Termination Man: a novel (25 page)

But then I also wondered:
To what degree was Shawn being protected?
Clearly Bernie Chapman and Beth Fisk saw through him. And they were also studiously avoiding any acknowledgement of his many flaws and misdeeds.

How far was too far? At what point would Bernie and Beth determine—either individually or jointly—that Shawn Myers had stepped over the line?

I already knew the answer, or thought that I did: They would protect him until it was clear that protecting him was no longer in the best interest of their careers at TP Automotive.

“I know alcohol when I smell it,” Lucy insisted. “And that was alcohol I smelled on Shawn Myers’s breath.”

“You must have gotten close,” I said. “You weren’t trying to kiss him, were you?”

She made a mock slap in my direction. “Craig, you’re being a dope,” she said.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” I said, taking a bite of the slice of vending machine pizza that was my lunch today.

Alan did not react at all to this exchange, which was atypical. Alan always had an opinion, always had something to say. And he wouldn’t pass on a chance to get in a jab at me—unless he was seriously preoccupied.

“Alan,” Lucy said. “Did someone do something nasty in your Wheaties this morning? Why the sour face?”

“Just one of those days,” Alan replied. His glum expression did not waver. I knew that Alan was suffering. And I also knew that he had a lot more suffering ahead of him.

“I think,” I said. “That Alan needs to talk to me alone.”

Lucy frowned in mock resentment. “Is this my cue to vamoose?”

“Please do,” I said. “You know how much Alan and I love you, Lucy, but—”

“But you’ve got ‘guy issues’ to discuss. Okay, okay. Say no more. I’m finished with my salad anyway.” She began to consolidate her napkin, empty diet soda can, and plastic salad container onto her tray. “It will be a small sacrifice to make if you can bring the old Alan back.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I promise to give you the old Alan back—for whatever he’s worth.”

Even Alan had to smile just a bit at this remark.

“Say no more,” Lucy said. “I’ll see you guys back in the pit.”

When Lucy had departed, Alan folded his arms and gave me his news.

“I called her last night,” he announced.

“You mean—Claire? Really? How did you get her number?”

“I called her company cell phone,” Alan said. “It’s right there on the company’s Lotus Notes directory.”

I was aware of this, needless to say. This was one more element of the trap that we had laid for Alan. We wanted him to have a means of contacting Claire outside of the office. Since Claire Michaels was a phony name that could not be quickly linked to any publicly listed AT&T landline, we had decided to issue a cell phone to Claire and to then publish the number in Lotus Notes, just as Alan had described. And I had known that Alan would peruse the directory for Claire Michaels’s information. Men who fantasize about their female colleagues always look at their profiles on company network directories. Men are like that.

“So you called her,” I said. “Go on.”

“I called her alright,” he said. “But it didn’t go very well. She was very standoffish—a complete contrast to what I’ve seen out of her at work. And when I asked her out, she gave me a flat-out ‘no,’ and said that there was no way that she could date a man she worked with.”

“Maybe she just wants a friends-with-benefits situation,” I suggested. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Are you kidding?” Alan snorted. “From now on, I’m going to stay as far away from Claire Michaels as I possibly can. I’ll be lucky if Claire doesn’t tell Beth Fisk that I made her feel ‘uncomfortable.’ And that HR bitch would love to string me up on a sexual harassment charge.”

“I don’t think they can charge you with sexual harassment because you asked for a date.”

Alan wadded up the paper remains of his lunch and tossed them onto his tray more vigorously than was necessary. “Maybe not—but I don’t intend to take any chances.” He stood up. “You ready to go back to the grind?”

“I’ll be along in a minute,” I said, gesturing to my half-eaten fruit cocktail. “Sorry to hear that things didn’t work out with Claire. Looks like I’m not such a great source of advice after all.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Well—still, though. I feel bad about it.”

“It will be okay as long as I stay away from her.”

“Probably you’re right,”

I watched Alan depart, obviously unaware that Claire’s apparent change in attitude was a carefully calculated step in our overall plan. We were disorienting him, while simultaneously frustrating him and heightening his desire.

Because men who are disoriented, frustrated, and filled with lust tend to make critical mistakes.

My situation at UP&S took a turn for the worse that night, when I slammed Shawn Myers up against a wall.

For weeks I had realized that I didn’t like Shawn Myers. I hadn’t expected to come to blows with him, though.
In the corporate world, physical confrontations between individuals are as rare as hen’s teeth. But sometimes you have to make an exception.
This was one of those times.

I had been working late that evening. This was part of my cover. Since the TP Automotive buyout, “face time” had become more important in the minds of the employees at UP&S.

This basically means that they felt compelled to linger at their desks until far past five o’clock, in a mostly transparent attempt to put their dedication to the company on display. No one wanted to be the first person in his department or working group to leave. This phenomenon, too, is common in corporate office environments.

I had no real work to do, of course; but I would have stood out like a sore thumb if I hadn’t remained and done my face time along with everyone else. Moreover, Lucy and Alan were legitimately overloaded and seldom left at five. As the new man on the team, I had to follow suit.

Finally, Lucy and Alan had had enough. I was relieved when first Alan, and then Lucy, shut down their desktop PCs.

“You’re going to make us look bad if you stay here until midnight,” Alan said. As was often the case with Alan, I wasn’t completely sure if he was joking or serious. Sometimes Alan gave me a sign—an odd look or a malapropos remark—that suggested he was on to me. On a rational level I didn’t believe that this was possible. But if anyone at UP&S saw me for the phony three-dollar bill that I was, it would have been Alan.

