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The Corporatorium: Out of the Frying Pan (Episode Seven)

Welcome to Episode 7 of my funny, absurdist serial on working in Corporate America. Take a break from your day and give it a read. Guaranteed to make you giggle.

Missed Episode 6, Cactuses & Tears? Read it here. Or read the series from the beginning here.

It was a quiet week. The officers were in a state of high anxiety; our collective failure to “make our numbers” due to the crappy economy, the unlikelihood of year-end bonuses and the visitation of Capital B, all hanging over their heads like some poisoned sword of Damocles. I, myself, was unusually quiet following the “No one talks to you because…” debacle, and my self-imposed exile.

The “drums”—Twitter, and the text messaging that kept us informed and a half step ahead of leadership—had also been uncharacteristically quiet.

The strain caused TWO to call a special production meeting—the second in less than two weeks—to strategize about how we would handle the inevitable visitation of Capital B and Brett.

“They’ll be here all day,” TWO was saying when I zoned back in. Generally nothing worthwhile happened at these impromptu meetings of hers so I typically used the time to think about other things. “So we should probably plan on going out to lunch as a group.”

This caused everyone to tense. TWO was notoriously cheap. And group lunches were always a sore point because she would insist on divvying up the tab at table and collecting cash from each attendee. TWO would seize the bill, scan it and pass it to Diana—who once was a waitress and thus naturally disposed to tip calculation—to calculate the tip and do the necessary division. Then there would be the usual riot of digging in purses and wallets for cash followed by the inevitable: “Do you have change for a twenty?” This was especially embarrassing for the underfunded and uninitiated who assumed that because TWO had invited the group out to lunch, she would pick up the tab as a departmental expense.

It didn’t matter who invited whom for what reason, or where you went, you still had to pay.

Diana said, “I vote for The Chinese Restaurant,” referring to the overpriced Chinese eatery with which we shared the lower lobby. Its chief recommendation appeared to be the possibility of catching a glimpse of the chef-proprietress famous for throwing miniature corn at the head of the sous-chef for displeasing her in some small but crucial way, and so mean she was once arrested for punching a pregnant meter maid.

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The Corporatorium: Cactuses & Tears (Episode Six)

Welcome to Episode 6 of my funny, absurdist serial on working in Corporate America. Take a break from your day and give it a read. Guaranteed to make you giggle.

Missed Episode 5, Ghost, Meet Devil? Read it here. Or read the series from the beginning here.

Since Capital B's web cast, we'd all been pretty quiet, anxiously awaiting the sudden arrival of her and her evil factotum, Brett. To break the tension, TWO called an off-schedule production meeting. Production Meeting. The name was misleading as nothing was ever produced or resolved during these weekly trials of patience.

As soon as we were all seated around the conference table, TWO said, “I called this meeting, so we could talk about our apprehension and anxiety.” More than likely she was hoping to learn what we Mushrooms knew, if anything, of Capital B's plans.

Twenty minutes into the meeting only Nigel had spoken up; as usual his voice was pitched so low and his enunciation so muddy it was impossible to hear what he said never mind make any sense of his mumbled words.

"Why isn't anyone saying anything?" TWO finally demanded.

"Perhaps they're afraid?" one of the Cerberus ventured.

"Afraid?" TWO repeated.

"Yes, afraid," came the inevitable echo from the second Cerberus.

"Fear!" the third pronounced somewhat ominously.

"Why?" TWO bellowed, "Is everyone afraid of me?"

"I don't know that fear has anything to do with it," I said mostly to break the awful, echoing silence. Every head swiveled in my direction like so many spectators at a public execution. "It's more like reluctance."

"What?!"

"I think people are reluctant to—," I almost said "rattle your cage," but caught myself in time. I am not, after all, suicidal. "Okay," I said, trying again. "Imagine you're lost in a desert for days. You're hot and hungry and desperate. You just want your mommy to tell you everything is okay. And then you see her and you run into her arms. Only, you're delusional and it's actually a cactus you're hugging. Hours later, after you've come to, you're bleeding and picking quills out of your skin and you're wondering what in hell you were thinking. You hugged a cactus expecting comfort and safety and instead you got spilled blood and pain. That's what trying to talk to you is like. So you see why people are reluctant…" I ran out of steam and looked her in the eyes. To my horror she began to cry.

Almost immediately, the Cerberus were on their feet, closing rank around her, cooing, rubbing her shoulders. They formed a phalanx around her and ushered her out of the conference room. One of the Cerberus hissed at me. Another emitted a kind of bark, and the third, turning towards me, made an odd biting motion with her mouth as if her teeth were biting into succulent flesh and tearing it away from bone.

