Melange (excerpt)
Copyright © 2011 Peter Hassebroek - All rights reserved
By now all his colleagues in the IT department have settled at their desks.
Dustin Freeman enters through the revolving door of the weather-less office tower, brushes snow from his coat, and strolls to a bank of four elevators. There he waits with another man who deftly cradles a hot paper cup of tea while glancing at the recessed globes of glowing numbers. A rotund woman approaches. She struggles to balance two green shopping bags from the crooks of her elbows. A shiny teal-and-maroon DexiaTel badge, like the one in Dustin’s pocket, dangles from a thin chain around her neck. Coatless and at ease, this pair, whom he’s never seen before, regard Dustin as an intruder.
A sharp ting. Dustin pauses to let them on first but they change their minds. He shrugs, pleased to be alone again once the heavy doors slide closed. Dustin watches the tiny television screen above, ignoring the redness of the stock market numbers and focusing on the time: ten-thirteen. He’s late but he’s shown up later than this before. The doors open on the fifth-floor foyer where large panes of frosted glass bracket a massive mahogany door.
Dustin inserts his plastic badge in the slot to the right of the entrance, eyes fixed on the bead-sized bulb above. Red, red, red, he wills, as he pulls the card out. But no. The light displays a bright green, the door clicks. Dustin sighs with mock dejection as he pulls the handle.
A corridor of fading grey carpet inlaid with pastel-coloured geometric patterns circumnavigates the floor. The well-vacuumed laneway divides walled single-window offices from dozens of low-rise cubicles like a moat. Some of the office doors are open; most are not. Several have their blinds drawn. Limp Christmas decorations hang over a number of the cubicles, obscuring nameplates, workstation identifiers, and fading cartoon strips. People tap away at keyboards or speak on the phone; some entertain visitors who lean against the dusty blue risers. Sounds of busyness blending with the hum of white noise. No one pays Dustin any heed and he heeds no one. His anonymity, at one time unsettling, is now something he desires.
An intense discussion is underway in a small, cramped meeting room inside which more than a dozen people surround a narrow oval table. A few have rolled in chairs from cubicles. Their faces remain in his memory but many of the names are receding; somehow, that’s reassuring. One person is talking to a complicated diagram of boxes, circles, diamonds, and arrows, black text on red, blue, green, and brown symbols spanning three panels of whiteboard. The rest appear confused or perhaps are distracted by the nearly empty donut carton, the wall, their BlackBerry devices; a fat woman appears to be dozing.
At last, Dustin reaches the double-cubicle cosily tucked away in a low traffic area in the southeast corner. His office. His sanctuary. His prison. His routine.
Turn computer on, take off coat, sit and spin twice, check for voice mail—“Your mailbox is empty”—and wait. And wait. And wait, as the computer processor chugs away, groaning and whirring, displaying images and scrolling text, flashing lights, red and green. What to do today, Dustin wonders, during the several minutes this takes. Between personal calls, bathroom visits, snack machine purchases, Internet browsing, and daydreaming, he can only kill a couple of hours. He could read free online literature—he once stayed late to finish Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in one day—but he’s not in the mood.
Ah, an email. The daily corporate announcement sent to everyone in DexiaTel. He scrolls down the message, slowing at one item that begins with those fateful words, “I regret . . .,” signalling the cancellation of yet another project. The Telemark Conversion. A simple undertaking to transform data from an older system to a newer one. So simple yet it failed; the older system lives on. Dustin had predicted its doom based simply on the assignation of its prime manager, Chuck Bates. Such accurate prophesying no longer provides much satisfaction though.
On the contrary, to witness project after project turn into miserable failure is painful, especially when he thinks of those unwitting developers who work long hours and weekends to meet impossible, often pointless, deadlines. Deadlines blindly set by scrambling managers trying to impress their superiors or insecure ones reacting to empty escalation threats. At times it seems harder to observe Clay Fortnum’s world than to work in it. How things changed when that man became Chief Information Officer.
