Company - Max Barry [11]
Sydney's eyes flick around the room. “That's . . . no, of course we don't. If a rep books an order, and we take the revenue, then obviously he's earned . . . look, you don't understand the technicalities. My point is that this is a team. And what's important is what's good for the team. Everybody should understand that already. Can you please stop interrupting the meeting, Megan?”
Megan reddens. “Sorry.”
“Thank you.” Sydney looks down at her papers. “Rather than distribute Wendell's accounts to Elizabeth and Roger, I've decided to promote a sales assistant.” She corrects herself. “I mean, an assistant will look after his accounts. It's not an actual promotion. It's only until the hiring freeze is lifted.”
Freddy sucks in his breath. If this was his first or second year in Training Sales, he would scorn such an offer, which obviously involves doing Wendell's job at a third of the salary, without commissions, and acting as his own assistant. But this is Freddy's fifth year, and he's desperate for vertical movement.
“And that person will be Jones,” Sydney says. “Congratulate Jones, everyone, please.”
Freddy makes a choking sound. The team claps. Elizabeth says, “Ah, excuse me—nothing personal, Jones—but . . . Jones? Freddy knows those accounts, he's worked on them with Wendell for years.”
“Well, maybe if Freddy was a little more proactive, like Jones, I would have considered him,” Sydney says. “Frankly, Freddy can learn a lot from Jones, like how to come straight to me when he has an issue.” Her eyes jump from one person to the next, daring them to argue, and nobody mentions the meeting two months ago when Sydney threatened to demote the next person to disturb her with trivia. “Freddy, you'll help Jones find his feet with those accounts.”
Freddy says something like, “Okay.”
“Good. Teamwork. That's what it's all about. Teamwork.” She stands. “That's it.”
Roger coughs into his hand.
“Oh,” Sydney says. “Also, Roger gets Wendell's parking space.”
Catering lugs equipment out through the lobby. Ovens, crockery, employees—everything must go. Gretel, the company receptionist, sits behind her orange desk and sniffles. The Catering staff are touched. They feel better about being fired—and although it's called “outsourcing,” it's a sacking at heart; it's all various shades of dismissal—knowing they'll be missed, even if only by a receptionist. It is a terrible thing to be fired, like your parents saying you have to clean out your room and leave the family, and it's worse if the company happily continues on in your absence, not even noticing the difference. This is like passing your ex-family in the street and they're laughing and heading out to the movies. What you really want, following your sacking, is for the company to undergo a quick, public financial implosion directly traceable to your departure. But as a substitute, someone crying as you leave the building is pretty good.
“Come on, now,” one of the Catering men says. “We'll be back tomorrow, running deliveries. We just don't work in the building anymore.”
Gretel shakes her head, inconsolable. The Catering staff, or ex-staff, exchange sad, bemused smiles. They load their equipment onto the truck idling outside the lobby doors, and stand around, hands in pockets, as it drives off. There is a special truck for the equipment because it has been purchased by the company that won the bid to supply Zephyr; there is no special truck for the employees. They watch the truck until it vanishes into the traffic of Madison Street. Then they shake hands, hug each other, and head to their own cars. One of them ducks back into the lobby to say a final farewell to Gretel. “See you tomorrow, darling.”
“No, no,” she says. She knows she will never see them again.
The following Monday, Jones arrives early, parks his clunker in the depths of the Zephyr employee lot, and heads to the local Barnes and Noble to browse the business