Geniuses and Janitors
The note, I receive.
The yellow note, a sticky note, is attached to the back of my chair. It says, it reads, "Meeting at one. OK?" I carry the note back to Ariel and I say, "Yes. Yes, that would be fine. Yes, I am available. Yes, one o'clock."
Ariel smiles and says, "Okie dokie," placing a small flip in the middle of the "okie" and then a sharp twist in her "dokie.” She clicks her mouse a few times. She says, “Okie dokie,” again. “I’ll put you on His schedule.”
Ariel inserts my name on my boss’ schedule, taping the keys with her pink, manicured nails, like rain on a tin roof. I stand on the other side of the counter and watch as my name is typed in red Garamond font, above the name of the vice president of marketing and before the name of my boss’ wife.
Ariel finishes and stares at me.
I stare at Ariel. I say, "By the way, what is this about? Is there something going on? Coming down? Is there a concern?" Ariel stares, seemingly not understanding my questions. After a few seconds, she flutters her eyelids, as if coming alive after a siesta. She says, "I don't know, but I will check and get back to you in a jiffy."
Ariel’s hair is blond, brown, white and a certain shade of red claret. She has brown eyes and a narrow nose. Her face, although symmetrical, looks as if it had somehow been placed in a vice and then removed, leaving a pinch straight down the center of her face. Her face is the shape of a beluga. She wears a necklace. There is a delicate sailboat hanging from it. The sailboat bobs on her cleavage whenever she types or dials the phone.
After Ariel says, "Okie dokie," she smiles, resting her elbows on the desk and folding her hands under her chin. I smile back and imagine air bubbles sprouting from her mouth. Her eyes are saying, "That will be the extent of my interest in this transaction. Thank you for your cooperation."
When Ariel speaks, she instinctively places more emphasis on some of her words and less on others. I don't know how she chooses which words to flip and twirl. And I don't know where one would learn such intonation. But she has a wonderful technique. Her voice flips up, and then, just as fluidly, dives and lands in my ears, softly. Ariel's voice breaks into my ear like a champion diver slicing the surface a pool of water.
And so, I have my one o’clock.
My boss seems to be anticipating me. My boss says, “Things aren’t working out. Things are in the shitter. Things are in terrible shape. What I am trying to say is, your services are no longer needed.” I don’t respond except for a slight quiver of my bottom lip, caused by the vibration of my chin.
I grip the arms of the chair I am sitting in.
When my boss speaks again, he seems to be speaking to my hands. He moves his chair back, only slightly. The movement of the chair is almost undetectable. (If not for these special circumstances, I would have hardly noticed the scoot at all.) My boss says, “I have been advised, directed so to speak, to say what I am saying. I have said what I need to say and to say anymore would be saying too much. Essentially, you are being disengaged.”
I can feel my eyes swelling.
My boss notices this, too. He says, “You have to understand that, in this day an age, people have grown to be extraordinarily litigious. Exceedingly.” He waits. He says, “I’m not saying this about you. I am saying that about people. You aren’t one of those, of course.”
My boss studies my eyes, my face, my hands, my lip and my chin. He continues to make further, death-defying, perilous statements. He says, “You are very talented. You are very intelligent. You are a snappy dresser. Are you a genius?” He pauses. “You are going to make it big, somewhere. Just not here.”
I conclude from his final comments that he believes I am unquestionably recyclable.
I hold the value of previous ownership.
I am a rusty trailer hitch with good tires.
When I exit my boss' office, there is a security guard standing there, waiting. "Hello," I say. The security guard grips the flashlight hanging from his belt. I recognize this movement to indicate by inference that he will suffer no stupidity on my part. "Okie dokie," I say.
He follows me.
The security guard and I look over the wall of Finny's cubicle. Finny is reading the comic page at his desk. I tell Finny I have been sent away. I tell Finny, “I will be leaving in two hours. I am having trouble swallowing. My skin has suddenly gone dry.” Finny drops his paper and then his jaw. He stares at me, as if having a 9/11 flashback. He folds his newspaper and tosses it onto the chair. Finny says, “No way.”