Clay’s first act as CIO was to eliminate the director management level, Dustin’s level. The step was hailed at the time for its braveness—even though all the other directors save Dustin had left already—and its organizational efficiency. And so sycophants like Bates and Joyce Morrison and, later on, Joyce Blanton, not to mention Fortnum’s architects and the prince of bureaucracy, Jacques Chartrand, suddenly reported directly to the CIO. The poor fools saw it as a promotion, or at the very least, that they were now prodigies. They began to emulate Fortnum’s tactics, quoting his utterances without comprehending them, meticulously interpreting every statement—missing obvious contradictions—and then attempting to accommodate them.
Dustin chose not to play that game.
How convenient then for the new CIO when that fateful Melange project came about. Simultaneously, Clay ensured Melange would fail and bring Dustin down. His only error was in assuming Dustin would want to leave.
“Do what’s right for you, what’s best for you,” Fortnum would hint after Melange’s end, in an offhand, dispassionate way of poking at Dustin’s pride.
Resigning was the dignified thing to do, Dustin knew that, but a certain twitching of Fortnum’s mouth betrayed the man’s eagerness. So Dustin applied the CIO’s advice literally, concluding that leaving was not in his best interest. It was a poor job market for IT people—it still is—so why not continue taking the money? And he still carries hope that one day the department will flourish again. It won’t happen with Clay Fortnum in charge, but CIO’s, like all executives, are vulnerable. And should that day come, Dustin would be ready.
That day is not today, though. As has become his habit, he leaves early. Just as the nauseating odour of microwave popcorn reaches him, he runs into Rebecca Spencer from Human Resources. An awkward encounter because he knows she knows and she knows he knows she knows all about his situation. His face turns red but she acts as if nothing is unusual and walks past him, leaving Dustin staring out a large window.
The clouds have cleared, the sun is shining through. Several blocks away, beyond the grey and green city park, partially blocked by several low-rise glass office buildings, stands DexiaTel headquarters, where his accomplishments once warranted a window office.
Before Melange.
The blinds are open on the top storey. He can make out little shadowy heads, human movements.
#
The DexiaTel boardroom occupies the northwest corner of the penthouse at headquarters. Forty-five people can sit wide-elbowed around its magnificent oval oak table in plush brown leather swivel chairs, while another sixty can observe from the more modest cloth-cushioned black chairs that line the walls in an outer horseshoe. A mini art gallery covers the beige walls, an eclectic collection of original paintings and photographs by Canadian artists, all of them abstracts offering occasional amusement but not so engaging as to create a distraction.
Three executives—Charles Wenham, President and Chief Executive Officer; Stu Cairns, Vice President of Operations; and Miranda Fisher, Vice President of Marketing—ponder the conclusions presented by a fourth person, Megan Watson. Megan, Vice President of Complex Solutions at Paleo Transitions, has just given an outline of her company’s proposal. She stands at the front, fingers tapping at pursed lips, observing her clients.
Stu appears agitated, his face reddening, highlighting the blondness of his hair. His frown reveals wrinkles in an otherwise youthful face and his bullish body has tensed up. There is much at stake for him, professionally, but Megan senses his motivation is personal too. Miranda, on the other hand, remains calm, occasionally brushing her long auburn hair behind her neck with the back of her hand. Her face, its prettiness marred by a persistent smirk, appears casually indifferent. An incorrect interpretation, Megan knows, and she can see in those dark, penetrating eyes that Miranda is as intensely interested as the other two. Of the three, she will survive whether this fails or succeeds. Not a muscle shifts on Wenham’s long poker face as he continues perusing the materials.
“This is drastic,” the CEO finally says.
The hesitancy in his voice strikes Megan as affected, as if he needs to show some resistance, to test the others. He ought to test them, because he has the most to lose. Their support is all he has to mitigate his risks.
“We don’t want any more fiascos like Melange, do we?” Fisher says.
“Charles, we have no choice,” Cairns says. “Firing a few people and performing another reorg won’t do the job.”
“What do you need from us next?” Wenham says, addressing Megan.
“Aside from one administrative item, nothing. My people are in place and ready to go. From here on, the less you’re involved, the better. I recommend we conduct future meetings at the Paleo office.”
“Wonderful,” Fisher says, “I love that little restaurant you guys have.” Then she stands up to close some blinds, blocking the view of the IT building across the way. “But how do you recommend we deal with Fortnum?”