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The Corporatorium: Ghost, Meet Devil (Episode 5)

Welcome to Episode 5 of my episodic faux memoir of a life served in Corporate America.

Missed Episode 4, " The Workplace of the Future"? Read it here

Friday.

"Let me start by thanking everyone for taking time out from client work to join this web cast," Capital B began. "I know there's lots of fear and anxiety out there and everyone wants to know what 'our numbers' are but I want to dispense with our usual agenda and PowerPoint presentation because I have some good news to share. As you know, we've been through a difficult year, requiring us all to work harder and make some difficult decisions. We feel things are beginning to turn around and I have some news that I'm very excited to share and which I'm sure you'll be very excited about as well.

"I'd like to introduce Brett Butler—our newest strategic hire and a hire I am personally very excited about. Brett has joined our practice as Vice President, Key Creative Strategist and Chief Innovation Officer. Brett comes to us from—" And here she named a Wall Street firm so big, its recent collapse had crippled financial markets around the globe and opened the door to the what would become known as THE GREAT RECESSION.

"In this role, Brett will be responsible for our performance and overall success in our target market by ensuring achievement of revenue and P&L targets through the offering of innovative solutions while maintaining the highest standards of professionalism and business ethics…And now I'll turn the microphone over to Brett so he can say a few words. Brett."

"Well hello everyone!" he practically screamed with joviality and good fellowship. "I'm so happy to be here! I can't wait to meet everyone! I know we have a very talented group of individuals working for the firm and I'm sure that together we can take the firm to the next level!"

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The Corporatorium: The Workplace of the Future

Here is Episode 4 of my episodic faux memoir of a life served in Corporate America.

Missed Episode 3, "Gay Day in Hell"? Read it here

Thursday

It was late in the day when it happened. The purple and orange industrial carpeting absorbed what feeble light was emitted from the overhead fluorescents; the ventilation system grudgingly released only enough oxygen to keep us conscious. The absence of light and air combined to lull everyone into a post-lunch stupor. And then it happened. A loud "Ping!" announced the arrival of a Memorandum of Opportunity in everyone's Inbox.

MEMORANDUM O F OPPORTUNITY

From: National Practice Director
To: All Practice Employees

A Practice-wide web cast has been scheduled for this Friday at 12 noon EST. You are all encouraged to attend. A Lotus Notes Calendar invitation with login/dial-in information will be disseminated shortly.

Our National Practice director was an abrupt woman referred to simply as "Capital B" or more familiarly as "B." At this point in time no one could remember, or agree on, what her actual name was but as she was only seen when employees needed to be terminated, or when hosting pointless web casts during which questions were strictly forbidden and any kind of interaction discouraged, this did not present a problem. What everyone did agree on, however, was the fact that she was "a bitch with a capital B." TWO had once called her "a royal bitch."

"No," one of the Cerberus objected. "Not royal."

"Certainly not royal," another agreed.

"Not enough class there for royalty," the third Cerberus put in.

"No," the first Cerberus continued, "She's just a bitch with a Capital B." The name stuck.

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The Corporatorium: Gay Day in Hell

As promised last week, here is Episode 3 of my episodic faux memoir of a life served in Corporate America. (If you're a gay man, you've probably experienced what Theus does here.)

Missed Episode 2? Read it here

I leapt for the elevator, too exhausted from the trek across the parking lot to attempt the stairs. A young woman held the door for me without moving her face from the gossip magazine she was earnestly reading. As I slumped against the hairy cowhide wall and croaked, "Four, please," she looked at me. Popping her gum she asked, "Is George Clooney gay?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Is George Clooney gay?" she repeated slowly as if I were an idiot or a foreigner.

"I don't know." I spoke back just as slowly because clearly she was an idiot.

When the elevator door opened I sprang out, not even caring if it was my floor. Down the hall in the gloom, Barbara the Second was talking to our creative director, Diana King. Big-boned and sensible, Diana was absolutely unflappable.

Hey," I said by way of greeting, "Some woman on the elevator asked me if George Clooney was gay?”

"What?" Barbara the Second gasped.

"Is he?" Diana, ever practical, asked me.

"I don't know," I snapped. "Contrary to what seems to be popular belief, we don't all know each other!"

Just then one of the Cerberus approached us.

"Say, Theus," she began in her nasally whine. "I was wondering…do you know any single gay men who like to dance?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

“Do you know any single gay men who like to dance?” she repeated.

