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CONNECTION A Short Story about Today’s Workplace A Fiction Story By Joe Cappello [email protected]

©Joe Cappello--2009

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The Medi-Serv Corporation is located in a two story rectangular building on a street appropriately named “Medi-Serv Drive”. The driveway winds past a circular garden with shrubs and plants arranged in the shape of the Medi-Serv logo. There are rows of parking spaces on either side of the main entrance and visitors often lean back before entering to take in the dazzling exterior finish that looks like polished white Legos snapped together; the windows seem opaque, but the people inside actually enjoy an undetected view of assorted liaisons taking place in cars parked in remote corners of the lot on this wintry Monday morning. Melissa Frank walks through the lobby with its marble-tiled floor arranged in imposing black and white squares past a display of Medi-Serv products. There are walkers, hospital beds, nebulizers and blood analyzers, all designed to keep aging baby boomers alive long enough to clog an already choking health care system. Despite their promise of a longer life, she can’t help but think of mortality every time she passes. Melissa enters the elevator with a bag full of bagels and removes her gray wool hat shaking the few flakes gathered on its fibers from a brief snow shower before they have a chance to melt. She presses the “2” button and watches her reflection appear as the metal door closes. Her face is blurred and her long blond hair lies unkempt on her shoulders. Her green eyes are overpowered by eyebrows that seem permanently wrinkled. Her face is drawn and pale and her lips are an upside down “U,” like one of those unhappy smiley faces. I look like shit, she thinks as the door opens. But with rumors of layoffs spreading like an airborne disease, Melissa’s looks are the last thing on her mind. Melissa enters Medi-Serv’s Marketing department through a door marked “201.” The office is a large open square with desks/work stations in three successive

3 corners; a round table, used for department meetings, is located in the center. There is an office in the fourth corner which is walled off by cubicle partitions. This belongs to Art Swendon, the department head and Melissa’s boss for the five years since she graduated college. One side of the square features high partitions to separate it from the adjacent customer service office. Melissa places the bagels on a counter to the right of the door which also features a small sink and refrigerator. She notices her colleague, Phil Guerdon at his desk. “ Hey, Phil.” “Morning, Melissa.” She gets a platter from under the counter and begins arranging bagels on it. “What are you doing in so early?” Phil points a bony finger with manicured nail at his computer screen. “Putting the finishing touches on this trade journal ad. Wanted to have it ready if Art decides to go with it.” Melissa butters two bagels and brings one to Phil. She is always surprised how neat he is compared to other graphic artists she has known. His brown wavy hair always parted and never out of place; his moustache and goatee trimmed to razor sharp edges; his face leathery smooth for his 36 years with never a trace of stubble on it. Melissa often wonders if his beard even grows or if he somehow found a way to stop it. Melissa regards the screen. “Yeah, I like that…’Let Medi-Serv Help You Serve your Patients’…that’ll get attention.” Melissa goes to her desk in the corner directly opposite Phil’s and turns

4 on her computer. Phil sits there a moment tapping his mouse with his index finger. He turns his chair around. “Melissa, what do you hear?” “About what?” Melissa is focused on deleting an e-mail promising to extend penis size by 3 to 4 inches. “You know…the layoffs.” “Oh.” She turns to face him. “Art’s at a meeting this morning. I hear they’re supposed to decide then.” “Well, I guess we’d be safe from any cuts.” Melissa takes a bite form her bagel. “I guess. There’s just the three of us and Art. I don’t see where they can cut.” Melissa pauses as her last word hangs in the air like an ax about to fall. Phil felt a shiver at even the remotest prospect of losing his job. His oldest son is a freshman in his second semester at college and there are loans to pay. Then there’s his daughter who is a senior in high school… “What’s up troops?” Don Meyer enters and heads for the counter. “Ah, a bagel. You shouldn’t have.” Don is tall and slim and more youthful than his 50 years would suggest. He is the public relations writer for the company and given to speaking as many words as he writes. His thin hair is a grayish white like snow after it’s plowed and sits around a while. His dark eyes fill his sockets and are in constant motion, a habit acquired after years of looking from printed material to computer screen then back again. He wears thick framed black glasses and has a habit of

