NaNoWriMo - Day 9 (11/09/2005)
Willard
“Thank you, Sir,” he says meekly as he enters the office. It never ceases to amaze me how people continue to show respect, continue to call us, ‘Sir,’ even when they are about to be the recipient of bad news. Bad for them, at any rate.
Firing Simon Cunningham was, of course, my idea. A nice enough fellow, I suppose, but as much of a twit as they come. Not the best reason for giving someone the axe, maybe, but it was the best one I could come up with given the circumstances and short timeframe.
Our methodology for firing someone, Robert’s and mine, has come from many years of practice—trial and error—until we had it just right. It’s a play on the good cop/bad cop routine from the old television programs I used to watch. Of course, I don’t watch television any longer and neither does Mr. Jenkins. Television is a distraction that we cannot afford to indulge in these days. There are more … important matters to attend to.
“Sit down over there, if you please Mr. Cunningham,” I tell him, pointing to a lone chair sitting across from a pair of desks. It is behind these desks that Jenkins stands facing out the window. The shades are drawn just so, ensuring that his face is obscured in shadow. He is pensive. He is ‘trying to find a way out of this mess.’
Cunningham walks to the chair in the middle of the room, barely able to hold on to the numerous reports, charts, graphs and whatever else he’s got with him. I let him juggle them for a moment and then suggest, “You may put your paperwork on the table to your right, if you like.”
“Thank you.” Even more meekly than the first time. He shuffles over to the table and drops his papers on it. He almost sends a file folder of loose papers flying across the room, but is able to corral it at the last possible moment. Blushing—I can see the red rising in his face from here—he straightens the piles and returns to the chair in the middle of the room. I bemusedly watch all of this from near the door.
Once he is seated I take it as my cue to shut the door to the outer office, cutting off any additional light and leaving Jenkins in even more shadows. The perfect atmosphere for a firing … and in the middle of the morning no less! This is turning out to be quite a day.
“Mr. Cunningham,” I say, returning to my desk, slowly pulling out the chair and sitting down. “Do you know why it is that we’ve called you in here this morning?”
“Not exactly Sir. I mean … Sirs.”
“Have you any thoughts on why we might like to speak with you at this time?”
“No Sir … Sirs.”
“Mr. Cunningham, are you suggesting to me that you haven’t even thought about why you are here? That you received notice an hour ago to arrive here at ten o’clock—an appointment, Mr. Cunningham, that you failed to meet—and you didn’t take any time to consider what Mr. Jenkins and I might like to speak to you about?” I jerk my head in Jenkins’ direction, still looking pointedly at our mild-mannered Mr. Cunningham.
“I’m sorry Sirs. I don’t know why you’ve called me in this morning. I have thought about it, yes, but I couldn’t come up with anything.”
“Couldn’t come up with anything, you say? Not very imaginative, are you Mr. Cunningham?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” This from Jenkins behind me, who is still looking out the window. Right on cue.
“Excuse me Sir?”
“You’ve had an hour—over an hour, based on your late arrival—to think about a meeting with your bosses and you haven’t come up with any possible explanations? Your brain hasn’t gone into a tizzy trying to work it out? You simply chatted with your friend Mr. Waverly about the weather while you got your things together in order to join us? Is that what happened, Mr. Cunningham?” I’m rather enjoying this.
“I, er … don’t know what you mean, Sir.”
“You’re really not very bright at all, are you Mr. Cunningham.” Jenkins lets out a derisive snort behind me. That was not in the script. “Come on then. Tell me what you think you’re here for. Tell me your greatest hope for this meeting … or your greatest fear. You have to have thought of something, Mr. Cunningham. It’s a natural part of the human brain to create scenes and situations that don’t yet exist, going over them again and again until they seem so real they are actually more alive than the actual thing itself. Isn’t that so, Mr. Cunningham?”
“I suppose so Sir.”
I lean forward on my desk, eyes boring into him. “Well then?”
He is cowering, literally cowering. I can barely contain myself, it’s been so long. This is what running a company is really about. Power over others; control; the ability to offer hope; and, of course, to take that hope away.