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The Corporatorium--Episode 2

As promised last week, here is Episode 2 of my episodic faux memoir of a life served in Corporate America.

Missed Episode 1? Read it here

Welcome to the Inferno

Monday.

Stepping out of my car, feeling like a prisoner returning to incarceration after a weekend pass, I stared at the squat red-brick and brownstone monolith waiting to swallow me. Drawing a deep breath, I started to drag myself across the parking lot—a vast wasteland of BMWs, which were apparently the new Chevy (did they really hand them out to every 22-year-old college graduate along with a diploma?)

Half way across the hectare of asphalt I realized I should have eaten breakfast or at least packed a lunch because my energy was fading fast and the building was still so far away. I stopped and leaned against a car that was parked between two BMWs. Shiny and black, it sported a vinyl “Landau” roof with what appeared to be a monogrammed “G” on the side. Realizing it was a hearse, I shuddered and hurried on.


Reaching the building’s entrance at last, sweaty, and exhausted, I struggled, as I did every day, to pull open one of the pair of massive, and wildly improbable, ornately carved bronze doors. The lobby’s brick vaulted ceiling made the entry feel less like an office building than the reception room of some demented Monsignor’s palace. Or, maybe, the anteroom to…hell.

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The Corporatorium: Episode One

I'm back--don't ask where I've been.
Didn't know I was gone you say?
Rude! No matter. Let me get on with it.
Today I an releasing the first episode in a story about life in Corporate America. I will release a new episode every Wednesday so watch this space for more.

I AM PROMETHEUS

I am Prometheus. Prometheus. Say it slowly, roll the letters around in your mouth. Prometheus. It is not my real name but it is name most fitting for me. Prometheus, the creator of mankind and its greatest benefactor, chained to a rock, his liver eaten daily by an eagle, in eternal damnation for stealing fire and gifting it to mankind. Yes, there are definite similarities between us.

I am Prometheus, and this is my story. Except it’s not my story. I wish it was, but I am not unique or special. This is the story of untold millions of hapless chaps and chicklets caught up in the grinding gears of the corporate machine.

This is a faux memoir told episodically. You will be inclined, at times, to laugh at us, and cry for us. Do not hold back either impulse. That is the point of sharing this story—to remind us that life is nothing but a series of small comedies and tragedies. What is important is what we take away from each occurrence, what we learn from each calamity and joy.

What will be written here, on these pages will be comedy, and tragedy, both. It will be a story of greed, of betrayal, of shattered dreams, of empty, though unspoken, promises, of careers stalled and ruined, of corporate lies and "noble purposes," of stunningly deceptive “value propositions,” of mythical mission statements. In short it will be the story of a life in corporate America.

But for now, in this first episode of an epic tale, I will introduce you to the characters in this story—a motley unreasonable cast of miscreants and unfortunates.

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Other Voices. Other Mansions.

In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. — John 14:2, King James Version



This week on my blog, I am talking about the lack of diversity in LGBT fiction. I’m also talking about some authors who I think are adding other voices, other perspectives to the genre. Among them: Debbie McGowan, Victor Yates, Erastes, and Charles Rice-González.

Read the full blog post here.

Racism Wearing a New Hat Rears Its Ugly Head

We had just gotten home on Saturday, when two black women walked up to the kitchen door. Attractive, smiling, there was an openness about them that made me rethink my original dismissive appraisal: Jehovah’s Witnesses.

As I corralled the dogs, the older of the two said to Stanley, “Hi. We used to live here. We were hoping we could come in and see the house—”

“Oh,” Stanley cried, “You’re Moodys!”

They seemed surprised we knew who they were. I guess they don’t know they are practically legendary. In fact, nine years after we bought it, our house is still referred to as “The Moody House.” We’d, of course, heard about the Moodys before. A local realtor, who spoke highly of the family, once told us that when her own daughters had held a party which her mother chaperoned, her mother had called her in a panic and whispered there’s a black kid dancing in the garage with the girls!” Her response? “That’s not a black kid, that’s Moody!”

We took them—they turned out to be Mr. Moody’s daughter and grand-daughter—through the house and they shared memories and answered our questions. Towards the end of the visit, after they’d cried, and thanked us for taking care of the house, Kim who had lived here for thirty-some-odd years, asked us, “What’s the neighborhood like?”

I forget my answer but it wasn’t until after they’d left that I realized there was more to her question. The Moodys had bought our house in the 70s. They had been the first black family to buy a house in East Falls. A title search had revealed that the couple who’d sold the Moodys the house had held the mortgage. Most likely because, as a black buyer in what was then an all-white neighborhood, Mr. Moody had been unable to secure a mortgage through a commercial bank. That this occurred in the 70s, dismays me.

