The Bob Watson Page 15

  Beam me up, Ernie!

  We’re standing in a shielded area created by a dense cluster of bushes on one side and a wall on the other, and I marvel at how the boys ever found this spot, how they ever decided to go on an adventure through the pipes of Robards International. I suppose that’s what cons do—look for ways out—and I realize we have more in common than I’d realized. Ernie looks at me, matches my smile, and carefully lowers his prongs back into the drainage pipe. Gently, he picks up the cement lid, and lowers it over the hole. He straightens and looks at me, puts an index finger to his pursed lips, raises a brow. He makes the me-first signal. I nod and ask, “Where exactly are we?”

  Ernie creeps closer to the edge of the bushes, listens intently.

  “Ernie,” I whisper. “How do you—”

  But he’s gone.

  * * *

  Paralyzed in the bushes, I stand and watch as Ernie passes by twice in five minutes, each time releasing a tight, high-pitched whistle to tell me the coast is clear.

  But what if someone sees me from a window?

  What if someone’s about to come around the corner?

  How could I ever explain my walking out of a bush?

  On Ernie’s third pass, I realize this is insane, and I step out in midstride, as if the bushes aren’t there, a hand slipped into a pocket, a determined look on my face, as if I’m consumed by the finer nuances of bottom-tier data transformation. In two strides, I’m off the grass and on the pathway that curls around the Invitation to Cooperate building—a.k.a. Cell Block A. Ernie lets me catch up, his toothy grin more crooked than ever, and offers me a fist bump. The look on his face seems to say, Pretty cool, eh?

  “Yeah, not bad, Ernie.” I bump his fist. “Adds an entirely new dimension to pulling a Bob Watson.”

  We enter Cell Block A. I have a guy in mind, a buddy who used to work with me during our early days in “cross-transfer subordination and documentation,” when we were fresh twenty-somethings. Now David Sagan works in HR as a sort of parole officer to one segment of the Robards conployee base—the “rehabilitated deviants” population, which the company has found to demonstrate higher degrees of innovation, ingenuity, and old-fashioned pluck. David’s job is to manage the “caseload,” ensuring that the rehabbed deviants don’t, well, deviate in ways that would expose the company to costly legal action. Of course, he has no training in criminal rehabilitation, but the company offered a 2 percent raise (the first in six years), and his size—six-foot-three, 230 pounds, with broad shoulders and long, lazy legs—afforded him some command presence with the “caseload.” I’m thinking David might be able to give me some background on this Flanduzi guy and, most important, tell me where he sits.

  David keeps a small shatter-proof glass office in the center of Level 3 of Cell Block A, where hundreds of conployees sit in a call-center arrangement. Sales calls? Service and support? Career-transition support? Technical assistance? God knows, but I admit the place is buzzing with an energy that’s nearly palpable. A steady, edgy din permeates the floor as Ernie and I cross the call center, several conployees pointing at me, whispering, “The Warden.” Having worked on the other side of campus, I had no idea so many employees confuse me for Dick Rayborne, and I wonder if my only option—assuming Ana doesn’t give me the house-sitting gig and I can’t quit Robards—is to shave my head or grow a beard. How would “lumberjack chic” look on me? Could I pull that off?

  We approach David’s office, and I have to touch the wall to stabilize myself—probably should have declined that second mini in the Playroom. I notice David is on the phone. I ease a little closer to let him know I’m here, but he’s focused on his phone friend. “Me?” he says into the headset, his voice deep and gentle. “Me, I’m a pretty large man, so naturally my genitalia are proportionate to the rest of my body.”

  One of David Sagan’s favorite things to say.

  I try to ease into his line of sight, but he swivels his back to me.

  “David?”

  He tries to wave me away. “Well, if you’re asking me,” he says, “I insist on thoroughly cleaning my lover with a warm washcloth.”

  Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I jerk around. It’s a perfectly normal-looking man with carefully disheveled, light brown hair, an easy smile, and intelligent green eyes. “Mr. Rayborne,” he says, his voice clear, confident, and calm, “I just want you to know how much I appreciate the opportunity you’ve given people like me.” He nods to the expanse of conployees outside David’s office. “People who wouldn’t have had a second, third, or fourth chance.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not—”

  “And I want to let you know . . .” He nods to David, who’s now hunched over and whispering into his headset. “. . . I’m working with Mr. Sagan on the anger issues. I’m working on the fixation. I mean, sure, yeah, okay, I know I’m back to following Beth—she’s my crush from junior high, so it’s hard to shut that down. But anyway, I think that’s just because I feel that if she finally got to know the real me—the real Wayne Hardy, not the so-called monster who’s been bothering her for twenty-eight years, or the dude who killed her gerbils and lived in her attic for eighteen days—she’d see me the way you and the Robards International leadership see me: as a man who’s turning a new leaf, a man who has a lot to offer.” He pauses, bites his lip in pride. “A man who’s going places.”

  David says into his headset, “It’s been a long time since a beautiful woman has urinated on me.”

  Wayne takes a breath, opens his mouth, and—I place a hand on his forearm. “Wayne, I really appreciate you sharing this with me.”

  David says into the phone, “Of course I’m aroused.”

  Wayne says, “If you could let Mr. Sagan know that we spoke, and that you suggest the conduct reports be dismissed, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  David crinkles his brows. “I do like goats, but not that way, sweetie.”

  I look Wayne in the eye. “I try not to interfere with the individual cases.”

  Wayne stiffens and reddens. A vein bulges from his neck.

  “But maybe I can mention this with David,” I say.

  Wayne eases, breaks into a smile. “Thanks, Mr. Rayborne.”

  David’s gentle, nonjudgmental voice: “Of course I’m naked.”

  Wayne says, “May I shake your hand, Mr. Rayborne?”

  David giggles into the phone. “How does that work? Would I lay on a tarp?”

  I turn and shake Wayne’s hand—it’s cold and wet. “You’ll see, Mr. Rayborne. I’m not the guy in Mr. Sagan’s files. Not anymore.” He closes his eyes, beams. “I haven’t made a pipe bomb in weeks.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I need to speak with David.”

  David smiles to himself and nods.

  Wayne reddens, puffs his chest out. His eyes go hollow, and his jaw tightens. “I’ll take care of this, Mr. Rayborne.”

  David soothes, “So, you refrigerate the semen?”

  Wayne steps into David’s office and slaps the glass wall so hard that I jolt backward. The walls rattle, and David jerks around. Wayne leans forward and begins to pant, his nostrils flaring. “Mr. Sagan,” he yells, his voice going acidic. “Hang the fuck up.” He nods to me. “Mr. Rayborne is here.” He steps forward and practically leans over David. “And you’re . . .” Wayne takes a deep breath and shouts it out. “. . . making him wait.” His chest heaves, and he bites his lip as he stares down at David Sagan.

  David turns and sees me, stiffens a sec, his eyes going wide, then exhales—Oh, it’s just you. He returns his attention to Wayne and cocks an eyebrow. His voice is soothing. “You’ve been doing so much better the past few weeks, Wayne.” He offers him his concerned look—a rising eyebrow and a puckered mouth. “This is unfortunate.”

  Wayne straightens and balls his fists.

  “Mr. Sagan and I can take it from here,” I say. “Thanks, Wayne.”

  Wayne leans over David, who’s still seated.

  “Wayne,” David sa
ys. “Remember what we’ve discussed?”

  Wayne loosens and blinks.

  “Deep breaths, Wayne.”

  Wayne shakes his face, blinks.

  “Remember your opportunities for improvement.” David’s voice is so sweet and gentle. “You know, anger management? Impulse control? Overcoming obsessive-compulsive tendencies? Appropriate workplace tonalities?”

  Wayne steps back, turns, and saunters out of the office, humming to himself like he’s suddenly window shopping. Ernie sidesteps to avoid him.

  David says into the headset, “I think I need to call you back, sweetie.” He frowns. “Honey?” He pulls off his headset and swivels to face me and Ernie. “Mr. Rayborne,” he announces, winking, glancing at Ernie. “Something about you looks different.”