“He’s got to go,” Cairns says. “The sooner, the better.”
“Now hold on, Stu,” Wenham says, “we’ve gone over this and you’ve made your position clear. His time will come.”
“I understand that,” Stu says, “but his presence makes it difficult for Jane to execute her plans. She was anxious to hire a counterpart for IT before Fortnum demanded she hire from within DexiaTel, from a list he provided. And the only person within the IT department Jane would consider isn’t available. Having seen the list myself, I can’t blame her. But without your intervention, Charles, Rebecca says her HR hands are tied and she has to support Clay’s wishes on this.”
“I’m afraid Jane will have to wait then,” Wenham says. “As far as I’m concerned, replacing my CIO too hastily—not to mention forcing him to accept an organizational change against his will—can only cause turmoil, which can only jeopardize our plans. Isn’t that right, Megan?”
“Yes, Charles, the turmoil would be disruptive. But jeopardize our plans? I hope I didn’t give you that impression. We’d still succeed, it would just take—”
“A little more of Paleo’s time and cost?” Stu says, smiling for the first time.
Megan smiles back. “But I do agree with Charles that it’s best to hold off on Clay Fortnum for now.”
“What if he gets wind of what we’re up to in the meantime?” Fisher says, as Cairns nods.
“Please, people, let’s not worry about Fortnum,” Wenham says, his voice for the first time showing frustration. “I’ll deal with him. He won’t be a problem.”
Megan watches the CEO stare down his two subordinates before they can object further. She’s satisfied now. Thrilled even. In her experience, she has never worked with a client whose top three executives, despite these smaller issues, are as involved and focused and in sync as these ones are. It’s time to enact a key piece of her plan and Cairns has provided the opening.
“Stu, you mentioned there was someone in IT Jane could work with. Who is that?”
“Dustin Freeman.”
“The guy who ran Melange?” Fisher says. “He’s still working here?”
“Yes,” Cairns says, letting out a forced cough.
“Excuse me,” Wenham says. “But are you telling me the leader of that failure is still an employee of DexiaTel?”
“Listen, Charles,” Cairns says. “It wasn’t Dustin Freeman’s fault, not entirely at least, that Melange turned out as it did. But I agree it’s not good to have him around. I’ve told Fortnum for months now, assign him something or get rid of him. He’s bound to be a distraction.”
“What’s holding Clay back?” Megan says.
“I don’t know,” Stu says, shrugging.
“That Freeman guy was pretty good though, wasn’t he?” Miranda says. “Maybe Clay’s got him working on something useful.”
“I don’t think so,” Stu says. “Apparently, Fortnum can’t trust Freeman and is unwilling to assign him anything, let alone make him available to Jane. He’ll fight to the end to prevent Dustin Freeman gaining any influence in the IT department again.”
“Well why wouldn’t Freeman just quit?”
Fisher’s question hangs awkwardly and even Megan is at a loss to explain this. The Dustin Freeman she used to know would have bolted long ago. Her old friend wasn’t the type to hold out for severance, let alone endure not working on anything. It’s a troubling notion, possibly an uncertain element in her plan.
“If he won’t go on his own, you need to fire him,” Megan says. “If there’s a way to do it without Fortnum knowing, all the better.”
“Why would it matter to you, Megan?” Fisher says.
“If anyone can stumble on to what’s going to happen, it’s him.”
“And how would you know that?” Fisher says, smiling.
“Because he and I once worked together,” Megan says,” her voice defiant, ready to answer any challenges. Beyond an exchange of glances, none comes.
“I’ll get Rebecca Spencer on it,” Wenham says.
#
Paper jam.
Marty Tellerini releases a series of curses under his breath. This would happen just as a meeting is ending with people streaming out. Some slow to greet him but no one lingers to help. Alone again, he opens the uncooperative machine, rips out the spoiled sheet, and slips it into the shredding bin. Back to his desk then to resubmit the file. In a minute, the printer resumes with Marty’s hands at the tray ready to snatch the output before anyone can discern its contents.
