“I don’t think you’ve had a very hard life,” my boss said.
She calmly leaned back, her desk chair creaking, and the hint of a smirk crept up her face. She needed a cigarette, and her office always seemed vaguely yellow, tinted with smoke-filled haze of a bygone era.
I swallowed, not sure how to respond. How the fuck did she know? Either I was insulted or terrified. Had she uncovered how lazy I was?
“OK,” I managed, grumbling only somewhat. Five years in corporate life and I still was unable to mask premature disgust, elation, or sloth. Who the hell was she? I had performed OK, hadn’t I? I’d negotiated some deals, made some nice presentations. Besides, the conglomerate was doing fine, small thanks to me, the cog. Please, let me go back to my desk and click randomly till I die.
Hard life? I muttered, traipsing into the hall. I fiddled with my collar, certain my t-shirt’s neck stretched too far, looking sloppy. I realized I hadn’t shaved.
I barely knocked at Alaina’s door, barging in. She worked, like always. Perky and polite, Alaina wanted to make a difference. I normally would have been pissed, but she cursed like a sailor and detested incompetence. She listened when I whined about my divorce, my inability to sell my house, and my wife’s affair. A picture of my cat, Franklin, adorned my desk and she didn’t think I was gay. So I liked her.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“I didn’t get a raise,” I smiled. “But I’m still here.” I couldn’t tell Alaina about Susan’s challenge of my persistence. She would be direct enough to tell me Susan was right.
I told her anyway. “How the hell, Alaina?” Then I whined. About the weather. My breakup in college. My breakup now. Not being famous. Not being rich. Not qualifying for any state playoffs in high school. Finishing second at my grade school’s math bee. I bounced out of grad school when I realized I wasn’t even close to the smartest in the room. And we had to work next Friday, July 3. Ridiculous.
Alaina laughed and twenty minutes quickly passed. My watch said 4 p.m., the hands unwilling to reach five. If I had any lurking voicemails, I would punch my phone in its smug face.
Brad smugly snuck through the door, carefully smoothing store-bought wrinkles in a lime green shirt as he sat, ready to socialize. Alaina’s office was our unofficial Cheers of Goldfinch Insurance, despite her consistent workflow. My BlackBerry buzzed. I ignored it. It always buzzed.
“Why are you in a tie?” I frowned.
“Dressing for the job I want, not the job I have,” Brad quoted someone. “You’re the hundredth person to ask me.”
Alaina rolled her eyes.
“You’re trying to get noticed,” I continued, aghast.
Brad shut the door, slightly peering around the corner. Alaina’s office barely allowed any privacy. None of our offices did – the walls made of paper; the doors clear plate glass. Surely the officers spied on us all the fucking time.
“I had a job interview today,” Brad said. He was probably a rising star at Goldfinch Insurance. A recent college grad, he considered himself way too good for the Finch. He never masked it. I shuddered, remembering I once had runaway, impetuous confidence. People probably wanted to kick my ass, too.
“How’d it go?” Alaina asked. I fiddled with my collar.
“Fine, but I don’t know,” Brad sighed, ankle perched on knee, foot twitching hyperactively. “I’m just not sure what I want, you know? Maybe go to Chicago, or move to a coast. Something.”
“Tough choice,” I nodded, altogether certain Brad hadn’t had a hard life, even though he scratched through college by working graveyard shifts at a Styrofoam factory. I totally could never have done that.
“You guys doing drinks at the Royal Mile?” Brad said. “On the patio, probably?”
“I dunno,” Alaina said. “I’ve got a lot to get done.” She looked right at me. I didn’t want to go, but I would. My sea of depression would never be fully vanquished by Thursday nights out at the bars, but it was always worth a shot. My house was empty, except for Franklin, who hated that all the antique and contemporary furniture had moved away with the girl.
“Yeah, maybe,” I shrugged.
He sighed, suddenly perturbed. “Can you believe we’re working next Friday?”
Alaina shook her head, unable to share my consternation.
“Bullshit, right?” Brad said. “At The Star, they have it off. Steve and Frank at Quest-Ion have it off.”
“Julie has it off,” I said. My wife, the ruthless headhunter. Ex-wife. What a fucking hard life I’ve had.
