone cold and still.
You can breathe now neighbor. They’re gone.
His voice thaws me. An exhale seeps through my pursed lips. My chest deflates. I thank him twice. I repeat myself when I’m excited.
By the way I never caught your name.
There’s a pause. Long enough where I feel apologetic for asking.
It’s Henry.
The light above me beams bright.
*
For the next couple weeks, I develop a newfound appetite for Greek salads. Even slimming down a pant size. I’ve gotten used to my new home on the west wing. Henry and I exchange small talk and banter about ball game scores and war stories of our time at the company. Occasionally, we talk about our five-year plans. He speaks of leaving the corporate mundanity. He always dreamt of taking a sabbatical to go bird hunting in the pacific northwest.
God’s Country, he says with a chuckle. Nothing quite like it Kevin. I’m a sure thing with a 12 gauge.
I never see any more than a quick glimpse of the back of him. Any time I stop by his cubicle he’s not there and when he leaves, it’s always in a hurry. He continues to give me information to keep the consultants away. Usually post it notes beneath my keyboard. Each week is equally as bizarre. Last week I had to eat more citrus fruits to balance my sugar levels and blood pressure. Every report I hand in comes with a smear of blood on the front page. My skepticism on the validity of the ritual dwindles as our friendship strengthens and with each day, no footsteps, no flickering light. Throughout the building, more people in various departments disappear. When I go to say my daily good morning to Mike and Ted, I find their cubicles empty.
My gaze finds the thin gap in the stall door, making occasional awkward eye contact with people who peep in. My bare thighs start bobbing, jingling the unfastened belt buckle around the pants dropped at my ankles. It’s been a while since I had a panic attack in the bathroom. Not since high school and I forget the exam that provoked it. To keep my thighs from shaking, my elbows balance on my knees. Hands clasp together. Before I consider how long I’ve been hiding, the door opens. I sit stiff. The stall door latches open beside me. Slacks drop at their ankles. I look down at the shoes. Patent leather.
The gruffness of Henry’s voice is sharp. For some reason I think of the musician I met at a party once who said bathrooms have the best acoustics.
They’ll be back again soon. We have to get more creative. Up the ante a bit.
My thighs stop bobbing.
What’re you thinking?
I expected him to have an answer right away.
Sweat.
I heard him. But I still say…
What?
Do you go to the gym?
I lie and tell him yes.
Workout in the morning. Use the office gym.
But…
So much until your drenched in sweat. Collect as much of it from your body as you can in a bottle or something.
I snortle. An apology in tow.
Henry I’ve done some crazy things. But this…
There’s urgency in his voice.
You have to trust me, Kevin.
The latch on his door snaps.
Wait. What do I do after that?
Meet back here in three days. 10AM.
I watch him pass by the slim gap in the stall door.
*
A layer of lower belly excess skin expands in my pinch. An old high school track tee shirt is snug against my flabby, bearded body. My sunken man-breasts become visible through the shirt’s tight fit. I press the big green button on the treadmill and feel my legs start moving. I get a moderate pace going until my knees and chest start to heat up. After a few days of this routine, I collect what I can into my hydro flask and meet Henry in the bathroom. I slide it under his stall beside me. He pops the lid and examines it.
It’s not enough. Not even close.
He hears my sigh.
It’s the best I can do in three days Henry.
Workout harder.
What am I even doing with it?
Meet back here in three more days. 4:50PM. By then it may even be too late.
*
I do what he says. I workout harder. I sweat harder. I crank the speed up on the treadmill. I beat my typical distance at my highest speed. I keep going. Fighting through the daggers in my thighs and the Charlie horses in my calf. The area between my eyelashes and eyebrow moistens first. I feel the droplets run down the brim of my nose. I increase the speed again. Saliva spritzes through my teeth as I wince. A piercing squeal escapes me with each breath. I hold the hydro flask against my nose. I look inside it. The bottom like a big stainless steel grey eye staring back at me. Telling me “It’s not enough”. Every minute I increase the speed a half mile an hour. My sweat soaked shirt sticks between the ridges and rolls of my rib cage. Everything goes numb. I don’t feel my feet grazing the fiberboard. I’m like a rock infinitely skipping across the surface of the water. The salt in my sweat burns my eyes. It drips from everywhere. The flask collects the drops from my nose and chin. When I stop, feelings of tranquility and vigor compete for my heartrate. I chase the feeling. I go after work too. For the whole week. Until the hydro flask is a quarter full.
*
This’ll do.
I resist the urge to counter with bicker or sarcasm.
