She's the Boss (31 page)

“ECHO!” I said out loud. Seconds later, I heard five hundred echoes ringing in my ear.

Discombobulated, I began pacing the floor. Up and down and up and down. I felt like I was in the eye of a tornado. My palms were sweaty and my head was pounding like the thundering hooves of a thousand wild stallions. Through the stampede of horses bludgeoning my brains, I somehow managed to do some mental arithmetic. Let’s see, I drank five bottles of
7 Hour Energy
, so that equals thirty-five hours of energy. Crap! I was going to be wired for a while!

This drink actually works! Who would’ve
thunk
?

At some point I started talking to myself, saying weird stuff like, “I know not where this is nor how I came to be here.” I even had a conversation with the sofa. “I know not who you are.” I stood there talking to the sofa. “Nor how I came to find you.”

Truly bizarre stuff.

I took a deep breath. Right. I needed something to calm my fraying nerves and gnawing anxiety. I needed to put on some whale music and do some calming yoga. Then I realized that I didn’t own any whale music and I didn’t know any yoga poses except for the downward dog position. My frantic eyes darted across the room and zeroed in on a book—
The World is Flat.

Yes. I could sure use a flat world right now. Quite frankly, my present world was wavy, warped and undulated. And I needed it flat.

Flattened.

Hastily, I grabbed the book and turned it around in my hands, vaguely recalling that Carter had insisted I read it. All right, I thought, this dull and tedious Economics textbook should do the trick. I had no doubt it would numb my mind in a matter of seconds.

Five hours later, I was still reading the book. I read all day and all night.

Ten hours later, I closed the book. I stood up for a brief second and slumped heavily back onto the sofa, struck by David Schlesinger’s words. He’d sent out a memo to his editorial staff, back when he was the managing editor at Reuters. I don’t fully recall what was written in his entire memo, but here is the gist of it in my own words:

Change is not easy. Change is hard on those caught by surprise. And change is hardest on those who find it difficult to change. But change is normal. It is expected, it is not new, and change is important.

Work flows to locations and workers who can get the work done most efficiently. This does not hinder us because it allows us to do different, and sometimes, more sophisticated work. It’s difficult for us to think about ‘our’ work being outsourced, and off-shored. But as painful as it is, we should also think of the opportunity as well as the obligations of off-shoring. Ultimately, each one of us must tend to our own economic destiny.

Sitting in my darkened living room, I stared into space, chewing on that passage, thinking of the frailties and rewards of my job.

Sometime later, I struggled to my feet, padded to my room and crawled back into bed. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out for the count.

Chapter Twenty Three

Hillary stopped dead in her tracks. “What the hell is this?”

“I don’t know . . .” I paused and took stock of the situation.

Over five hundred people had descended on Pocatello Square; they were chanting and holding up various signs.

One sign said: THE GREED OF WALL STREET BROKE MAIN STREET.

Another sign said: WALL STREET GOT BAILED OUT BUT MAIN STREET DIDN’T.

The next one said: CORPORATIONS ARE ROBBING US WITHOUT A GUN.

And another one said: I CAN’T AFFORD A LOBBYIST, I AM THE 99%.

One sign even said: MY ARMS ARE TIRED.

Whoa! The Occupy Wall Street movement had sprung up right here in rural Idaho. This was Occupy Pocatello.

Mesmerized, Hillary and I began walking toward the crowd, merging into the thicket. All around us, men and women carried themselves with a forthright bearing that said, “We will not back down until justice has been served.”

“Hell no!” Someone chanted, “We won’t go!”

A middle-aged man emerged from the crowd and started preaching, “You know what the problem is? Impressing Wall Street has become the Great American corporate pastime. Long term gains are sacrificed for short term benefits. Bad corporate decisions are made because a company would rather
look
good than
be
good. Don’t you think we’d all be better off if corporations tried to impress themselves rather than their shareholders?”

I nodded fervently in agreement.

Someone in the crowd yelled, “What do we want?”

A crowd of people shouted, “Accountability! Accountability! Accountability!”

Hillary leaned toward me and whispered, “What a silly, misguided circus. If these people are going to beg, at least have the decency to become homeless and be grateful.”

I whispered back, “Hillary, some of these people
are
homeless.”

“Oh.” Hillary started backing away. “Let’s get out of here before it turns into an angry mob. And besides, we don’t want to be late for work.”

As we picked our way through the crowd, squeezing ourselves past the mass of bodies, I came face to face with Carter.

“You!” I froze.

“You!” He seemed to freeze too.

For a second, we both stood frozen to the spot.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

Carter fired back, “I could ask you the same question.”

“Excuse me guys,” Hillary hastily cut in, “but I’m getting out of here before things get out of hand.” And with that, she wrestled through the throng and took off at a fast clip.

Carter took my hand and I allowed myself to be led away. He walked me down to the end of the street and stopped at a quiet corner.

“Sit,” he ordered.

Obediently, I sat on the sidewalk.

Carter hitched up his chinos and sat down next to me. He handed me a bottle of Evian. I uncapped the liter-sized bottle and chugged half of it down.