Remembering that, I wondered how I should have answered Kim’s question.

On our block, I’m one of three black people. There are more gay couples than black people. With the exception of a couple of “A-list queens,” who don’t speak to anybody, everyone has been welcoming and inclusive. But racism does raise its head from time to time.

There is a woman in the neighborhood—I’ll call her Lily. Reasonably intelligent and seemingly liberal and without prejudice, she remarked the first time she heard me speak publically, “You are so articulate.” The second time she heard me speak she came up to me afterwards and said, “You express yourself so well.” The first time she walking out of our house she stopped in her tracks, looked at the house and exclaimed “You live there?!”

Once, as I was raking leaves to the curb, a city worker who was picking up the leaves asked how I’d gotten the job raking leaves at this house. “It’s my house,” I explained. “I live here.” He glanced up at the house again, then at me. “You live here?” I could forgive his surprise. He was after all black and ours is still perceived as a white neighborhood. I could forgive his surprise in a way I could not forgive Lily’s.

When we first moved to East Falls, we got a flyer under our door telling us Halloween was being celebrated a week earlier than the calendar date. We thought this odd but went along with it. And in truth Stanley had a blast giving out candy to the children in costume.

This went on for several years until younger people started moving into the neighborhood and questioned the practice. It then came out that neighbors had started the practice of the early Halloween in large part to avoid having to open their doors to the black children from the projects in the neighborhood. So, neighbors would discreetly pass around the date of the “East Falls Halloween” then on actual Halloween everyone would turn out their porch lights and not answer their doors.

It’s been my experience that racism is subtle and often catches one off guard. In my interracial romance, What Binds Us, this happens twice to main character Thomas Edward.

The following scene occurs when Matthew and Dondi, both of whom are white, take Thomas, who is black, to a black tie ball at a country club on Long Island.

Matthew snorted and walked off in the direction of the bar. I was standing alone, waiting for him to return with our drinks, trying unsuccessfully not to feel out-of place when a dowager thrust her empty glass at me. “A refill, please,” she said.

Matthew took my arm, handing me a gin and tonic. “He’s a guest,” he told her. As we walked away, I turned. “We’re not all waiters anymore, you know,” I told her. She at least had the good grace to be embarrassed; her white arrogance changed to scarlet shame.
Matthew led me outside. “I’m so sorry that happened,” he said, blushing.

The second incident occurs at a hospital where Dondi is an inpatient. Thomas, as Dondi’s best friend and primary caretaker, tells the doctor they will be stopping treatment.

We were utterly silent as first one doctor then another droned on about grotesque invasive procedures, experimental and useless.

“No,” I said, interrupting one monologue.

“Excuse me? What did you say?” the interrupted monologist, a kindly and bespectacled senior physician with brilliantine hair, asked.

“No,” I repeated. “I said ‘no.’”

“No, what?” he asked wearily, removing his glasses and polishing them to further brilliance in that white light.

“No more pills. No more impossible treatments. We’re taking him home.”

The doctor glanced at Matthew and Colin. I intercepted the look. I stood and leaned toward him, my palms splayed on the table. “Do not think,” I said through gritted teeth, “that because I am black I am not a part of this family.”

Recently during an astonishingly vitriolic debate about a proposed new playground in McMichael Park, it was suggested that instead of the park a playground should be added to the Mifflin school—a long time neighborhood school, currently at about 50% capacity and whose students are mostly black. Odd in a-neighborhood that is overwhelmingly white.

One person, calling it a “heretical thought” posted the following on the community bulletin board, Next Door East Falls:

“…there is an 800-pound gorilla in the room that everyone pretends not to see, and will go to great lengths to avoid confronting the truth about their choices. I wouldn't send my own kids to Mifflin unless a critical mass of other middle class (and mostly white, to be perfectly honest) parents choose to do the same. …I choose to be honest. Most people feel the same way but refuse to admit to themselves certain uncomfortable truths…”
I found his post disturbing but ultimately not surprising. What I found more disturbing was not so much that no one challenged him on this but that a few people actually “thanked” him for posting.

The sad truth is eight years into the country’s first black presidency, we are still not a nation that is “post-race”— arguably we should be, but we are not. Racism simply put on a new hat and stepped into the shadows.

Sam

When I recently found myself in Washington DC for work, I couldn’t resist the urge to revisit my past, so I hopped on the Metro in Crystal City and rode to Dupont Circle.