What do I do with it now?
The efficiency consultants drink from the water cooler every day at 10AM in the breakroom. They love sweat. You need to find a way to pour this into it. It’ll keep them away for a while.
I bite my tongue halfway into my asking if he’s kidding. I chafe the parts of my forearms not covered up by my rolled-up shirt sleeves. A draft blows over me in the bathroom stall. Back at my cubicle, I find a thin layer of frost on my keyboard.
The next morning, I smuggle a power drill into my briefcase. Home to three acrylic surfaced tables, two vending machines from the nineties, a fridge that keeps things cooler on the left side, and a Keurig that works when it wants to; the breakroom is unoccupied. I give the room a once over before I press the drill bit into the top of the cooler and squeeze the trigger. The drill bit impales the top of the cooler creating a hole just suffice enough. Before I start to pour the sweat in, the slightly sour stench of perfume pinches my nostrils. Its distinct, vinegary tang clung only to Joyce, the office gossip. She hummed the chorus of a Bon Jovi song before I heard her southern accent. Elongating the vowels in her words.
What are you doing, Kevin?
She’s the kind of woman who wears pins on the lapels of her suits. Her bumper bang hairstyle always distracted me.
Joyce. Do you promise not to tell anyone?
I took a psych class in college to fulfill a humanities requirement, and the professor told us that if you grant someone some form of exclusivity or private information that only they feel they are privy to, they will likely keep the information secret. I forgot what the theory is called. Joyce swore on her mother whom you couldn’t remember was dead or not.
I’m putting my sweat that’s in this bottle into the water cooler because it’ll keep the efficiency consultants away if they drink it.
Her smirk nearly slides off her chin while her infamous coffee mug that reads “I Don’t Know. I Just Work Here” balances in the grip of her two fingers.
You’re out of your mind, Kevin.
She breaks for the door.
I’ve got dirt!
She halts.
Jessica. You know the brunette.
From HR?
No from research.
Go on…
She’s cheating on her husband.
Her nail extensions clink one by one against the mug.
Not enough to quench my thirst, Kevin.
Her back turns again.
With Justin! The new temp.
A grinch-like smile extends across her face. It meant we had a deal. She waddles away while I pour through the small hole, listening to the burbling sound of water hitting water. I drain the flask and place a stack of cups over the drilled hole. Goosebumps erupt across the parts of my skin that aren’t covered. I burrow my hands into my armpits. I can see the misty cloud float in front of my face with each breath. The next breath of vapor disappears into the darkness. The temperature in the room plummets. The lights go out. I check the time on my phone.
9:56
Footsteps. Approaching the breakroom. The vending machine provides good cover. The room inklike. The door opens and I wear my hand on my mouth. They don’t speak. The sound of the heels of their shoes clicking and clacking is cut short. They huddle around the water cooler. Unbothered by the darkness. I imagine them scrutinizing. Caressing the hard plastic of the gallon. I press harder on my mouth. The cooler gurgles. The sound it makes when it sends bubbles to the surface. Soon after, I hear their first gulps. A noise that sounds just like the word. I get a phantom feeling of water against my Adams apple. They keep refilling. Until the cooler is tapped.
*
An epidemic of a rumor spreads throughout the building. Allegedly, the last round of layoffs is occurring this week. “Make Friday” becomes the unspoken mantra. Some print it out and tape it to obscure places like the bathroom urinals. Paranoia spreads just as rapidly. Most employees refuse to leave their cubicles. Not even for the bathroom. Henry becomes more elusive. He spends little time at his desk. Weaving in and out of meetings. Even working from home one day. I hear him on a call after my lunch break. The other line does most of the talking but he chimes in with laughter every now and then. Awkward silence ensues when he hangs up. A strange tension occupies the space between us. We both wait for each other to say something. To make the first move. I felt like we reached the “let’s grab a beer sometime” suggestion stage in our work relationship. Like some form of verbal constipation, my mouth opens without the sound of words. I try again. And again. I’m disrupted by a knock on my cubicle. The mail clerk hands me a stack with a consolation sigh for Ted and Mike. He follows to tell me I’m needed at the copier.
Gillian waits beside it. Leaning on it hopelessly like some kind corporate damsel. She sports a fitted sheath dress. My eyes follow the outline of her body’s curves and bends.
I swear I didn’t break it. It was like this when I got here.