For a long while, we didn’t speak and the air seemed to pulsate with unspoken words. Two granola girls walked by, their patchouli scented heads swiveling as they passed Carter. One of them virtually devoured him with her eyes.

Carter greeted their fawning in his usual way—with a scowl and an abrupt dismissal.

I sat back with a self-satisfied grin. Those girls were wasting their time and their lustful thoughts. The love of Carter’s life was his work.

“Karsynn,” he began, “there are so many things I’ve been wanting to say to you. But I just couldn’t.”

“Why don’t you start right now?” I looked at him expectantly and folded my arms across my chest. “Go ahead.”

“Look, I know you hate me. But you have to understand that many call center jobs are disappearing and it’s not my fault. Most routine jobs have gone overseas. What’s left are high skilled jobs and lower waged jobs that can’t be outsourced or automated.”

“So what you’re trying to tell me is no one is safe,” I stated matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” said Carter, “no one is safe. Someday, your job, too, might become redundant. Companies are striving to do more with less. With less money and less resources, which means fewer employees. Kars . . .” His eyes were pleading. “You have to accept the fact that some jobs are leaving America and they are never coming back.”

“I need to switch careers then,” I said with sudden despondency. “Become an accountant or something.”

“Accounting work is already being outsourced,” Carter informed me. “Over a million tax returns are prepared in India each year.”

“Then I’ll become a dental assistant,” I said with a certain amount of cynicism, “like every other contestant on a reality show. Or maybe I’ll be just like you.” I glared at him in a manner that would have curdled dairy. “You unscrupulous bastard! You ruthless liar! You douchebag! You jerk! You jackass! You-you—” I ran out of epithets, PG-rated ones anyway.

When my diatribe came to an end, I took a deep breath to steady myself.

Carter looked hurt by the character assassination he’d just been dealt. Deep down inside, I recognized that my anger was excessive, yet I couldn’t control it.

He sighed. “Why are you so angry with me, Kars?”

“I used to admire you.” I laughed harshly. “Can you imagine that? And I was so desperate for your approval. I wanted so much to be just like you.”

“You want to be like me? You want to learn what I do? Well I kill jobs,” he said almost savagely. “That’s what I do. When I strive to keep the company competitive, I kill jobs. When I strive to keep the company running more efficiently, I kill jobs.”

Blunt way to sum it up, I thought.

Then I got to my feet. I was tired of sitting. I was tired of Carter’s weak excuses. “So you’re a serial job killer.” I sent him poison darts. “And you’re pleased with that?”

“I’m not. But if I don’t do it, they’ll hire some other person who will. If Zimm doesn’t do it, some other company will. It’s
my
job to keep the company competitive.”

“So that’s where your interests lie?” I felt my anger returning at full force and a torrent of words came spilling out. “It’s all about the business. It’s all about the short term gains with you and not the long term friendships. That’s why you have no friends, Carter. Haven’t you heard that saying: where all things being equal, people will buy from a friend. And when all things are not equal, people will
still
buy from a friend. Right now, I’m the only friend you’ve got. Hardly anyone at work is buying your bullshit. I may not have been around the block as long as you have, but I’ve learned that there are very few absolutes in life. This is one of them: You need friends! And,” I added spitefully, “you get along by getting along! Remember that line?”

Carter’s eyes flickered but he remained silent.

“And why are you here anyway?” I demanded crossly. “You’re the one percent. Look around you. You don’t belong here.”

I waited for him to raise his voice at me, to defend himself, to make his case against me, but he didn’t. All he did was look toward the ground.

“Carter?” came a man’s voice, muffled by the distance.

“I’ll be right there,” Carter called.

I stood rooted to the spot. “Who’s that?”

“Saul,” he hedged.

“Who’s Saul?”

“A friend of mine,” he responded in a weary voice.

“You have a friend?” I stepped back in surprise. In fact, you could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather. “I’d like to meet him.”

Carter said nothing for a moment, then, “OK. Follow me.”

We turned a corner and he led me down a narrow alleyway until we came upon a frail and elderly homeless person. “Saul, this is Karsynn.”

He half-rose to his feet and leaned toward Carter as if he couldn’t support his own weight. “Nice to finally meet you, Karsynn. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Weariness from a long day caught up with me and I sighed.

I glanced at my watch. It was nine p.m.

With another sigh, I grabbed my handbag, slung it over my shoulder and walked down the hallway. It was eerily quiet except for the sound of my heels clicking softly on the tile floor. As I swept past Carter’s office, I stopped. His door was closed but the lights were still on.

Squaring my shoulders, I lifted my chin and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” he called.

I opened the door and leaned heavily against the doorframe. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Not very often,” he said, standing to greet me. “What about you?”

“I’m always tired,” I said with a leaden-footed attempt at lightness.

“Go home then,” he said kindly, “get some rest.”

I stood rooted to the spot and dropped my eyes, studying the tip of my shoes with close attention. “I’m sorry,” I said at last.

“For what?” His voice sounded a little strained.