I say, “Yes, way.”
Finny says, “No way.”
I say, “Yes, way.”
Finny says, “No way.”
I say, “This is getting us nowhere. Can we move along?”
Finny says, “No fucking way. Do you think I’m next? I mean, is this going across the board?”
I tell Finny that I am not sure why I am being removed, but that I think he will be safe, having spent twenty years with the firm. Finny picks up his newspaper and resumes his reading. “I’ll miss you big guy,” I say, thrusting my hand out to shake his. Finny shakes my hand, while continuing to read the newspaper. He says, “Well, ummm, good luck. Keep in touch.” He straightens his paper, with a sharp snap to its spine, and turns the page.
The security guard accompanies me to my cube. A janitor, who is dressed like a deep sea fisherman in red rubber gloves, rubber boots and a baseball cap stands awaiting my arrival. He is leaning on his broom. I strip my desk of the mementos of my tenure. I wrap a rubber band around my pen collection and place the bundle in the box. I have memories of each of the pens and high lighters. I choke back my emotion and continue packing.
The cubicle quickly becomes shadowy, void of character. I conclude, after nearly everything in my office is crammed into the two boxes, after the files and folders have been removed, the bric-a-brac carefully wrapped and placed in the box, that I would have been perfectly capable of meeting my performance goals with only what is left. Embellishing one’s office suddenly becomes pointless. It is, in my estimation, a form of territorial pissing, like the dimples and dents left by my teeth on a yellow graphite pencil, which I leave purposely on my bare desk. I scan the space and recognize the shape of my posterior on the seat of my chair. While the security guard is busy reading my “People” magazine, I write a note on blank, white paper and place it, folded twice, in the desk drawer. “You are defenseless,” I write.
I pick up my box and brush shoulders with the janitor on my way out. I turn to see the janitor placing my note into a large Hefty bag. He is holding my pencil as if it were contaminated waste. He begins spraying down my desktop and my chair.
I absolve to never move anything into any office space I may have, in the future, if indeed I ever have another one. Instead, I will remain ever-ready to vacate with only minimal notification, to evacuate, carrying only my hat. I will never again be forced to lug an embarrassing box of pencils and diplomas past the front desk, followed by an oversized security guard who, by his mere presence, links me to wrong-doing.
I say to Ariel, “You’re here late. You are normally gone by now. What are you doing? What’s going on?”
Ariel is sitting at her station in reception, checking her hair in a small hand mirror. She looks up. She says, “I have some letters to type, some files to file, some stuff and some junk. This and that, really. I’m going on vacation, next week. I need the comp time.” She smiles at the security guard. She says, “Hi Gil.” The security guard says, “Hi Ariel,” or something to that effect.
The security guard stands beside me, arms crossed over his chest. I say, “I’m leaving. I have been canned. I won’t see you again.” I hold my box up for her to see and I smile, exaggerating my mouth to show sadness.
“Okie dokie,” Ariel says, and returns to tweaking her bangs.
I say, “I’m not kidding. I have been fired. I won’t be coming back.”
Ariel continues to check her bangs in her mirror. “I heard you, honey,” she says. “Good luck and take care. Do you need any help? Should I call a helper?”
I say, “No, I only have one small box left. I’ll come back in and get it.”
Ariel says, “Okie dokie.” She places her mirror in her desk drawer. She pushes the steel drawer closed and looks up at me. She smiles, absently. Her eyes are blank. I point at the door, demonstrating that I need to be buzzed out. Ariel says, “Oh,” and giggles. She presses the buzzer, releasing the door lock.
I leave the security guard behind to do what security guards do, after hours.
I place the box in the trunk of my car and return to the building. I press the button, beckoning to Ariel to allow me back in the building. I can see her from where I’m standing. She is wearing headphones and singing into a hair brush. The expression on her face tells me that the song is a ballad, one with intense emotion. She looks up, straining her neck to reach a high note. Her arms are outstretched, as if reaching out to her imaginary audience. I watch as she moves the brush from one hand to another, sweeping her free hand before her. I push the button again and hold it a second or two longer than my previous attempt to gain entry.