A large office door slammed in the distance. Quickly, Alaina returned to work, Brad darted out the door, and me to my desk, where I fretted about July 3. Surely I’d miss some amazing party the night before.
Hopefully Michael, my only Des Moines friend who Julie hadn’t pilfered, wouldn’t care – he’d adjust his bender to sleep during my working hours. I’d become his excuse for drinking and schmoozing outside his marriage. Either his non-existent wife approved of me, or was sick of him..
Alaina and I continued whining on Instant Messenger: snide, grayed conversations forever receding above our current dings, an unnoticed spy probably perusing the text.
July 3 was bullshit, I said. She agreed. It was hot in here. I agreed. Another scorching Iowa summer and the building barely livable, we said, idle bitching of office drones hoping to prove we’re not part of the team. Yet here I was, using the words “going forward” all the fucking time, and reasonably popular. Instead, I worried. Someday, we’d probably trade this attitude in for stocks and bonds, just like Susan, just like Dr. James. Just like our parents. Just like our friends.
My phone barked. At four-thirty everyone tangentially connected to my office scrambled to CC an email or alleviate some concern, asking for a favor or answer or something vitally important only I could provide. What a prison – if I ever wanted to escape, I would have to leave at three.
I cradled my head, listening to a print vendor moaning about offsets and missing photos and the inability to meet an easy deadline. Sighing, I weakly issued a boilerplate deadline speech. I had to be mean, I had to bark, I had to practically shout at Cindy, who was used to having polite ineptitude forgiven.
Then tech support. Who couldn’t install what we needed or do what we asked. They never could, unless I ran to their boss, and bitched at him. Susan and Bob and Dr. James, on a lark, instructed me to make our whole Intranet just like Facebook, but I couldn’t, because our technicians were always on Facebook. I couldn’t even appreciate the fucking irony.
Regardless, nothing was done, nothing ever got done, everything always got pushed out, even after rattling every cage and shaking every tree. Everyone was lazy. Just like us. We all explained it away, and now Brad and I sat belly-up at The Royal Mile, waiting for my Michael, to swing by, get drunk off his ass, work his effervescent wingman charm and allow me to apologetically solicit women.
Just like always, we were here – fully unaccountable. Sipping beer, hoping to relieve exasperation of constant, manufactured follow-up, follow-through, and baby-sitting. It was the same, but it wasn’t, and we were always in trouble, but we never were.
“Fucking July 3,” Brad said. “You should revolt.”
“Me? Why? You could revolt.”
“We all should. You could lead the walkout.”
I waved at Michael, strolling into the bar, head buried in iPhone.
“A revolt.” I mumbled quietly as we shifted toward an empty high table.
Michael plopped on a stool, extending a full pitcher into the middle of the table. He muttered something about his wife, and immediately spoke into his phone.
“You’re always the one complaining,” Brad turned back to me. “You should do something about it.”
I smirked and wiped froth from my lips. “You complain just as much as I do. We’re not the only whiners in corporate America.”
“Leadership,” Brad said. “Besides, I had that interview today, I may not even be around next week.”
I pursed my lips. “It is bullshit. And I had another last-minute project plopped on my desk today.”
“My boss keeps sandbagging me,” Brad said, nodding.
“Plus Harley and Smith are gone,” I nodded, “They say they aren’t firing anyone. But what happened to them?”
“Yeah, I got in trouble for searching online for apartments in Chicago,” Brad said.
“I’m just sick of being an asshole,” I poured myself a pint. “Software doesn’t work. I gotta bitch at tech support. I have a deadline with numbers. I gotta yell at a designer. I gotta plead with someone in marketing. Our latest presentation is late. I gotta shout at an account executive.”
“The dirty secret, right?” Michael said, suddenly available. “No one ever really helps anyone. You’re sidetracked or just bored and everyone’s trying to avoid stuff, and even the smallest tasks take countless hours of indecision.”
“And I’m not a boss, so it’s this constant plotting and passive-aggressive planning so that Branden or Samantha or Sidney or Ryan completes even the smallest task within a reasonable time. It’s a huge mindfuck.”
“Our Interface was down for nearly a week,” Brad nodded. “I had to beg my boss to beg someone to take a look. They didn’t listen.”