5 cradling the right lens with his index finger and thumb to reflect on something or to make a point. He is in the middle of such a gesture when he joins Melissa and Phil in the center of the room. “I see Art’s not in yet. That can either be taken as a good or bad sign, depending on your point of view.” “We were just talking about that,” Phil says. Don quickly sits at the conference table and looks around to ensure confidentiality. “Let’s not be naïve, heads are gonna’ roll here just like in every other department in this company. I say we—“ “You don’t know that,” says Melissa. Optimism, she thinks. Where the hell is that coming from? Don firmly grips his right lens. His voice is almost a hoarse whisper. “Yes, I do. Let’s say I’ve had conversations with a certain VP of Operations.” “Stan Cole? So what. Everybody talks to him,” says Phil. “Not the way I did.” Don leans in closer. “Look, you know how they’re always pushing us for suggestions. Well, I gave one to Stan yesterday.” He grabs his lens again and re-positions his glasses on his head. “I told him we could save a ton of money if the three of us ran the department…without Art.” “What?” Melissa pushes back from the table.

6 “I’m telling you, they’re gonna’ start cutting very soon and I don’t want to wind up a statistic on the unemployment line.” Phil has been listening quietly. “Did…did Stan go for the idea?” Don spreads his hands in front of him like he is holding a basketball. “You know he can’t say much, but he gave me a signal. He said the idea was very interesting. “ “You’re kidding me,” says Melissa. “You consider that an endorsement?” “C’mon. Melissa, grow up. I mean, what has Art really done for us? He sits there drinking his tea, he hardly ever comes out here. Hell, the three of us do our own work, meet our own deadlines. In good times, fine, we need a boss. But in these times, “he grabs his lens and shakes his glasses, “we can handle this ourselves.” Silence is now an invisible fog that settles over the three. Melissa takes a couple of deep breaths before speaking, something she does a lot lately when she wants to cleanse her mind and take stock of a situation. “I don’t know, it doesn’t seem right.” “What doesn’t seem right? Doing what we have to do to keep our jobs? Hell, this isn’t personal; it’s nothing against Art.” “So, you say Stan’s considering it,” says Phil. “Is there something else we need to do?” Don slowly smiles as he folds his hands. “Yeah, and here’s where you guys come in. We have to let Stan know...subtly now, we don’t want it to look like we’re

7 ganging up on Art…we have to let him know that we can handle the business of this department.” “How do we do that?” Melissa sits closer to the table. Don breaks his bagel in half. “The biggest thing Art does is the Marketing Plan. In the next day or so, you both...separately now, on your own...send an e-mail to Stan about the plan.” “But Art makes the plan, we—“ “I know that, Phil, “says Don. “But after my conversation, I’m sure Stan would be interested in what you have to say. So, Phil, in your email, give him some ideas about how we can streamline the advertising budget.” “I did mention to Art about cutting back in certain areas...” “Perfect. Tell Stan. “ He turns to Melissa. “Remember you mentioned about having a focus group at a doctor’s office? To gauge awareness of our products?” Melissa nods. “Good. Tell that to Stan.” “I don’t know,” Melissa says. “Won’t he want to know why I didn’t suggest it to Art?” “So, if he does, you can just say you forgot to copy him. In the meantime,” Don takes a big bite out of his bagel. “The seed would have been planted.” The three instinctively return to the comfort of the work zone. The only sounds are the tapping of keyboards and the occasional slide of a mouse across a pad. In the midst of pure work time seems to pass unnoticed, making it unnecessary to hurry it along by constant checks of clocks and watches. Each is fully absorbed in