  “Tell me something,” I say. “Do I really look like Dick Rayborne?”

  David allows an uneasy grin. I guess that means, Yes, you do look like him.

  “What is it? I mean, I have more hair. I’m taller.”

  “Yeah, but you have the same hairline.” David looks at me, thinking. “And general head shape.”

  I feel my body deflate. I don’t want to look like Dick Rayborne.

  “Here’s the thing,” David says. “I think it’s a matter of workplace context. People are at work when they see you, and they are viewing everything through that workplace lens. Then they see you, and their mind automatically associates you with another Robards person—Dick Rayborne. It’s like how an optical illusion works—their brains are trained too see Dick.”

  His logic makes sense, and it gives me a little comfort.

  “Listen,” I say. “I need to speak with you about something.”

  “Ernie?” David says. “May I ask that you give us a few moments of privacy?”

  Ernie gets up and meanders out of David Sagan’s fishbowl and shuts the glass door. David says, “Thanks, sweetie,” and Ernie nods and stares at us through the glass. That jowly smile.

  “You think we’re horny?” David looks at Ernie, then at the expanse of seafoam green outside his fishbowl. “Just imagine how horny they were in jail.”

  “I don’t want to think about it. David, listen. Dude. I—”

  “You don’t want to think about it because you know what would happen if you and I were in jail together.” He tilts his head, enjoys the idea. “I mean, if we were cellmates.”

  “Dude, I really—”

  “I would have no choice but to overpower you.”

  I nod to the Robards People Finder tool showcasing his phone friend. “David, I need you to look someone up.”

  “I’d be forced to mount you.” He looks at me, makes his voice soft and gentle—but deep. “To get up inside you.”

  “David, fine, keep going on the jail scenario. I don’t care. But I need you to look up an employee for me. His name is Bobby Flanduzi. With a z.”

  He swivels the screen back to him, types in the name.

  “Maybe he goes by Robert.”

  David stares at the screen, furrow his brows. Sighs. “Because I am a good five inches taller than you, and a good forty pounds heavier.”

  “Flanduzi. Does that name ring a bell?”

  David stares at the screen, shakes his head no.

  “As far as you can tell, he doesn’t have anything to do with the conployee program?”

  David’s reading. “It says he’s in Finance. Conployees are forbidden from working in Finance. No exceptions.” He looks at me. “What’s this about?”

  “Just don’t tell anyone I was here, okay?”

  David looks at the screen again, returns to me. “You’re not here. Not even now.” We look at Ernie, who’s gazing at us, his eyes eager. “Dick Rayborne is here.” We turn back and look at each other. “Isn’t he?”

  “Okay, fine.” I nod to his screen. “What do you have?”

  He rotates the screen to me, and I twitch at what I see. The salt-and-pepper hair. The bushy mustache. The prominent ears and narrow-set eyes. It’s all so familiar, and I stare at his face, thinking.

  Where have I—

  And then, it hits me. I know exactly where this guy is.

  David is looking at me. “And I wouldn’t share you with anyone.”

  * * *

  “What are the chances?”

  Ernie does a few quick steps to keep up. Shrugs his shoulders at my question.

  “I mean, there are probably eighteen or nineteen hundred people on this campus.”

  Ernie offers another so-what shrug.

  We walk past the hidden escape hatch, and I sling the bag of cash over my shoulder. As we approach my building, I nod hello to the security guy stationed near the lobby entrance, and I notice four surveillance cameras pointed at us. The brochures say conployees are allowed into the normal buildings, but the reality is that they’re about as welcome as vomit in a swimming pool.

  “Okay, I know exactly where Flanduzi is.”

  Ernie nods.

  We walk past the guard.

  “So we’re going to march in there and hand him these forty-five Gs and head back to the escape hatch. Make sense?”

  He snorts, nods happily at my mention of the escape hatch.

  We take the stairs. “But I may need you to lie low. You know, stay back a little.”

  Worry spreads across his face.

  “I’m just saying, we want to do this without getting caught. Right?” We turn another corner, and I feel the eyes on us. “Okay, Ernie. Let’s pick up the pace a little.”