My voice rose, bolstered by cheap alcohol. “But it’s not just at work. I bark at my realtor to make sure he tries to sell my house. I call my credit card company to make sure my payment posts. I constantly endure my ex. The sprinkler guy refuses to show up, and getting my tires rotated takes a decade. I have to literally rip on hundreds of people all damn day, and I don’t get a break from colleagues, vendors, or bosses. This whole stupid world of convenience and cells and blackberries and two computer screens and IMs just makes sure no one ever has to do anything. Let alone anything well.”
“Exactly,” Michael nodded, dramatically slamming his phone on the table. He quickly retrieved it, and fired off a text.
Brad countered, “So we should just walk out.”
“What would that prove?”
Brad shrugged, “Nothing, I guess.”
I sipped. “Might be funny. When I was 11, we had this substitute teacher for like six weeks while Ms. Jackson was pregnant. She was a bitch. One day we all agreed to slam our big fifth-grade readers on the floor when the bell rang. Banners, the book was called. That was cool.”
“That actually happened? That’s a story?” Michael sneered, the epitome of elite. He was an attorney, and had no such time for grammar-school glory.
“It did. We got our names on the board and me and a kid named Derek got detention.”
“That’s more of an insurrection than a revolt,” Michael corrected.
“What’s the difference?” I finished a glass and poured another.
“Really nothing. Except I think a revolt is more severe. And, like, accomplishes something,” Michael laughed.
“Come on. The Banners thing was awesome.” I whined.
“What are we going to do, drop a bunch of staplers at the same time?” Brad snickered. “Or 3-ring binders?”
I laughed. “Or knock over a file cabinet. Or we walk out. That’s a strike, right?”
Brad shrugged. “Might be interesting. They can’t fire us all.”
Michael looked around, uninterested. “Not much talent here. You guys ready to try Quinton’s?”
***
Around midnight, as usual, I trudged into my house, now starkly empty instead of contemporary minimal. Franklin did not approve.
The cat leaped onto the kitchen counter and stared. I yawned, rubbing his neck. I still had the couch, the coffee table, and my TV, but almost all the rest of the furniture was gone, with Julie and her nouveau wondrous lifestyle in suburban paradise, always escaping my untrained eye when I stole up there. Never was I spying.
Tires screeched and Michael emphatically stumbled into the back door, covertly extinguishing a cig, texting something, muttering something, raiding my fridge for another beer. For a married guy, he sure liked to stay out late, away from sanctity. He flipped on the TV, immediately finding ESPN, and plopped on the couch. Weary, ready for bed, furious at my boss, I plucked a lawn chair from the corner and opened it. Three collapsible chairs now masqueraded as living-room furniture, formerly tailgate items. I sat and cracked a beer.
“Like I don’t have it fucking hard,” I scoffed, my mind elsewhere. Michael looked at me quizzically, but didn’t ask me to elaborate.
***
The meowing woke me up. Somewhere in the darkness. Now pawing at my feet.
Once upon a time Franklin was a stray, a runt of an orange cat who roamed our backyard; keeping me company while I mowed and trimmed and spent way too much time mired in shrubs instead of salvaging my relationship. Now he was three years old, feisty, and never learned how to sleep past four in the morning. He perched on my shoulder, peering into my face, nuzzling my temple, purring so loud he practically snorted, urging me to wake up and play.
I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, craning upward against the headboard. When Julie took most of the furniture and nearly all the crockery, I insisted on Franklin. I thought it would injure her. Instead, he regarded her absence as some sort of a cruel joke. He pestered me nightly, badgering, missing the girl and screeching he told me so. To him, I’d run her away.
I blinked, unable to sense an impending Friday hangover.
Franklin looked right into my eyes. He meowed. He wanted out, into the wilderness of my overgrown backyard. My mouth dropped.
That was it.
Franklin was the insurrection.
I smiled at the cat. He clawed and twisted and rammed his nose into my knee, purring heavily.
Franklin would come to work. Payback for all those Entourage-worshiping douchebags who made fun of the cat photo on my desk. And Alaina could bring her two cats. Brad owned a frantic young beagle. Beth from accounting walked dogs. Plenty of weirdos in customer care owned cats. Plenty of meatheads mistreated dogs. Jeff in risk management bred basset hounds. And Phil, a member of in-house legal, owned an ostrich farm.