Ariel continues her rendition, oblivious of me.
I knock on the window and Ariel turns to see me standing outside, holding the collar of my coat closed against the wind. I wave apologetically and she presses the intercom button.
Ariel says, “Can I help you?”
I say, “Yes. Yes, it’s me, Ariel. I need to come back in to get my box. You are a great singer.” I laugh nervously. “What is it that you are listening to, there?”
Ariel says, “I’m sorry, sir, we are closed. You will have to come back tomorrow, during normal business hours.”
I pretend to laugh and force a smile. I say, “Come on. Stop kidding around. It’s freezing out here.”
Ariel says, “I’m sorry, sir. Please leave. Please return to your automobile.” She smiles broadly, and blankly. I wait and stare back. “We have in-house security.” I see her pick up the red phone hidden under her desk. She shows it to me.
I have a dream.
I am alone in a large, yellow room with blue wadding pool. Alternately, the room transforms from a kitchen to a barn to a police station, but the wadding pool stays consistent.
I somehow know what I am supposed to do.
I don’t know where my instructions come from. They are implanted in my head, and I proceed to follow them. I immerse my hand into the black water in the wadding pool. I can feel small fish swimming about, grazing my hand and then, with a swift twist of their fins, they quickly swim past. I am suddenly aware that the fish don’t have to think about avoiding my hand.
They simply, instinctively, avoid danger.
My instructions are to grab a fish and stab it with a red Parker pen. My job is to kill the fish with the pen.
I do not have any problem with my instructions.
I ask no questions and do not hesitate.
Actually, it all seems a very natural thing to be doing.
Each time I dip my hand into the water, and each time I take hold of a fish to stab it, the fish sprouts legs, six of them, and runs up the length of my arm. The fish jumps from my neck onto the floor and scurries away.
I am not successful in completing the task.
I suddenly awaken to my alarm.
I am exhausted.
I press the snooze button, but I abruptly realize that I don’t have to get up, at all.
The yellow note, a sticky note, is attached to the back of my chair. It says, it reads, "Meeting at one. OK?" I carry the note back to Ariel and I say, "Yes. Yes, that would be fine. Yes, I am available. Yes, one o'clock."
Ariel smiles and says, "Okie dokie," placing a small flip in the middle of the "okie" and then a sharp twist in her "dokie.” She clicks her mouse a few times. She says, “Okie dokie,” again. “I’ll put you on His schedule.”
Ariel inserts my name on my boss’ schedule, taping the keys with her pink, manicured nails, like rain on a tin roof. I stand on the other side of the counter and watch as my name is typed in red Garamond font, above the name of the vice president of marketing and before the name of my boss’ wife.
Ariel finishes and stares at me.
I stare at Ariel. I say, "By the way, what is this about? Is there something going on? Coming down? Is there a concern?" Ariel stares, seemingly not understanding my questions. After a few seconds, she flutters her eyelids, as if coming alive after a siesta. She says, "I don't know, but I will check and get back to you in a jiffy."
Ariel’s hair is blond, brown, white and a certain shade of red claret. She has brown eyes and a narrow nose. Her face, although symmetrical, looks as if it had somehow been placed in a vice and then removed, leaving a pinch straight down the center of her face. Her face is the shape of a beluga. She wears a necklace. There is a delicate sailboat hanging from it. The sailboat bobs on her cleavage whenever she types or dials the phone.
After Ariel says, "Okie dokie," she smiles, resting her elbows on the desk and folding her hands under her chin. I smile back and imagine air bubbles sprouting from her mouth. Her eyes are saying, "That will be the extent of my interest in this transaction. Thank you for your cooperation."
When Ariel speaks, she instinctively places more emphasis on some of her words and less on others. I don't know how she chooses which words to flip and twirl. And I don't know where one would learn such intonation. But she has a wonderful technique. Her voice flips up, and then, just as fluidly, dives and lands in my ears, softly. Ariel's voice breaks into my ear like a champion diver slicing the surface a pool of water.