“Tell me, Mr. Cunningham, what you feel it is that you’ve been called here for. Tell me what you think.”
“Go to hell.”
Jenkins twitches behind me but doesn’t turn around … yet. “What did you say to me, Mr. Cunningham?”
“You heard me. I said ‘Go to hell.’” He has more spunk than I thought. But that doesn’t change what’s going to happen to him.
“Is that the wisest course of action for you right now, Mr. Cunningham?” I ask gently. “Is telling your boss to go to hell the best thing to do for your career?”
“Career?” he snorts, causing Jenkins to twitch again. “You call this a career? If I’m still working here in ten years I want someone to come in and drag me out, kicking and screaming if necessary.” He is looking right at me now and the meekness has left his face entirely. It’s possible that we have misjudged this one.
“If you’re not careful, Mr. Cunningham—”
“Careful? I’ve been careful my entire life and look where it’s gotten me. Right here. I apologise for my rudeness, Sirs, but there is a lot going on down there that you have no idea about. I’m the one down there actually doing the work, remember. I know what goes on. I know what everyone else is talking about. I probably know more about this company than either of you do. Maybe more than both of you combined.”
Jenkins turns around and faces Cunningham. He is mad as hell because he hasn’t been allowed to follow the script. He wants his time in the spotlight and he isn’t going to get it today.
“You shut your mouth, you little piss-ant,” Jenkins scowls at him. “Willy and I eat shit-maggots like you for breakfast every morning, so you just watch your fucking mouth.”
“Fuck you.”
This is so unexpected that Jenkins almost faints. Instead he stands straights up and bellows at Cunningham, “Fuck me? FUCK ME? I’ll rip you apart with my goddamn hands you little piss-monkey!”
“Bobby …” I say low and with warning. “We don’t want to stoop to Mr. Cunningham’s level now, do we?”
He takes a deep breath and straightens first his tie, then his shirt and finally his jacket. “No, of course we don’t. My apologies.”
“Apology not accepted.” Jenkins eyes almost pop out of his head this time.
“I … wasn’t … speaking … to you.”
“I don’t really give a shit anymore. I don’t know who you guys think you are, or what kind of power trip you’re on, but I really haven’t had a great morning and I don’t have time for this crap.” He stands up from the chair, which isn’t part of the script. “All of your documents are right here,” he continues, “including everything you’ll need for the Japan meeting in two days.” He picks up a file folder, removes the contents and throws them up in the air, creating an over-sized confetti atmosphere. He opens another folder and does the same as Jenkins literally starts to hop with anger.
“Mr. Cunningham,” I begin, trying to diffuse the situation. People on the floor are going to be able to see what’s going on. They will be talking this afternoon, that’s for sure. “Mr. Cunningham!” He stops throwing files into the air and looks at me.
“I’ve had enough. I quit. I’ll have my belongings out of here by noon.” He looks at us, from one to the other and then back again. I am stunned. Jenkins is still hopping on the spot. Cunningham walks across the room, pulls open the door and walks out of the office. I expect to hear a moment of silence, followed by thunderous applause, but it never comes. Real life simply isn’t like the movies. I look at Jenkins, bouncing in one spot, his face the colour of fresh beets.
“Get hold of yourself man. You’re going to have a fit.”
Julia
I happen to be standing at the bottom of the stairs to the upper levels when the guy who’s causing all the ruckus up there starts coming down the stairs. I haven’t actually met him yet, as I’ve only just started temping here, but I’ve seen him around the office. He’s always seemed like such a pushover, letting the other guys in the office make fun of him, play tricks. And the women just laugh at him, sometimes right in front of his face.
“Is that Cunningham?” I hear someone whisper behind me, which jogs my memory. Simon is his name. “It sure is,” someone else says. “Didn’t think he had it in him.”
No one really knows what went on up there—we couldn’t hear anything. The rumour was that Simon was about to get fired and many of the guys who like to tease him were preparing a welcome of their own. These are the kinds of men who like to lure puppies over with treats and then kick them, I’m sure. But when we saw the paper start to fly … when we saw Simon throwing the paper around the office, we knew something hadn’t gone according to plan.
