Thirty Five
Scootie spent New Year’s Day consuming a Sunday Chronicle while ignoring the fast-moving
colors of college football on his TV. Despite the dark shade hanging over his
head, his first day back at the office passed reasonably well. He was a bit
mute around the lunch table, but Jackie filled in with a recount of their New
Year’s cruise (leaving out the cabernet).
He was at his desk at four-thirty, thumbing over revisions
to the marketing budget, when a face drifted over his partition like a helium
balloon. Garth stood there in silence, unable to begin the conversation he
evidently meant to initiate.
“Hi Garth! Did you have a good holiday?”
“Yes, I... I did.” He curled his fingers over the top of the
wall, like a cat hanging on by his claws. “Scootie? Would you mind? In ten
minutes? In my office? To... talk?”
Five questions at once,
thought Scootie. “Sure,” he said.
Garth lifted his paws and proceeded down the hall. That man, thought Scootie, is a born leader.
This, too, was not unusual. Garth occasionally felt the need
to look like an actual administrator by conducting an “employee conference.” It
usually consisted of Garth asking how things were going, then listening for
twenty minutes as the employee told him how things were going. Funny thing was,
it wasn’t a bad idea. Verbalizing helped Scootie organize his thoughts, and reminded
him how much he enjoyed talking about his job. How many people could say that?
When he knocked, the door opened with surprising promptness,
and Garth stood there waving him in like a doorman. Scootie sat in front of his
desk as Garth shuffled through a filing cabinet. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I must
find something first.”
“That’s okay.” He studied the credenza, where Garth kept an
ever-growing menagerie of wind-up toys. He picked up a speckled egg and wound
it, then watched as it burst into pieces and expelled a grinning baby dinosaur.
“Garth! This is terrific!”
Garth turned and answered feebly. “Oh. Gift from my
accountant.” He placed the file in front of him and lined up his fingertips,
mentally rehearsing his speech.
“Scootie, I... wanted to tell you a few things about our
upcoming budget. Truth is, it’s a mess. The last administration, so to speak –
I guess that’s... what you would call it – they did not, er, keep a very tight
tally, although I suppose that should have been my... Nonetheless, even with
the Swan gala, we have ourselves into... well, a deficit. Of some size. To be
exact, um, a hundred thousand dollars.”
Scootie was underwhelmed. He oculd name a dozen Bay Area
arts groups with deficits of more than a million: the symphony in San Jose, a
ballet in Marin County – hell, ACT in San Francisco was still rebuilding its
theater from the ’89 quake. He could see the end of Garth’s spiel twenty miles
away. No raises in February, perhaps a small cut, lower advertising budget,
seismic retrofit coming up...
“And with the seismic retrofit on our, um, horizon, we’re
looking to streamline a bit. Which is why...”
Garth hit a wall, a scratch on the CD. Scootie egged him on
mentally. Come on, boy, out with it.
The poor schmuck, you could see the sweat breaking out on is forehead.
“Which is why, with a lot of careful thought – and after, of
course, considering every avenue in consultation with the board, which is why
we’ve, well, we’ve...”
Jesus, Garth! I’d work
here for half what you pay me. Go for it!
“We;ve decided to eliminate the staff position for publicity
and take our marketing to an outside agency.”
Scootie’s thoughts jumped the track, letting loose with a
series of unrelated images: the smell of dill weed over eggs, the crunch of
skis as they slid over the lip of the hill, his mother’s smile, tilted to the
left with her overbroad teeth.
“Pardon?”
Garth pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
“We’re transferring the marketing and, um, box office operations to a firm in
San Francisco, the same firm that advised us on the gala. This will cut down on
personnel costs like health benefits, unemployment insurance and...”
“Aggie, too?”
Garth kept on spieling. “We thought the least we could do is
give you a good severance package, and, um, I want you to know that we have
always had the highest regard for your work, and would be happy to provide any
recommendations should you...”
“Garth!” Scootie stood from his chair. “Enough already!”
Garth froze, hands at his sides.
“Sorry,” said Scootie. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, but I
need to know a couple of things. First – this means Aggie, too?”
“Yes. Aggie, too.”
“And the decision came down from the...”
What? The board? Of course the board... But son of a bitch!
Why did she have to take Aggie, too? But he knew that answer, too. Aggie was
nearing retirement age, had a businessman husband to take care of her. Aggie
would be all right, and the box office/publicity package made a nice cover for
lower motivations. Ain’t it funny who you wind up next to in the unemployment
line?
Scootie surfaced to find Garth still waiting, hands folded
in his lap. Poor guy. The role of hatchet man was killing him.
Scootie lifted the baby dinosaur and returned him to the
egg, neatly folding the plastic chunks into place. “I’m sorry, Garth. Maybe
I’ll get the details later. When do I need to be out?”
Garth cleared his throat. “Um, end of the week?”
“Sure,” said Scootie, and attempted a smile. “See ya, boss.”
He ducked through the courtyard, avoiding any contact with
co-workers (Cow-orkers, Jackie called
them). He left his car in the parking lot and walked through town, a mile of
unrecorded sidewalk to the beach, where he planted his feet in the sand and
turned toward his apartment.
Coming up the back stairs, he unlatched both doors – his
pigeons, Audrey’s pigeons – and waved them into the sky.
Photo by MJV
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