Suddenly I had a purpose. I texted Michael right away. He and his wife had two annoying Labradors that didn’t stop barking. Those things would cover the office complex in hair. The chaos would be ridiculous. And somehow fitting, because it made absolutely zero sense.
“Franklin, it’s perfect,” I muttered.
He meowed and I finally let him out. My head returned to a cool pillow, but I could no longer sleep.
***
My urgency frightened Alaina and Brad, each nibbling leftovers from Tupperware while I sipped my third mug of coffee. The lunchroom was almost always weirdly empty, even at noon. The soda machine whirred.
“You want to do what?” Alaina asked, choking down a leftover fajita.
Brad shook his head. Clearly he liked the simple walkout better. Besides, with pets, he said, they could trace the owner.
I shook my head. “Michael says it’s the greatest idea ever. No one will do anything.”
Alaina frowned.
“OK,” I nodded, “they might fire me. But seriously – it’s Pet Day. Pets running in the halls, early in the morning. We can find enough annoyed people with pets, and another dozen or so people who are too dumb to realize the joke. The chaos is hilarious!”
“An insurrection,” Brad mocked.
“Whatever. Anyway, the bosses will stroll out of their offices or meeting rooms or break rooms on Friday, and they’ll be weirded out – especially if Paul brings his ferret – but they can’t be mad. Can you imagine a mass email excoriating pet owners? Or the ensuing revolt if Dr. James kicked a poodle? Can you really imagine the backlash if they punished everyone with a pet? It would be easier to get away with drop-kicking babies. You don’t fuck with animal lovers.”
Alaina chewed and Brad sipped .
“They can’t get upset. Not at all. And if they do, they can’t act on it. You can’t give employees a chance to choose between work and their furry little wretches, because the wretch always wins.”
Alaina nodded slowly. No way would she bring Brady.
“Of course,” Brad sighed, glancing upwards, stifling an impulse to clap his hands. “Of course they can’t.”
“So unless they’re going to risk massive quitting AND a resulting black eye from PETA or the humane society or Cat Fancy or that page in the Shopper, they can’t do anything but pretend to laugh, roll their eyes, and silently seethe at the whole spectacle.”
“Not to mention all the shit on the floor,” Brad said. “I can probably get Jennie to bring a horse.”
“In a perfect world they’d celebrate the actual precision and effort.”
“Yeah,” Alaina scoffed. “That will happen.”
I shrugged. “Well, whatever. You want us to work on Friday the third? You deal with the zoo in your basement.”
Awestruck at my own confidence, I leaned back, my chair on two legs. I annually delivered thousands of persuasive PowerPoints, engaging conference calls, and sales meetings, but this was easily my most serious, complete, convincing presentation. Brad and Alaina nodded in rapt attention. Hard fucking life, indeed. Up until my silly but noble cause, maybe.
“Somebody’s gonna roll on ya,” Brad said. He had been watching The Wire. Alaina nodded, hoping for an excuse to keep the plan solely a plan.
“I thought of that, too,” I paused, chewing my coffee lid. “But I’ll gladly take the heat. No one would do it otherwise. If this works, I’m, well, I’m OK with the result.”
Maybe Brad or Alaina finally respected me. I hoped it was trust, or a contented approval. Maybe they were sad. Maybe they hoped I would reconsider. Maybe they admired me. Maybe I imagined whatever I wanted.
**
I spent the next few days constantly on the phone, dashing off emails, urgent attempts to clear off my desk. Maybe I’d still be welcome on July 7, but I doubted it. I never would have guessed the sight of Franklin leading a charging cadre of confused pets through the company’s basement would finally energize me.
But the whole thing was easy. People bought this plan. They loved it. Brian would bring his sheep dog. Christy would bring three mismatched calicos. Sultry Angela, whom I imagined was a dominatrix? Of course she owned a boa constrictor. Even the cubicle denizens who loved the prestige of cold-calling insurance prospects jumped at the chance to bring Rover or Muffin to work. We would actually go through with this ludicrous idea.
I’d barely hung up, ear blazing, when Brad called – jumpy, thrilled to be a lieutenant in this prank, his wanderlust temporarily forgotten. For a week, he’d been able to forget his solemn discovery that all real-world decisions and activity take so fucking long to occur, it’s no wonder people lose all motivation. Even him.
“Well, we don’t have as much animals. Maybe 15,” he reported glumly.