Today’s word count: 1723
Cumulative word count: 13,776
“Thank you, Sir,” he says meekly as he enters the office. It never ceases to amaze me how people continue to show respect, continue to call us, ‘Sir,’ even when they are about to be the recipient of bad news. Bad for them, at any rate.
Firing Simon Cunningham was, of course, my idea. A nice enough fellow, I suppose, but as much of a twit as they come. Not the best reason for giving someone the axe, maybe, but it was the best one I could come up with given the circumstances and short timeframe.
Our methodology for firing someone, Robert’s and mine, has come from many years of practice—trial and error—until we had it just right. It’s a play on the good cop/bad cop routine from the old television programs I used to watch. Of course, I don’t watch television any longer and neither does Mr. Jenkins. Television is a distraction that we cannot afford to indulge in these days. There are more … important matters to attend to.
“Sit down over there, if you please Mr. Cunningham,” I tell him, pointing to a lone chair sitting across from a pair of desks. It is behind these desks that Jenkins stands facing out the window. The shades are drawn just so, ensuring that his face is obscured in shadow. He is pensive. He is ‘trying to find a way out of this mess.’
Cunningham walks to the chair in the middle of the room, barely able to hold on to the numerous reports, charts, graphs and whatever else he’s got with him. I let him juggle them for a moment and then suggest, “You may put your paperwork on the table to your right, if you like.”
“Thank you.” Even more meekly than the first time. He shuffles over to the table and drops his papers on it. He almost sends a file folder of loose papers flying across the room, but is able to corral it at the last possible moment. Blushing—I can see the red rising in his face from here—he straightens the piles and returns to the chair in the middle of the room. I bemusedly watch all of this from near the door.
Once he is seated I take it as my cue to shut the door to the outer office, cutting off any additional light and leaving Jenkins in even more shadows. The perfect atmosphere for a firing … and in the middle of the morning no less! This is turning out to be quite a day.
“Mr. Cunningham,” I say, returning to my desk, slowly pulling out the chair and sitting down. “Do you know why it is that we’ve called you in here this morning?”
“Not exactly Sir. I mean … Sirs.”
“Have you any thoughts on why we might like to speak with you at this time?”
“No Sir … Sirs.”
“Mr. Cunningham, are you suggesting to me that you haven’t even thought about why you are here? That you received notice an hour ago to arrive here at ten o’clock—an appointment, Mr. Cunningham, that you failed to meet—and you didn’t take any time to consider what Mr. Jenkins and I might like to speak to you about?” I jerk my head in Jenkins’ direction, still looking pointedly at our mild-mannered Mr. Cunningham.
“I’m sorry Sirs. I don’t know why you’ve called me in this morning. I have thought about it, yes, but I couldn’t come up with anything.”
“Couldn’t come up with anything, you say? Not very imaginative, are you Mr. Cunningham?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” This from Jenkins behind me, who is still looking out the window. Right on cue.
“Excuse me Sir?”
“You’ve had an hour—over an hour, based on your late arrival—to think about a meeting with your bosses and you haven’t come up with any possible explanations? Your brain hasn’t gone into a tizzy trying to work it out? You simply chatted with your friend Mr. Waverly about the weather while you got your things together in order to join us? Is that what happened, Mr. Cunningham?” I’m rather enjoying this.
“I, er … don’t know what you mean, Sir.”
“You’re really not very bright at all, are you Mr. Cunningham.” Jenkins lets out a derisive snort behind me. That was not in the script. “Come on then. Tell me what you think you’re here for. Tell me your greatest hope for this meeting … or your greatest fear. You have to have thought of something, Mr. Cunningham. It’s a natural part of the human brain to create scenes and situations that don’t yet exist, going over them again and again until they seem so real they are actually more alive than the actual thing itself. Isn’t that so, Mr. Cunningham?”
“I suppose so Sir.”
I lean forward on my desk, eyes boring into him. “Well then?”
He is cowering, literally cowering. I can barely contain myself, it’s been so long. This is what running a company is really about. Power over others; control; the ability to offer hope; and, of course, to take that hope away.
“Tell me, Mr. Cunningham, what you feel it is that you’ve been called here for. Tell me what you think.”
