Company - Max Barry [5]
Wendell hesitates, unsure exactly how the balance of power works between Infrastructure Management and departmental managers. “In the absence of a decision from Sydney, we'd default to Infrastructure Management's allocation, surely.”
“If you want to argue that, take it up with Sydney,” Roger says. “Until then, it's laissez-faire.”
“If it's laissez-faire,” Wendell says, his voice rising, “why do you always park in the same spot? You never take Sydney's or Elizabeth's space. Everybody parks in the same spot every day, except you always take mine.”
“That's just coincidence.” Roger allows this absurdity to hang in the air for a moment. “But I tell you what. I'll try not to park in quote your unquote space if you tell me why you took my donut.”
“I didn't take your damn donut! Don't change the subject.”
“Did you think it was some kind of revenge? Really, I'm just curious.”
“I have no idea what happened to your donut, Roger, and I'm not going to discuss it. Just stay out of my parking space. Or I will go to Sydney.” Wendell storms off to his desk, which is the next one along and shares a low wall with Roger's. When they're both seated, they stare at each other over the top of their docked notebook computers, their teamwork and productivity—if you believe the memos—steadily increasing.
Jones walks down the orange-and-black carpeted corridor and pushes through the glass doors to Training Sales. He stops and looks around his new corporate home: at the cubicles, the Berlin Partition, the framed motivational posters (IT'S NOT HOW LONG YOU WORK, IT'S HOW SMART), the coffee machine, the complete absence of natural light. He spots Freddy, who gestures to the other side of the Partition (the rich side, West Berlin). Jones follows directions. Three people are there, all on the phone and none paying him any attention. He peers at their nameplates until he finds ROGER JEFFERSON, then waits by his desk. Roger says to his phone, “But I can't get the forms to Order Processing until they're approved by Legal. Well, you tell that to Credit. Until they release the hold, Marketing won't sign off.” He frowns at Jones. “What do you want?”
Jones points to his ID tag. “Hi! I'm your new grad.”
Roger tells his phone, “Hold on a second.” He covers the mouthpiece. “Seven or eight?”
“Seven or eight wha—” Jones realizes. “The Catering department says Training Sales got eight donuts this morning.”
“Are you sure?”
Jones is sure. Catering had a formal snack delivery process, complete with charts. Next to TRAINING SALES DEPARTMENT was an 8 and a tick. They stood behind their chart. Jones felt awkward questioning them, because of the chart and because they were cleaning out the whole area in preparation for being outsourced, and Jones was holding them up to discuss donut numbers.
“Okay. Good work.” Roger uncovers his phone. “Now, look, we can go to Human Resources to resolve this if you want. Is that what you want?”
Jones realizes he's been dismissed. He walks back to East Berlin, where Freddy and a girl with alarmingly toned arms poking out of a summer dress have wheeled their office chairs into the aisle between their cubicles. “Here he is,” Freddy says. “Jones, this is Holly. She's Elizabeth's assistant.”
As she and Jones shake hands, Holly says, “Is it true, you went to Catering?”
“Catering called Sydney and complained you were badgering them,” Freddy explains. “Now she's mad.”
Jones lets go of Holly's hand. “What? I just did what I was told.”
“The Nuremberg defense,” Holly says. “That's what Roger's last assistant said.”
“Poor Jim,” Freddy says. “I was just starting to like him, too.”