And so, I have my one o’clock.
My boss seems to be anticipating me. My boss says, “Things aren’t working out. Things are in the shitter. Things are in terrible shape. What I am trying to say is, your services are no longer needed.” I don’t respond except for a slight quiver of my bottom lip, caused by the vibration of my chin.
I grip the arms of the chair I am sitting in.
When my boss speaks again, he seems to be speaking to my hands. He moves his chair back, only slightly. The movement of the chair is almost undetectable. (If not for these special circumstances, I would have hardly noticed the scoot at all.) My boss says, “I have been advised, directed so to speak, to say what I am saying. I have said what I need to say and to say anymore would be saying too much. Essentially, you are being disengaged.”
I can feel my eyes swelling.
My boss notices this, too. He says, “You have to understand that, in this day an age, people have grown to be extraordinarily litigious. Exceedingly.” He waits. He says, “I’m not saying this about you. I am saying that about people. You aren’t one of those, of course.”
My boss studies my eyes, my face, my hands, my lip and my chin. He continues to make further, death-defying, perilous statements. He says, “You are very talented. You are very intelligent. You are a snappy dresser. Are you a genius?” He pauses. “You are going to make it big, somewhere. Just not here.”
I conclude from his final comments that he believes I am unquestionably recyclable.
I hold the value of previous ownership.
I am a rusty trailer hitch with good tires.
When I exit my boss' office, there is a security guard standing there, waiting. "Hello," I say. The security guard grips the flashlight hanging from his belt. I recognize this movement to indicate by inference that he will suffer no stupidity on my part. "Okie dokie," I say.
He follows me.
The security guard and I look over the wall of Finny's cubicle. Finny is reading the comic page at his desk. I tell Finny I have been sent away. I tell Finny, “I will be leaving in two hours. I am having trouble swallowing. My skin has suddenly gone dry.” Finny drops his paper and then his jaw. He stares at me, as if having a 9/11 flashback. He folds his newspaper and tosses it onto the chair. Finny says, “No way.”
I say, “Yes, way.”
Finny says, “No way.”
I say, “Yes, way.”
Finny says, “No way.”
I say, “This is getting us nowhere. Can we move along?”
Finny says, “No fucking way. Do you think I’m next? I mean, is this going across the board?”
I tell Finny that I am not sure why I am being removed, but that I think he will be safe, having spent twenty years with the firm. Finny picks up his newspaper and resumes his reading. “I’ll miss you big guy,” I say, thrusting my hand out to shake his. Finny shakes my hand, while continuing to read the newspaper. He says, “Well, ummm, good luck. Keep in touch.” He straightens his paper, with a sharp snap to its spine, and turns the page.
The security guard accompanies me to my cube. A janitor, who is dressed like a deep sea fisherman in red rubber gloves, rubber boots and a baseball cap stands awaiting my arrival. He is leaning on his broom. I strip my desk of the mementos of my tenure. I wrap a rubber band around my pen collection and place the bundle in the box. I have memories of each of the pens and high lighters. I choke back my emotion and continue packing.
The cubicle quickly becomes shadowy, void of character. I conclude, after nearly everything in my office is crammed into the two boxes, after the files and folders have been removed, the bric-a-brac carefully wrapped and placed in the box, that I would have been perfectly capable of meeting my performance goals with only what is left. Embellishing one’s office suddenly becomes pointless. It is, in my estimation, a form of territorial pissing, like the dimples and dents left by my teeth on a yellow graphite pencil, which I leave purposely on my bare desk. I scan the space and recognize the shape of my posterior on the seat of my chair. While the security guard is busy reading my “People” magazine, I write a note on blank, white paper and place it, folded twice, in the desk drawer. “You are defenseless,” I write.
I pick up my box and brush shoulders with the janitor on my way out. I turn to see the janitor placing my note into a large Hefty bag. He is holding my pencil as if it were contaminated waste. He begins spraying down my desktop and my chair.
