01.21.2002
My boss George was a little dwarf of a man with the typical little dog syndrome. While he couldn't have been any taller than five-three or five-four, he made up for his lack of height in width. He was easily two hundred pounds if he was one and he threw his weight around like a pig on a pogo stick, bouncing back and forth with his squeaky voice growing louder as he grew more agitated. It was scary at first for anyone who hadn't witnessed such a sideshow spectacle before but, after a while, for the people who worked for him anyway, it quickly became something of an office joke.
The fact that he was a manager was one of those flukes that occur only with in the confines of corporate America; a bylaw that says that if someone were to stick around long enough, even if they weren't that good at their job, they would eventually get promoted up the corporate ladder. This did not mean that he got all the benefits that were usually associated with such a position though. He did not have teams of people working under him on important tasks or even a corner office. He had three people down in the basement and who knew what his position in life was and that his cubicle was in the same place it was when he began working for the company some seven years before with no window and the same flickering florescent light overhead.
I knew what my position was because I was one of the people in the basement office we called The Bunker. An employee who worked for George, and there were only three of us, was even lower on the totem pole than a summer intern. We all used to have real jobs but, when George was promoted and needed people under him, we were transferred to our new station and quickly became the bastard children of our company and probably the first people to be laid off when hard times hit. We were the Special Projects department but the Special Project we were usually assigned was that of water cooler banter for lack of any other real work. It probably wouldn't have been such a bad job if only George had realized what the rest of us did.
One day, as it was on all the other days, we were all swiveled in our chairs talking to one another about an act of street crime our co-worker Sarah had witnessed when George came bursting through the door with all the drama of a cartoon character.
"We're screwed," he screamed at us.
Sarah stopped mid-sentence and we all turned to look at our boss, panting in the doorway, his shirt untucked, and his big Virginia ham of a belly, heaving with every breath.
"What's up George," Paul asked, leaning back with his hands behind his head. We all had our feet up on our desks, as was our usual posture at work. Sarah had a Modest Mouse disc playing in the drive of her computer and the singer was lisping about some abstract thing or another while the beat was in time with our bosses own gasping.
"Didn't you hear me," George screeched. "We're screwed. We're absolutely screwed."
The little man that was our boss walked in measured steps towards us, steadying himself on the desks he passed, then dropped his load in the nearest chair with an audible grunt. We watched, silent except for the music, as he retucked his shirt and straightened his tie, first wiping the ugly blue and red striped thing across his forehead to absorb the moisture that had formed from his effort to work us up.
"Why are we screwed George," Sarah asked.
"They're looking for ways to cut back on costs, and you know where they want to cut first don't you," he panted. "They want to get rid of us. Gut us, that's what they want to do."
It wasn't the first time they had made the threat but, by the look on our boss' face, it looked like they might actually be serious. In our company though, there was no way of telling what the upper management might do until they did it. We were a big lumbering beast of a business that always thought about going left, leaving everyone thinking that was the way we were going, until we suddenly turned right, much to the surprise of even the people who made the decision.
"When was the last time they said they were going to cut us," I asked no one in particular.
"A month ago, I think," Sarah said.
"No," Paul disagreed. "It's been at least a month and a half. Remember? That was when George thought they were going to outsource us," he reminded us.
"Oh yeah," Sarah smiled. "I remember." She then stood up and stretched her long, thin limbs.
"Cigarette," I asked.
"Yeah," she replied. "Can I bum one?"
"Guys," George cried. "We're going to lose our jobs! We're going to be in the unemployment lines!"
Paul stood up and fetched his coat from the back of his chair, donning it and searching for his own smokes. "You've been sitting in on meetings you weren't invited to again, haven't you George," he asked.
"I know what you guys think of me," George mumbled. "Don't think I don't know, but if I don't go to defend what we do, you guys would be out of a job. At least I've got some seniority. I'm doing this for you."
"We don't do anything though," Sarah said. "Once a week we turn out our G.R.D. report, which takes ten minutes to do, and then spend the rest of our time outside smoking or inside talking. What's there to defend?"
The three of us walked out on our boss and into the snow outside on the sidewalk in front of our Midtown office. George followed us without a coat and stood shivering with us under the overhang while we lit up.
"Look guys," he pleaded. "I need you three to brainstorm on some ideas that we could implement to justify our personnel. Could you do that for me please?"
"That's what we do everyday George," Paul said. "It's just that we do our best thinking with a cigarette in our hands."
"Yeah," Sarah laughed. "Why don't you really help us and get them to allow us to smoke in the bunker?"
George held his hairy arms, each as thick as the trunk of a tree, across his chest from the cold while the three of us were bundled up with coats, scarves, and hats. I felt bad for my ape like employer, but then, we didn't invite him out with us.
"C'mon guys," he pleaded. "Work with me here."
The three of us watched him shiver, the snow collecting on his shoulders and in his hair, while holding our cigarettes in our gloved hands and uttered a collective sigh. He wasn't a bad guy, he just didn't have a clue.