“Go to hell.”
Jenkins twitches behind me but doesn’t turn around … yet. “What did you say to me, Mr. Cunningham?”
“You heard me. I said ‘Go to hell.’” He has more spunk than I thought. But that doesn’t change what’s going to happen to him.
“Is that the wisest course of action for you right now, Mr. Cunningham?” I ask gently. “Is telling your boss to go to hell the best thing to do for your career?”
“Career?” he snorts, causing Jenkins to twitch again. “You call this a career? If I’m still working here in ten years I want someone to come in and drag me out, kicking and screaming if necessary.” He is looking right at me now and the meekness has left his face entirely. It’s possible that we have misjudged this one.
“If you’re not careful, Mr. Cunningham—”
“Careful? I’ve been careful my entire life and look where it’s gotten me. Right here. I apologise for my rudeness, Sirs, but there is a lot going on down there that you have no idea about. I’m the one down there actually doing the work, remember. I know what goes on. I know what everyone else is talking about. I probably know more about this company than either of you do. Maybe more than both of you combined.”
Jenkins turns around and faces Cunningham. He is mad as hell because he hasn’t been allowed to follow the script. He wants his time in the spotlight and he isn’t going to get it today.
“You shut your mouth, you little piss-ant,” Jenkins scowls at him. “Willy and I eat shit-maggots like you for breakfast every morning, so you just watch your fucking mouth.”
“Fuck you.”
This is so unexpected that Jenkins almost faints. Instead he stands straights up and bellows at Cunningham, “Fuck me? FUCK ME? I’ll rip you apart with my goddamn hands you little piss-monkey!”
“Bobby …” I say low and with warning. “We don’t want to stoop to Mr. Cunningham’s level now, do we?”
He takes a deep breath and straightens first his tie, then his shirt and finally his jacket. “No, of course we don’t. My apologies.”
“Apology not accepted.” Jenkins eyes almost pop out of his head this time.
“I … wasn’t … speaking … to you.”
“I don’t really give a shit anymore. I don’t know who you guys think you are, or what kind of power trip you’re on, but I really haven’t had a great morning and I don’t have time for this crap.” He stands up from the chair, which isn’t part of the script. “All of your documents are right here,” he continues, “including everything you’ll need for the Japan meeting in two days.” He picks up a file folder, removes the contents and throws them up in the air, creating an over-sized confetti atmosphere. He opens another folder and does the same as Jenkins literally starts to hop with anger.
“Mr. Cunningham,” I begin, trying to diffuse the situation. People on the floor are going to be able to see what’s going on. They will be talking this afternoon, that’s for sure. “Mr. Cunningham!” He stops throwing files into the air and looks at me.
“I’ve had enough. I quit. I’ll have my belongings out of here by noon.” He looks at us, from one to the other and then back again. I am stunned. Jenkins is still hopping on the spot. Cunningham walks across the room, pulls open the door and walks out of the office. I expect to hear a moment of silence, followed by thunderous applause, but it never comes. Real life simply isn’t like the movies. I look at Jenkins, bouncing in one spot, his face the colour of fresh beets.
“Get hold of yourself man. You’re going to have a fit.”
Julia
I happen to be standing at the bottom of the stairs to the upper levels when the guy who’s causing all the ruckus up there starts coming down the stairs. I haven’t actually met him yet, as I’ve only just started temping here, but I’ve seen him around the office. He’s always seemed like such a pushover, letting the other guys in the office make fun of him, play tricks. And the women just laugh at him, sometimes right in front of his face.
“Is that Cunningham?” I hear someone whisper behind me, which jogs my memory. Simon is his name. “It sure is,” someone else says. “Didn’t think he had it in him.”
No one really knows what went on up there—we couldn’t hear anything. The rumour was that Simon was about to get fired and many of the guys who like to tease him were preparing a welcome of their own. These are the kinds of men who like to lure puppies over with treats and then kick them, I’m sure. But when we saw the paper start to fly … when we saw Simon throwing the paper around the office, we knew something hadn’t gone according to plan.
Today’s word count: 1723
Cumulative word count: 13,776
posted by Paul Keetch at 7:55 AM
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