He needn’t worry because everyone seems to have gone for lunch, allowing him to inspect the three concise paragraphs of this fifth draft. Oh, how he wants to say more, much more, pages more in fact. But what would that achieve? He is far too young to be this bitter and it is far too early in his career to burn bridges. Marty signs the bottom, folds it neatly, inserts it into a letter-sized envelope displaying the maroon-and-teal DexiaTel logo. Then he takes a deep breath and marches to his boss’s office.
Marty stops to peer through the blinds before knocking, sees Chuck’s belly pressing against the desk edge, his left hand blindly fumbling through a bag of Doritos nestled between two piles of documents, his right hand expertly dragging and clicking the mouse. Probably jostling meetings so he can tag along with the IT architects on some offsite vendor seminar, Marty thinks, as he raps on the door and opens it.
“Chuck, can I—?”
“Oh, Marty,” Chuck says, sliding his chair back, brushing crumbs from his shirt. “Sorry man, it’s not a good time.”
“It won’t take long.”
“I said no. Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait a few hours. I’ll come by after Clay’s meeting. Promise.”
Chuck grabs a notebook and brushes past Marty. For some reason, this is not as annoying as it would have been at any other time. Indeed, Marty is actually relieved, as this only strengthens his resolve. Telling Chuck can wait a few hours.
Marty passes by the elevators where he spots Jane Gooden doing up the buttons on her fur coat. He has rarely seen her since Stu Cairns promoted her to Vice President of Business Automation. Her long black hair has been cut, making her stature shorter, but at the same time adding an aura of power to her feistiness.
Jane was one of the first non-IT people Marty met at DexiaTel. Already then she had a chip on her shoulder about the IT department, which strained their relationship at first. Marty’s newness to the company, and to the industry for that matter—it was his first job out of college—soon became evident to Jane and she latched on to him after the success of their first project together. From then on, she demanded he be her dedicated IT liaison for all her important projects, and usually got her way. That suited Marty. Jane was the only person from the business capable of making decisions that stuck and succinctly articulating what end-users truly needed. Yet Marty now believes he lost standing with his peers—and particularly with his superiors—in the IT department because of this. Some were envious of his favoured status, and his knack for getting her to agree to his suggestions, while others actually made him feel traitorous. Her recent promotion only promised to isolate him further within his own department.
“Slumming?” Marty says, with a brief chuckle.
“What would you call a half-day meeting with Missy?” she says, with a weary smile. “I’ll be glad to get back to my headquarters haven.”
“Ouch, Missy—that’s rough,” says Marty, as the elevator door opens and he follows her in. “What’d she do this time?”
“I’ve complained about her so often but either your managers are too impotent, too stupid, or too scared of her. Or something else.”
“But at your level why would you be dealing with someone like Missy? Can’t you delegate?”
“Believe me, I would if I could, but there’s a lot of work to do on my side too,” Jane says, with a helpless shrug. “A lot of work. But God, how you IT people love your meetings. And why can’t a meeting scheduled to end at noon actually end at noon?”
“I know. If we had done more work and had fewer meetings to talk about the work, I’m sure Telemark might have been successful.”
“Don’t remind me about that one. Between you and me, Marty, my people messed up just as much. If IT cleaned up its act, my problems would be quickly exposed. I’m not ready for that kind of embarrassment yet. Which is why I’ll be back and forth a lot, attending these meetings—don’t laugh—I mean how could someone as smart as you work for someone like Chuck?”
He stops laughing and shows her the envelope. Just then, the elevator car stops at the fifth floor where three people get on and he deftly slips it behind his back. They keep quiet until they reach the busy concourse where Marty hands it to her.
“Here’s how I’m handling it,” he says.
She reads the letter, gasps, shakes her head. “You’re resigning?”
“You bet. I’m giving that to Chuck later.”
“Well, I’m sad to hear it. We’ll miss you. I’ll miss you but, congratulations. Where are you going? I didn’t even know you were looking.”
“I wasn’t. I’ll find something.”
“You mean you don’t have another job lined up?”
“No, haven’t even looked. I know the market’s not great, but I’ll be okay. Also, this’ll send a strong message, don’t you think?”
“What message?”
Marty pauses and Jane waits. “I don’t know. Someone will—,” he says.
She tears up the letter and hands it back to him. “I’ve a better idea.”