8 the tasks that make up his/her work. They are only slightly interrupted by two customer service people who enter the area to get coffee and a bagel, discussing the merits of a certain skin cream to eliminate dryness in winter. Art enters about mid morning. He hangs up his coat and walks toward the conference table, smoothing his thin gray hair on the sides of his head with his hands. Art is 60 and, as he jokes with his employees, looks it. His face is ruddy and wrinkled, more so after just coming in from the cold air. His six foot frame is reduced by at least two inches due to his habit of hunching over. He grabs the lapels of his jacket and gives them a shake before buttoning the top button. “Good morning, all.” They all return the greeting and turn their chairs to look at him. “Look, I’m sure you all know about the meeting I was at this morning. I want to be upfront with you, tell you what’s going on to avoid any rumors.” “We appreciate that,” says Phil. “Contrary to what you hear, Medi-Serv is not going out of business. Business is down, which is not uncommon in these times. Because of that, we have to adjust and that means…unfortunately…layoffs.” “But, that can’t mean us, Art. We’re to the bone already—“ “I wish I could assure you of that, Melissa, but I can’t. I’m afraid all departments are under the microscope.” He sits down and takes on a more familiar tone. “Look, I’m working on this, guys. I don’t want to see any of you go. It’s Monday, alright? I’ll know more by Friday. Give me some more time and try…try not to panic.”

9 On Tuesday, Melissa takes her usual route to work, stopping for traffic, alternating listening to the radio and a self-help CD on how to organize one’s thoughts for a more fulfilling and productive life. She tries to follow the upbeat narrator’s voice, but can’t stop thinking about her job and if she’ll still have it by the end of the week. She takes a couple of deep breaths, the in and out movement calming her as she tunes in to the day. She feels connected to the things around her that are often taken for granted…bright sunshine, an endless blue sky, the trees playfully begging for attention as they wave their branch arms in response to a sudden gust. At first the feeling was strange, even frightening. But now she finds solace in suspending the endless clutter of thoughts in her head. “Don’t just set a goal,” the voice interrupts. “Set it, and then decide what you have to do to make it happen. Take action.” Take action, she repeats in her head. “This is a time for creativity in your life, for finding new solutions to problems that confront you. Be present, follow your heart.” Phil is proofreading an ad on Wednesday at the center table. He waits until Don gets up and disappears into the customer service office. “Melissa.” He half whispers. She turns her head. “Meet me at Alfredo’s for lunch. Just you and I.” Phil takes a bite out of a sausage calzone. He and Melissa have found a comfortable spot adjacent to the window at Alfredo’s. They both watch silently as office people of every size and shape pass in front. Scarves are wrapped around faces and gloves protect hands on this cold wintery afternoon. Phil puts down his food and shakes some crumbs that have stuck to his fingertips. “Did you send your e-mail to Cole yet?”

10 “No,” says Melissa as she picks at a toss salad coated in dark balsamic vinegar. “I wanted more time to think about it.” “It’s kinda’ now or never, Melissa. How about this…I’ll send mine when we get back. You shoot yours out the end of the day.” Phil picks up his calzone. “I was thinking about what I might say,” Melissa says spearing a slice of tomato. “Nothing to think about,” says Phil. “Tell him about your focus group idea, the way Don suggested.” “But what if I—“ “Don’t over think this, Missy. You’re young, you’re smart, you can go far in this industry, but you got to keep your job. Besides, this won’t work if we don’t do it together.” Phil takes a big bite of his calzone. “I got a lot at stake here. I gotta’ know I can count on you.” Melissa picks at her salad. “I’ll send it, Phil. I promise.” Friday morning feels like any other week ending work day. Medi-Serv employees get to dress down, trading dress pants and slacks, pressed shirts and blouses, for jeans and sweat shirts. Don, Phil and Melissa wear the basic Friday garb with colors and styles that suit their particular tastes. Phil wears jeans that seem tailored to him, fashionably snug around the waist and thighs; Melissa and Don wear light blue and red sweat shirts, respectively. Art enters and wastes no time in approaching the trio.

