Company (26 page)

Elizabeth and Holly step back to let her pass. Elizabeth looks back at the managers. “We'll leave you to it,” she says and gently closes the door.

At first they hang around, in case a bloodied hand paws against the glass, or a body is slammed against the blinds. But when it becomes apparent that this battle will go the distance, Elizabeth heads off to call on some customers and the sales assistants go to lunch. Or, rather, they attempt to go to lunch, because the mass of angry ex-employees in front of the building has gotten everyone nervous, and Security won't let them out of the building. By one o'clock, hunger is increasing the possibility of a riot inside the building, too, so Human Resources makes some calls and manages to get a truckload of sandwiches delivered to a back entrance. These are cold and rubbery and make everyone feel guilty, because as they pick them up from the reception desk, the unemployed stare at them through the tinted glass.

“Ahhh,” Freddy says. Jones follows his gaze to see Eve stepping out of the elevator with a man in a gray suit from Alpha. Neither looks happy. Jones's heart starts thumping.

Holly smirks. “Thought she'd been canned?”

“She wasn't at the desk this morning, I thought maybe she had been.” Freddy sucks in a breath. “I'm so high on adrenaline, I could ask her out right now. You know how people who survive a life-threatening experience form a bond? That could work in my favor.”

They watch Eve walk to the reception desk. “I don't get it,” Holly says. “What
is
it about her? She's not that fit, you know. One time I saw her at the gym, she looked like she was about to pass out.”

“You're right,” Freddy says. “You don't get it.”

Jones says, “That's true, though. You don't really know her. She could be an ax murderer for all you know.”

“With those spindly little arms?” Holly says.

“
Before
you were telling me to ask her out. Now what are you saying?”

“Just . . . maybe she's not right for you.”

“Jones likes her,” Holly teases.

“No, that's not it. Don't be stupid.” Jones forces himself to stop before:
Why do you say that?
“I'm just saying, maybe Freddy could do better.”

Freddy snorts. “No I couldn't.”

“He's right,” Holly says. “Look at him. Short, glasses, working in the same crappy job for five years . . . if Eve Jantiss agreed to date
him,
I'd buy lottery tickets.”

“Have you been going easy on the bicep crunches lately?” Freddy asks. “Under your arms there, it looks a bit flabby.”

Holly's mouth falls open in outrage. “My body fat percentage is
fourteen.
”

“Well, if you think that's good enough.” He pats his pockets. “I'm going for a smoke. I'll see you back upstairs.”

In the elevator, Jones catches Holly pinching the undersides of her arm. She drops her hands to her sides. “God, he pisses me off sometimes.”

When Freddy returns to Staff Services, he is bristling with indignation. “Do you know what they're doing?”

“Who?” Jones says.

“They made me go out back because of all the people, and I saw this new wooden fenced-in area going up next to the generator. The sign says
SMOKERS
'
CORRAL.
They're building a designated smoking area!”

Holly blows air in disgust. “I don't know why the company wants to waste money on smokers.”

“It has pictures of cows on it! Cows with cigarettes in their mouths!”

She smirks. “Oh. That's funny.”

“What gets me is they think this is
helping,”
Freddy complains. “Management is so out of touch, they think we'll
appreciate
this!” He looks to Jones for support, but Jones keeps his mouth shut. “Morons!” Freddy exclaims.

Holly says, “In the gym this morning, I heard nonsmokers will be getting an extra vacation day. Now that's a good idea.”

Freddy's mouth drops open. “What?”

“Well,
I
don't take five breaks a day to go stand in the sun,” Holly says. “Why shouldn't I get an extra day?”

“I make that time up! I work overtime!”

“What, I don't?”

“Bah. This is discrimination!”

“If you ask me, it's discrimination that
you
get time off to smoke while Jones and I don't.”

“Leave me out of this,” Jones says, before realizing how hypocritical this is.

“Besides,” Holly says, “why should you get upset about me getting a day off? It doesn't affect you.”

“You were
just
being a bitch about me taking five minutes for a smoke!”

“Are you calling me a bitch?” Holly yells.

Jones stands up. “Hey. Guys. Stop it, please. This is a stressful time. We need to stick together.”

Freddy takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry. You're not a bitch, Holly. But I am
not
going to stand in a
corral
with pictures of
cows.
”

After a moment, Holly says, “Yes you are.”

Freddy sits down with a sigh. “I hate this company so much. I wish I had been laid off.”

“No you don't.”

He laughs softly. “No, I don't. At least here I'm in good company.”

“What?” Jones says.

“I said at least here I'm in good company.”

“Oh. I thought you said you were in
a
good company.”

Freddy and Holly stare at him.

Jones says, “What if we could make the company better? If we could change things . . . make it a better place to work. I mean, there are so many things we could do.”