I moved to Washington in the 80s, a few years out of college. I’d never lived on my own before and I was scared but I felt it was time; if not now, when? I asked myself. I saw the move as writing a new chapter in the book of me, as if I was documenting my journey to full adulthood.

For the first time, I would be solely responsible for myself. I found a job easily enough, in a strange new city, where I knew next to no one. At first I lived with my cousin, who was more best friend and sister than cousin. Then, I rented a room in a madwoman’s basement. Finally, I found an apartment. My first night there I was so terrified and lonely, I stayed awake all night with the lights on. The next morning I walked to the local park on Dupont Circle, near the Metro. I laid down on an empty bench staring at the sky and wondering what I had done. I’d never been so lonely or demoralized. I fell asleep. When I woke up it was late afternoon and my face was on fire, my throat parched, my lips chapped. I had a sunburn so bad I could barely open my eyes.

Back in my new apartment, which seemed even shabbier and more desolate than when I’d fled it earlier, I stared at my face in the mirror, and wondered again: What have I done? What did I think I was doing, a little boy playing a man?

###

I glanced from the small For Rent ad in my hand to the building to verify the address: 1610 16th Street, NW. That’s when I saw him. He was attacking a patch of concrete in front of the building with a pick ax. Masculinity wafted off him like perfume; its heady scent caught my balls in the vice grip of desire and squeezed. Hard.

Shorter than I, he was blocky, and solid. Beneath a coating of sweat, his muscles moved, shiny in the noonday sun. His brow was creased with determination. Watching his intensity, close to swooning, I could almost believe he’d hewn himself out of granite to stand gleaming, and magnificent before me.

Catching sight of me, he dropped his pick ax, shook off like a dog. “I’m Sam,” he said. He did not offer his hand, and I was too shy in his presence to offer mine.

“You here to see the apartment?” he asked. He seemed to be sizing me up.

When I nodded, he directed me to follow him. He led me to an old-fashioned elevator. “I operate the elevator, mostly,” he said, pulling the gate closed and moving a lever on the floor so the elevator rose slowly, creakily to the third floor.

Inside, as I started looking around he said, “This is a great neighborhood. Right off Dupont Circle. Lots of women around.” Watching me, he winked. I nodded absently. Still watching me, he added, “Lots of gay guys, too—if that’s what you’re into.”

I said I’d take the apartment. I was so distracted by his proximity that I failed to notice the apartment’s only window faced an air shaft. The grimy windows were hard to open and let in very little air, and absolutely no light. So that no matter the weather or time of day it always appeared to be twilight and raining.

A few weeks after I moved in, Sam came over to check on me. He brought me a Playboy magazine as a housewarming present. He spent the next hour alternately staring at his magazine and me. I was relieved when he finally left. It wasn’t until he stopped by the following evening, without his magazine, that I discerned his first visit had been an attempt to seduce me.

The next night, he stopped the elevator on my floor but made no move to open the door. I stared at him feeling a tightness in my throat, in my groin. “Can I kiss you?” I asked.

He smiled. “Sure.” And indicated his cheek.

“No,” I said and brought my mouth to his. He returned my kiss with something of the intensity, I’d noticed when he’d been swinging his pick ax.

Stumbling out of the elevator, whose door he’d managed to open, my legs around his waist, his lips still pressed against mine, he slipped the key out of my hand and opened my apartment door causing us to tumble backward onto the floor. After, as we lay breathing hard in a confusion of limbs and clothes, I could hear calls for the elevator, and people stomping up and down the stairs in irritation.

We fell into a pattern. I’d ride up and down with him in the elevator, reading to him from the newspaper when we were alone.

Occasionally he’d ask me to read a letter from a friend in jail. I happily obliged. He liked me reading to him, and I liked reading to him. Eventually the need to be close would overcome us, and we’d decamp to my apartment for an hour or so, leaving irate tenants to take the stairs, or finding the open elevator on the third floor, my floor, operate it themselves.

One day he asked me to write a letter to his friend, who was still in jail. He dictated, and I wrote. After I handed it back to him to read, I realized with a start that he could not read it. That saddened me deeply, less the fact that he couldn’t read than, that he hadn’t felt he could tell me he couldn’t read. I had always assumed he wanted me to read to him so he could keep me close. I would have gladly taught him to read.

One day I came home and someone else was manning the elevator. “Where’s Sam?” I asked.

“He’s gone.”

I never saw Sam again. Looking back, I can’t say I loved him, or that I’d envisioned a future with him, but I’d liked him immensely. Sam, whose gentle affection took away a boy’s terror, and left in his wake a confident young man.