Thanksgiving-style turkey-and-fixings brightened with globs of red jellied cranberry sauce. After the initial feelings of obligation wore off, Sharon grew to enjoy and then even anticipate these dinners, appreciating Alan’s insights into their organization and the people that worked there. He was brilliant, really, and never stumped or scared by the stupid machinations of upper management, always knowing the way to wiggle out of trouble and doing it with style and panache. He became her go-to, her tower of strength in the carnage of corporate America.
That tower of strength now sat in her office’s guest chair, still slowing shaking his head, the ragged sound of his breathing having abated.
“Alan? You’re scaring me here,” she said, surprised to hear a wobble in her voice.
He sighed and sat back in the chair, his face having returned to its usual coloring. He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head again. “This place really blows me away. It really does.”
“What? Please tell me what’s going on.”
He finally looked at her. “Well, I’m gone. Larry just told me, caught me before the meeting. They're going to do it tomorrow; along with all the others they're giving the heave-ho. The old Friday cardboard-box exodus," he said, and narrowed his eyes. "I should have known it. Seen it coming. Another reorg. Lots of young tireless talent banging down the door. And I’m a dinosaur. A good dinosaur, a deeply talented one who isn’t the slightest bit humble about it, but a dinosaur nevertheless. An old man with a fat salary they could cut in half. And they just did. So, it looks like I’ll be taking up golf after all.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to smile.
Sharon felt as if the floor had just dissolved underneath her chair, a pin-wheeling helplessness. Alan, gone? “What! No! Are they kidding?”
“No, they’re not. I’m being retired. But that’s not the worst of it. Not for you. Old pencil-neck is stepping up and into these colossal shoes,” he said, and then let out a little puffing sound of mirthful disbelief, smiling at the irony.
“Bob Crandall?" she said.
He nodded.
"Bob! No. Way. He'd be a horrible team leader. He can't even play nice with the team when he's just a member of it. And of all people." Sharon realized she had picked up her pencil and was gripping it in her sweaty hands so hard it would snap in a minute. She put it down and folded her hands on top of it.
Alan leaned back, put his hands behind his head while stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle. It was as if he was doing some poor imitation of a relaxed person. "I know. I could've gotten rid of him, should've. I don't know why I didn't, especially after all of you complained. I'm getting soft in my old age. Felt sorry for the guy. Another reason to send me off to graze the pasture. Or play golf on it wearing ridiculous plaid pants."
"I just can't believe it. Who would promote Bob? He’s got the personality of a…paper clip. A smug paper clip. A paper clip with delusions of grandeur. And he's only been here a year!"
"Hey, keep it down. That door's not soundproof."
Sharon glanced at the closed door and leaned on her elbows before putting her moist hands over her face, her fingertips massaging her eyebrows where a headache was starting, a pinched pain of exhaustion and shock. She spoke through her fingers, "I know. You're right. I just can't believe it. And he's not just a paper clip, he's a last-name-caller."
"Hey, Wozniak," Alan called.
She laughed in spite of herself. "Stop! Agh! I swear I might smack him the next time he calls me that." She whipped her hands away from her face and shook them out in the air on either side of her head.
"Ah, well. You better get used to it. There aren't any other big market research firms around here, nothing like this place. You'd have to go into the city."
"Can you imagine the commute? It would be three hours each way, what with traffic and then the train. And
That tower of strength now sat in her office’s guest chair, still slowing shaking his head, the ragged sound of his breathing having abated.
“Alan? You’re scaring me here,” she said, surprised to hear a wobble in her voice.
He sighed and sat back in the chair, his face having returned to its usual coloring. He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head again. “This place really blows me away. It really does.”
“What? Please tell me what’s going on.”
He finally looked at her. “Well, I’m gone. Larry just told me, caught me before the meeting. They're going to do it tomorrow; along with all the others they're giving the heave-ho. The old Friday cardboard-box exodus," he said, and narrowed his eyes. "I should have known it. Seen it coming. Another reorg. Lots of young tireless talent banging down the door. And I’m a dinosaur. A good dinosaur, a deeply talented one who isn’t the slightest bit humble about it, but a dinosaur nevertheless. An old man with a fat salary they could cut in half. And they just did. So, it looks like I’ll be taking up golf after all.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to smile.
Sharon felt as if the floor had just dissolved underneath her chair, a pin-wheeling helplessness. Alan, gone? “What! No! Are they kidding?”
“No, they’re not. I’m being retired. But that’s not the worst of it. Not for you. Old pencil-neck is stepping up and into these colossal shoes,” he said, and then let out a little puffing sound of mirthful disbelief, smiling at the irony.
“Bob Crandall?" she said.
He nodded.
"Bob! No. Way. He'd be a horrible team leader. He can't even play nice with the team when he's just a member of it. And of all people." Sharon realized she had picked up her pencil and was gripping it in her sweaty hands so hard it would snap in a minute. She put it down and folded her hands on top of it.
Alan leaned back, put his hands behind his head while stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle. It was as if he was doing some poor imitation of a relaxed person. "I know. I could've gotten rid of him, should've. I don't know why I didn't, especially after all of you complained. I'm getting soft in my old age. Felt sorry for the guy. Another reason to send me off to graze the pasture. Or play golf on it wearing ridiculous plaid pants."
"I just can't believe it. Who would promote Bob? He’s got the personality of a…paper clip. A smug paper clip. A paper clip with delusions of grandeur. And he's only been here a year!"
"Hey, keep it down. That door's not soundproof."
Sharon glanced at the closed door and leaned on her elbows before putting her moist hands over her face, her fingertips massaging her eyebrows where a headache was starting, a pinched pain of exhaustion and shock. She spoke through her fingers, "I know. You're right. I just can't believe it. And he's not just a paper clip, he's a last-name-caller."
"Hey, Wozniak," Alan called.
She laughed in spite of herself. "Stop! Agh! I swear I might smack him the next time he calls me that." She whipped her hands away from her face and shook them out in the air on either side of her head.
"Ah, well. You better get used to it. There aren't any other big market research firms around here, nothing like this place. You'd have to go into the city."
"Can you imagine the commute? It would be three hours each way, what with traffic and then the train. And
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