Holly looks at him blankly. Freddy says, “Jones . . . you're still new here. People suggest ways to improve the company every day. Their ideas go into the suggestion box in the cafeteria—where the cafeteria
was,
I mean—and they're never heard from again, except during all-staff meetings when Senior Management picks out the most useless one and announces a cross-functional team to look into it. A year or two later, when everyone's forgotten about it, we get an e-mail announcing the implementation of something that bears no resemblance to the initial idea and usually has the opposite effect, and in the annual reports this is used as evidence that the company listens and reacts to its workers. That's what happens when you try to make Zephyr a better place to work.”

There's a click. Just a small sound, but Freddy, Holly, and Jones stand up at the same time. They peer over their cubicle wall, as, all around, other Staff Services employees do the same thing. The meeting-room door swings open.

Roger emerges first. His smile is brilliant.

The queen is dead; long live the king! The workers jostle for a glimpse of Roger, for a touch of his hand. He moves among them, greeting the people, shaking hands, thumping backs, kissing cheeks. “I will govern for all the people,” Roger declares, and the workers cheer. “This is a new beginning. I promise you hard work—but also respect. Recognition. And reward!” The employees' faces brighten. Relocation Services and Gymnasium Management employees grin at each other. Workers from Social Club and Business Card Design clink coffee mugs. They are survivors. It is four thirty in the afternoon; it is the dawn of a new day.

The sales assistants are awestruck. Holly says, “Did you know Roger was so . . .”

“No,” Freddy says.

Roger draws closer. The assistants give him big smiles and thumbs-up. Freddy grabs Roger's hand and pumps it enthusiastically. “Good for you, Roger. Well done!”

“I appreciate your support.” His eyes jump from one to the other. “Things are going to be different from now on. Things are going to get done. We're going to find out who really took that donut.”

It's spattering rain outside, but none of the outcasts go home. Droplets speckle their faces. Their makeup runs. Their hair frizzes. But their anger is not diluted. Promises are being made to set up a permanent picket line; a roster is circulating. They are not completely sure what they will demand, but one thing is for sure:
they don't deserve this.

In the lobby, now deserted except for herself and Security, Gretel hears the elevator
ding.
She twists in her chair. The doors slide apart to reveal Eve and a man from Senior Management: Blake Seddon. All the girls swoon over Blake because he's young and good-looking and has more money than he knows what to do with. He's also currently wearing a black eye patch, which Gretel heard is because of an injury he received saving a little girl from being run over in the street right outside the Zephyr building. He smiles as he and Eve approach the reception desk, and Gretel feels her own mouth curve upward almost involuntarily.

Eve takes her seat behind the desk. Blake keeps walking up to the line of Security guards facing out the glass. “Hoo,” Eve says. “What a day. What a day.”

Gretel isn't sure exactly what about today has been so draining for Eve, given she has been largely absent for it, but she has learned not to ask questions. “Yeah.”

“When this is all over, I'm going out and getting really, really drunk.”

Gretel smiles. Another thing she's learned is that when Eve says something like this, it's not an invitation.

A Security guard comes up to the reception desk. “Umbrella,” he says. “Do we have an umbrella for Mr. Seddon?”

Gretel reaches under the desk and retrieves a natty black number. The guard takes this to Blake Seddon, who flashes a smile in Gretel's direction, even as his eyes slide over to Eve. Then he walks out to meet the horde.

They see him coming and yell their disapproval. By the time Blake stops and raises one placatory hand, they are a seething, shouting mass. If he can feel their fury, he gives no sign. He simply waits underneath his black umbrella for them to quiet.

“My friends,” he says. “My dear, dear friends.”

For a second it seems the mob will actually run at him. But they are not so far gone. Slowly their outrage subsides again, and this time Blake is able to speak without interruption.

“These are difficult economic times.” The rain spatters on his umbrella. “You don't need me to tell you that. It's a tough market and we face strong international competition. If we're to succeed as a business—indeed, if we're to survive—we need to make tough decisions. Zephyr Holdings isn't a charity; we either make a profit or investors take their money elsewhere. Simply put, if the company is making money, we can afford to hire people, and if it's not, we have to shed staff. It's nothing personal. These are economic decisions. You understand that. It's the duty of Senior Management to keep the company in the black, for the benefit of all stakeholders. We'd love to be able to keep every one of you on the payroll. But we are bound to do what's best for the company. If that means externally redeploying some employees, then, you'll agree, that is both logical and reasonable. Again, it's nothing personal. It's a standardized process of comparing the value of any given part of the company against the associated cost. It applies to product lines, to departments, and to employees. The simple fact of the matter, and I wish it could be otherwise but it can't, is that we must ruthlessly eliminate loss-making parts of the company to protect the profit-making parts. Now, as it happened, when we ran the numbers, you were loss-making parts. It's nothing personal. But I want you to understand that it's not arbitrary, either. We're not doing it out of vindictiveness. It's not because we enjoy it. We're simply trying to keep the company afloat. If things had been different—if you had been more productive, or were earning lower wages—then perhaps I wouldn't be talking to you right now. But, unfortunately, you weren't adding value. So while you may be feeling aggrieved, you need to realize that this is simply the logical consequence of your own cost-to-benefit ratio. You were pulling the company down. I don't want to come off as overly critical, but you do deserve this.”