“But we’ve got the horse?” I grinned. The horse was the pet de resistance, Jennie was still in, and 15 was plenty. Other than that, Brad informed me six cats, his beagle, Michael’s labs, a golden retriever, Jason’s shaggy Lhasa Apso, Phil’s giant sheep dog, and someone’s iguana made the cut. Angela decided against bringing the boa. Probably wise, I thought, envisioning the snake surrounding her taut, naked body.
Susan knocked softly on my office window, and I quickly dismissed Brad’s call.
After the usual work discourse, my boss surprisingly apologized. “Nate, I’m sorry.
“I think my comment the other day bothered you. I meant it as a challenge, and it came out wrong. However, you’ve responded impressively. Productive. It’s been great. But nonetheless, I’m sorry for the hard-life comment. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
I glumly voiced my appreciation. Had I misunderstood?
She told me about a big meeting Friday, an important summit with the Goldfinch senior officers. She invited me to attend, and slightly masked her enthusiasm.
I frowned. They fucking already found out about the Pet Project? Who squealed?
My stomach swirled as I left. Alaina couldn’t keep from giggling, even though she wouldn’t bring her cats.
**
Goldfinch Insurance sat at the bottom of a winding West Des Moines parkway, a shiny, prim, gray building indistinguishable from other complexes on Goldfinch Drive.
I arrived early, because I had barely slept. Franklin’s incessant braying and paws clattering against his carrier kept me agitated as I pulled past my usual lot, around toward the loading dock. I was nervous. But this was the day. The air crisp, the tension tight, a disgruntled employee’s Hall of Fame prank.
I snuck up the back stairs. Realizing we weren’t at the vet, a bemused Franklin whimpered. In my office, he peeked through his cage, regarding me appreciatively from under the desk. So this is where the big guy was all day!
Brad texted, everything was going according to plan. Jennie would bring the horse trailer around nine. On my word, the pets would be set loose, from the dock, into the first-floor stairwells, horse in tow.
Alaina frowned, asking me about my newly-scheduled senior meeting.
“No idea,” I said somberly. My tongue probed my cheek. She looked even more nervous than me.
Susan warmly greeted me in front of the conference room, cigarette residue puncturing her speech.
***
An hour later, in Alaina’s office, I furiously ran my fingers through my hair. White as a sheet, I could barely put together a sentence.
According to the board, our offices throughout Des Moines and Iowa and Illinois needed a traveling sales committee, task force. Four roving employees, paid very well to teach the company’s brand.
At my acceptance, I’d be one of them.
Alaina pulled her two hands to her mouth.
“What a career move!” she cheered.
I bit my lip. I’d be free. A traveling employee, available only by smartphone, with expense account and demanding of respect and perks and all benefits of the doubt. A veritable ghost.
No longer would I have to hate my job, my life, my ex-wife, my jealousy of Michael, my lust for Angela, my realtor, and my credit cards and student debt and sputtering car.
But how could I not be excited? Alaina was excited! I should have been thrilled they believed in me, even if I only believed in the insurrection. I’d drive a company car!
Alaina admonished, “You have to call it off.”
The job was a chance to refute my whining, end my self-congratulatory misery, and avoid a stupid, indelible black mark on my career. Still, I’d be a sellout. Part of the machine.
Otherwise, I would go down in flames, an ignominious end to a promising insurance sales career. But I’d be real. A martyr, a legend to pet-lovers.
“What are you going to do?” Alaina asked.
I shook my head. I looked down at my BlackBerry, vibrating with text.
Brad, naturally. “We’re ready. Gimme a call.”
I quietly closed my office door, Franklin muttering under the desk. Outside my window, a hazy sun belied the oppressive Midwestern heat.
I smiled thinly. I could see a horse trailer jutting around the corner, dirty silver metal out of place in the impeccable black lot.
I ignored the phone’s ring. Then another text.
Downstairs, Brad and Jennie and Michael and Phil waited. Ready.
I unlocked Franklin’s cage. He eagerly jumped on my lap, instantly covering my black pants with nervous orange fur. He purred almost immediately, tail whisking back and forth. He nuzzled his face and whiskers into my knuckles, glad to be out of the cage.
**
For my snide cat and my decidedly non-corporate wife – July 28, 2009
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