And Alan was, of course, one of my primary targets.

However, I believed that this particular ribbing was Alan’s way of attempting to recover from his crash-and-burn with Claire. Today he had revealed his more vulnerable side; and that would bother a guy like Alan almost as much as the rejection itself.

“I’m going to be right behind the two of you,” I said. “Either of you have any big plans tonight?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “I haven’t had actual ‘plans’ on a weeknight for years,” she said. “Come to think of it—I haven’t had many plans on the
weekends
, either.”

“Well, that’s part of being a working stiff, I guess,” I said. “I’m in the same boat.”

Lucy shook her head as if to indicate that she didn’t believe me. A guy like me would
always
have plans.

“I’m going to drink a couple of beers and pass out in front of the television set,” Alan said.

“Well, have fun,” I said, letting it go at that.

Thank God they’re gone
, I thought, as I watched them depart. I felt a pang of guilt over this sentiment—which was ironic. My purpose in being here was to make both of them lose their jobs. And yet I felt compunction over the fact that Alan and Lucy—with their pitifully limited lives and
their
jeremiads of personal crisis—completely exasperated me.

The corporate world is home to a lot of Alan Fergusons and Lucy Brownings. People who are not happy with their lot in life, but lack the initiative to change it. I silently thanked God, the Fates—whomever—that I wasn’t one of them. I had done a damn good job of pulling myself up from nothing, hadn’t I?

Or had I simply been lucky?
What if instead of being Craig Walker, I had been born an average-looking, averagely gifted person like Alan or Lucy? Would I still be my own boss, hauling down a high six-figure income? Or would I be some cubicle-bound hard-luck case like Alan or Lucy?

These were not the sorts of questions that I needed to contemplate just then, so I pushed them aside. I did, however, need to make a run to the men’s room before I departed for the evening.

I walked toward the bend in the hallway that led toward the restrooms. This trajectory also led me past Shawn Myers’s desk. He was gazing intently into the display of his laptop.

I caught only a quick glimpse of his computer screen. I couldn't see the URL address; but the image of a naked woman was unmistakable. Companies of any size strictly monitor employee Internet usage nowadays. Shawn, however, would be exempt from this worry as an officer of UP&S, a high-ranking employee of TP Automotive, and—most of all—the son of Kurt Myers. No doubt the information systems manager at UP&S saw the websites that Shawn was visiting via the company network during the evening hours. No doubt he was steadfastly ignoring what he saw.

As I walked past, Shawn smirked and gave me a mock salute, touching his two fingers to his forehead like a Boy Scout would.
Smart-ass
, I thought. I smiled back and nodded—like I would if I were actually one of Shawn’s employees.

C
ome to think of it, I
was
Shawn’s employee, in a manner of speaking, given my contract with TP Automotive.
Shawn’s formal authority over me might be limited; but Kurt was obviously determined to stand by his son—no matter how much of a ne’er-do-well he might be.

I realized that such petty injustices were a part of the game I was playing. This wasn’t the first time that I had been compelled to make nice with a complete jerk, after all. Shawn Myers was by no means the worst of them, I told myself. And it wasn’t as if he would be a part of my working life forever. He was a temporary annoyance.

I rounded the bend and I saw a young girl working a mop in a circular motion on the white tile of the hallway. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Her dark hair was tied back in a single ponytail.

I didn’t know the girl’s name; but I suspected that she was the daughter of the woman who cleaned the UP&S office area in the evenings. The girl looked too young to be a regular employee; and she vaguely resembled the woman—who was probably about my age.

I nodded at the girl and she smiled sheepishly and nodded back. I made a point to step around the area she was mopping.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I hope I’m not messing up your work.”

“Thanks,” she said, then quickly turned away.

I went into the men’s room and did my business. After washing and drying my hands, I removed my cell phone to check for emails or text messages. Claire had texted me, stating that she was ready to pull the trigger on Alan. I was of the same opinion. We couldn’t string Alan along much longer. He was cagier than most. Sooner or later, he would figure out that Claire’s outward display of interest—and her subsequent display of indifference—was a charade.

That was when I heard Shawn’s voice in the hallway. At first I groaned, thinking that he might be talking to me. I didn’t want to converse with Shawn Myers any more than was necessary. But when he spoke for the second time, it was clear that he was interacting with someone in the hall.

The cleaning woman’s daughter?

“Come on,” Shawn said with a slurred voice. His words echoed from the empty hallway into the men’s room. “Can’t you be a little more friendly?”

I put my cell phone away and stepped into the hall.

What I saw made my stomach lurch. Shawn was towering over the young girl. She was clutching the mop handle against her chest, almost as a shield.

She wasn’t saying much, but her body language said everything: Shawn was making her extremely uncomfortable, and she wanted him to go away.

I cleared my throat. Shawn glanced up at me, then back at the girl.

“Where are your manners?” Shawn asked the girl, as if I did not exist. He flattened the palm of one hand on the wall behind her. He leaned his body very close to hers—being careful, I saw, not to actually touch her. Shawn obviously knew where the lines were; and he was determined to push the lines as far as he could without placing himself in outright jeopardy.

In other words, until Shawn touched the girl or said something overtly sexual, this could be a case of sexual harassment—or it could be an adult giving a teenager a friendly lecture. Like so much in the corporate world, the truth depended on interpretation—and who was involved.

“Where are your manners?” he repeated. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s not polite to clam up when someone’s talking to you?”

“I don’t think she’s in the mood for talking,” I said. “And I think that you ought to leave her alone.”