11 “I have a brief meeting with Cole and HR in five minutes. We’ll talk after that.” He shuffles his gloves from hand to hand and seems stuck in place. “And you two,” he says pointing at Don and Phil with one of the gloves, “need a lesson in the hazards of going over the boss’ head.” He blushes red as he turns to go. “The two of us,” Phil says as he moves closer to Melissa. “That means you didn’t send your e-mail to Cole.” Don turns around. “Is that true, Melissa? You didn’t send an e-mail?” “No, no. You both got it wrong, I did send an e-mail I just didn’t—“ “You screwed us.” Phil grinds out the second word. “You set us up.” “I did not, I—“ “I can’t believe it. “ Don fumbles with his lens, his hand trembling saliva gathering around his lips. “This would only work if we all did this together. So what did you do? Did you warn Cole? Did you tell him what we were planning?” Phil kicks his chair. “So you saved your own ass, huh, Missy? What did you promise Cole?” Don’s words are bursts of hot breath on her neck. “What did you promise him, huh? An hour at the motel, a quick blow job in his office?” “Don-“ “No, Phil. Think about it.” He walks around Melissa stalking her with his words. “She spills her guts about our little talk. Tells Stan she had nothing to do with it. Stan tips Art off, and you and I become prime candidates for getting thrown out

12 on our asses.” He stops in front of her. “And little Miss Perfect gets to keep her job. Did I get it right?” Melissa turns to face him, to give as good as she’s been getting. But when she does so, she seems to lose the desire to defend herself. The sight of Don’s angry face is a fire she now avoids escaping more deeply into herself as though avoiding a plague. She returns to her desk without saying a word. “Alright, guys. Get in here.” Art is standing at the entrance of his cubicle. The three move slowly into his office, Melissa and Phil taking the two chairs in front of his desk, Don leaning on the credenza behind them. “Contrary to what Don told Stan, the three of you won’t be running the department. Instead, I have to make the following changes—“ “It’s not fair,” says Phil. “She knew about the whole thing.” “That’s right,” adds Don. “She was in on it from the very beginning.” Phil stares at the ground, avoiding any eye contact with Melissa. She sits there arms folded eyes staring straight ahead. Don grips the sides of the credenza, breathing heavily. “I guess I should have expected it. Understandable, your jobs are on the line. Still,” he retrieves a paper with the company logo on it from his pocket,” I thought you had a better working relationship than that.” He unfolds the paper. “I have something to read to you.” “I still say it isn’t fair—“

13 “Phil, please. Just listen.” Art brings the paper closer to his eyes. “To, Art Swendon, From, Stan Cole, VP Operations. Subject, Personnel Changes. In light of the current economic conditions, I am directing you to place Melissa Frank, Phil Guerdon and Donald Meyer on contract status. As such, they can still maintain their current hours and pay, but they will have to assume the cost of health care. Also, the company will cease any 401K matching funds on their behalf at this time. Paid sick and vacation days will also be removed. “Please tell your people that this in no way reflects on their performance. It is simply a matter of necessity given our deteriorating market situation. Should times improve, then they will all be reinstated as full time employees without any loss of seniority and with full benefits as before.” Phil is on his feet shifting his weight form one foot to the other. Don is also standing up straight, his hands and arms at his side. “Thanks, boss,” Phil says almost inaudibly. “Appreciate it, Art,” Don says. “Better than losing—“ “Whoa, hold on, don’t thank me, it wasn’t my idea. It was Melissa’s. She emailed Stan and me a couple of days ago and suggested contract status instead of laying anyone off. Pretty creative way of handling it.” Art folds the paper and taps it on his desk. “Don’t you think?” Their respective desks provide refuge once again as the three lose themselves in their work. The usual sounds are interrupted by new ones, a cough, the popping of a soda can, a ringing phone followed by a responding voice. Time is the river sweeping them away on the common raft known as the workplace, far

14 away from the morning meeting and the unsettling events of the past week. Melissa is the first one to speak to her colleagues. “What say we do lunch today, the three of us…” Phil stops pecking at his keyboard. Don turns around slowly. “Melissa, uh…”he grabs is lens once again as he searches for the words. “Uh...I…we—“ “What he’s trying to say is, we’re—“ “Don’t need to, guys. There’s only one thing I want from you.” “Name it,” Don says. “I want to know.” She takes a deep breath and smiles in response to an unexplained feeling emanating from someplace deep inside her. “Chinese or Deli?”