I conduct my usual routine. Inspecting and examining. Using the jargon and all. I adjust the rollers, expecting the 8.5 x 11 sized culprit to rear its head. I wonder if she hears my nervous chuckle. The way magicians must when their trick goes awry. I remove parts and gape into the depths. My hand reaches in, brushing against mechanisms, belts, and fusers. Something grazes my paddling fingers. Gillian’s request to “be careful” as the copier consumes the entirety of my arm goes unheard. Her mouth is moving but the words dissolve into the air along with the ambient noise. Filling my ears, the reverberation of a steady sound of an infinite “whooshing”. Like a waterfall. The pitch increases as I yank out the paper. The wrinkles scattered across the page are coarse on my fingers. I read the message written on it.
They love confidence.
I turn the paper over to find a cover letter addressed to her. The one from my desktop listing all her beautiful qualities. At the bottom, I find my name and email. The noise a deafening blare of smooth static now. The kind I heard as a kid on our analog TV. It’s not until I extend my arm towards her, paper clenched between my fingers, that I feel the prescence of something approaching me from behind. Gillian’s eyes follow the words around the curves and bends of the paper as she reads intently. A silhouette hovers over me. Its shadow extends at the base of my feet. Its rough panting is warm on my neck. Gillian smiles with her whole face as she reads, revealing dimples I never knew she had. Her eyelids don’t merge when she blinks. Her lips quiver uncontrollably. Something touches down on my shoulder. Unsure if it’s a hand or a claw. Its grip is snug against the meatier part of my shoulder, and I wonder if that’s the part it’ll devour first. Dangling from her eyelids, tears fall onto the paper, making “ticking” sounds on impact. I don’t realize the thunderous sound of static has stopped until she looks up at me and I hear her say
Kevin. This is beautif…
The skin on her face sags as she looks behind me. There’s distress fused in her voice.
Kevin…
The grasp tightens on my shoulder. I turn to find one of the company executives. His pearl white teeth and snowbird tanned face smiles at me.
Mr. Moore…
I match the firmness of his grip when our hands shake. His voice mimics a car salesman.
Bruce Jones. Executive of operations. I hope I’m not interrupting anything here, but if you have a moment, I’d like you to come with me.
Along our journey, I counter his small talk with mumbled, one-word answers. We walk past miles of empty cubicles. I think of them as trenches, once home to corporate soldiers. He begins to tell me how impressed they’ve been with my work. Especially as of late. As we get closer to my manager’s office, I think about Henry. I wonder what he’ll say when I explain to him what’s happening. My pondering is cut short when we get to my manager’s office. I look at the name on the door sign.
Kevin Moore
As I’m sure you’ve notice Kevin. There have been some notable changes and shifts going on with our employees. After a thorough evaluation of productivity and overall efficiency, we couldn’t be happier to offer you this new position.
I rush to Henry’s cubicle. Fervent to explain everything. Even more so to thank him. When I get to his desk, I find a woman. Middle-aged. She stops unloading her belongings to offer me a forced smile.
Hi. Can I help you? She asks.
Dismay reduces the natural color on my face to a pastel white.
What’s going on? What are…they fired Henry?
The woman’s puzzlement is conveyed through a series of “ums” “uhs” and “I’s”.
I’m sorry she says softly. I was told there was no one in this cubicle or position for over a year.
*
The days blend into weeks. I keep my workout routine. Diet too. I think of Henry when faxes come in. When I sweat profusely. In every mouthful of salad, fruit, and chicken too. When I take Gillian out to dinner, I try and eavesdrop on tables diagonal from me. Just to see if they sound like him. Every so often, I stare at the fluorescents in my new office. Hoping they flicker sometimes.
A few months later, I find a package on my desk after lunch. I read the postage label.
FROM: Montana
To: Kevin Moore
Lelund & McCallister
180 Buckingham Road
Lake Charles, Louisiana
I run the cutting edge of a scissor down the middle of the box and open the flaps. Inside, I find the taxidermy of a small pheasant.
__________
James Gianetti’s stories and work have been published in or are forthcoming in places like SmokeLong Quarterly, Emerge Literary Journal, Stanchion, Fatal Flaw, Hobart, and Hearth & Coffin where he received an editor’s choice award. His short story “The Stray” was a quarterfinalist in the Driftwood Press In-House Short Story Contest. He is the author of the novelette “Calvin Klein” (ELJ Editions). Beyond writing, James holds an M.A. in special education and teaches middle school special education in New Jersey. You can find him on Twitter/X @Jamesgianetti and on Instagram @james_gianetti.
__________
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Posted in Workplace Wounds and Woes and tagged in #boudin, #fiction