  This is a crucial Bob Watson tenet. When returning from your Bob Watson, you must walk like you own the place—your pace accelerated, your eyes steely, your body language unapologetic. Preferably, you have props in your hands—a pen and notepad, maybe, or a folder. And you must reenter the conference room in midstream—again, quick and unapologetic, as if you just darted out for a few minutes and came back as quickly as possible, as if you don’t want to miss a thing.

  “Okay, Ernie.” We in on my cube, picking up the pace, like I’m trying to reach a ringing phone. “Let’s do this.” We reach my cube, I drop the Nike bag beside my chair. I pull out my chair, motion for Ernie to take my seat. I lean over my keyboard, pull up a blank Word doc. “Act like you’re working on something, okay?”

  He giggles, nods, and begins to type nonsense into the doc.

  “Stay here,” I say.

  Time to pull off one of the more difficult moves in my Bob Watson tool kit—the delayed reentry.

  * * *

  Walking to the conference room, I begin to second-guess myself.

  Is Bobby Flanduzi—this guy I’ve never met—really inside this room? Is he really attending the very same meeting I had ditched this morning? Seeing his photo in David Sagan’s office had triggered something in my mind—a nearly dreamlike memory of Flanduzi sitting there in the conference room, his shoulders sagging, his face so lifeless it seemed to be ready to drip into his lap, his whole body slouching, as Janice from Finance opened up the J-23 Incubation meeting with the precision of an anal-retentive dance instructor.

  Yes, I had pornolized this guy in the workplace orgy.

  And I allow myself to recall a fleeting thought from this morning, an epiphany that I’d wanted to shoo away as quickly as it came, that it wasn’t just me. That indeed, we were all miserable.

  Time to roll.

  I straighten my shoulders and puff out my chest a little, affecting that confident, assured body language that is so important for a delayed reentry. Instinctively, I reach into my pocket for my mobile phone—having it pressed to your ear is a great way to insinuate that you’d stepped out to make a call. But then I realize Mama has my phone, that she’s ready to call Audrey and my sister if this doesn’t work. Fine, I can pull off a reentry without props. The fact is, people don’t really pay much attention when you reenter a meeting—they assume you’d stepped out a few minutes ago, assuming they even notice you (they usually don’t). What they do notice is newcomers.

 
I approach the door, peek through the portal for a quick second. Janice from Finance is clicking through an eye chart for the ages, the conference room screen littered with tables of numbers so small I can’t imagine anyone being able to read them. She’s using a laser pointer to circle one column of numbers and acronyms on the screen—her audience barely awake, it seems—and I’m reminded of Mama’s order to bring back one of those red laser pointers.

  I open the door and am hit with a hot, thick waft of stale air, trailed by a faint ripe odor.

  “. . . which is why the Hathaway guys need to achieve a truly deeper thrust with the L-Docs in the tier six regions.” As I return to my seat—my notepad and pen right where I left them four hours ago—Janice never looks up. Neither do the others. Compared with this morning, they look utterly defeated now, so tired—their skin less buoyant, their eyes nearly hollow, five-o’clock shadows emerging, makeup hardening. “Because these metrics here?” The laser circles a set of blurry numbers on the screen. “It’s an opportunity to develop a truly rich hyperarticulation of the subcategories that need rationalization.”

  My heart is racing as I scan the roomful of lifeless faces, searching for Flanduzi.

  “If the J-23s are ever going to meet the new BMI segmentation requirements . . .”

  And then silence. I glance up, and Janice is looking at me, zeroing in.

  Shit.

  I meet her gaze, lean forward, and pound my fist on the table. And I complete her thought. “. . . we’ll need to cross-pattern the L-Doc substantiations against the legacy process flows.”

  Janice stares at me—chest rising, nostrils flaring—and my heart sinks.

  “Exactly,” she pants, nearly breathless. “Exactly. That’s exactly what I told the Cando guys.” She looks down, straightens her pantsuit, and pivots toward the screen, the laser pointer in her grip. “I’m glad you’re with us today, Rick.”