I absolve to never move anything into any office space I may have, in the future, if indeed I ever have another one. Instead, I will remain ever-ready to vacate with only minimal notification, to evacuate, carrying only my hat. I will never again be forced to lug an embarrassing box of pencils and diplomas past the front desk, followed by an oversized security guard who, by his mere presence, links me to wrong-doing.
I say to Ariel, “You’re here late. You are normally gone by now. What are you doing? What’s going on?”
Ariel is sitting at her station in reception, checking her hair in a small hand mirror. She looks up. She says, “I have some letters to type, some files to file, some stuff and some junk. This and that, really. I’m going on vacation, next week. I need the comp time.” She smiles at the security guard. She says, “Hi Gil.” The security guard says, “Hi Ariel,” or something to that effect.
The security guard stands beside me, arms crossed over his chest. I say, “I’m leaving. I have been canned. I won’t see you again.” I hold my box up for her to see and I smile, exaggerating my mouth to show sadness.
“Okie dokie,” Ariel says, and returns to tweaking her bangs.
I say, “I’m not kidding. I have been fired. I won’t be coming back.”
Ariel continues to check her bangs in her mirror. “I heard you, honey,” she says. “Good luck and take care. Do you need any help? Should I call a helper?”
I say, “No, I only have one small box left. I’ll come back in and get it.”
Ariel says, “Okie dokie.” She places her mirror in her desk drawer. She pushes the steel drawer closed and looks up at me. She smiles, absently. Her eyes are blank. I point at the door, demonstrating that I need to be buzzed out. Ariel says, “Oh,” and giggles. She presses the buzzer, releasing the door lock.
I leave the security guard behind to do what security guards do, after hours.
I place the box in the trunk of my car and return to the building. I press the button, beckoning to Ariel to allow me back in the building. I can see her from where I’m standing. She is wearing headphones and singing into a hair brush. The expression on her face tells me that the song is a ballad, one with intense emotion. She looks up, straining her neck to reach a high note. Her arms are outstretched, as if reaching out to her imaginary audience. I watch as she moves the brush from one hand to another, sweeping her free hand before her. I push the button again and hold it a second or two longer than my previous attempt to gain entry.
Ariel continues her rendition, oblivious of me.
I knock on the window and Ariel turns to see me standing outside, holding the collar of my coat closed against the wind. I wave apologetically and she presses the intercom button.
Ariel says, “Can I help you?”
I say, “Yes. Yes, it’s me, Ariel. I need to come back in to get my box. You are a great singer.” I laugh nervously. “What is it that you are listening to, there?”
Ariel says, “I’m sorry, sir, we are closed. You will have to come back tomorrow, during normal business hours.”
I pretend to laugh and force a smile. I say, “Come on. Stop kidding around. It’s freezing out here.”
Ariel says, “I’m sorry, sir. Please leave. Please return to your automobile.” She smiles broadly, and blankly. I wait and stare back. “We have in-house security.” I see her pick up the red phone hidden under her desk. She shows it to me.
I have a dream.
I am alone in a large, yellow room with blue wadding pool. Alternately, the room transforms from a kitchen to a barn to a police station, but the wadding pool stays consistent.
I somehow know what I am supposed to do.
I don’t know where my instructions come from. They are implanted in my head, and I proceed to follow them. I immerse my hand into the black water in the wadding pool. I can feel small fish swimming about, grazing my hand and then, with a swift twist of their fins, they quickly swim past. I am suddenly aware that the fish don’t have to think about avoiding my hand.
They simply, instinctively, avoid danger.
My instructions are to grab a fish and stab it with a red Parker pen. My job is to kill the fish with the pen.
I do not have any problem with my instructions.
I ask no questions and do not hesitate.
Actually, it all seems a very natural thing to be doing.
Each time I dip my hand into the water, and each time I take hold of a fish to stab it, the fish sprouts legs, six of them, and runs up the length of my arm. The fish jumps from my neck onto the floor and scurries away.
I am not successful in completing the task.
I suddenly awaken to my alarm.
I am exhausted.
I press the snooze button, but I abruptly realize that I don’t have to get up, at all.