J. Gonzalez - The Corporation

“Section 12, paragraph 2 states that your policy can be amended or changed at any time without prior written notification, and at the discretion of the underwriter,” Jim said. There was no sense of glee in that voice; no sense of petty authority. It was as if Jim Murphy was reading from a script and that he didn’t care what he was reading, he was just doing what he was told. He was just doing his job.

“What kind of bullshit is that?”

“The letter of denial will be in today’s mail,” Jim Murphy said. “Have a good day.” The insurance agent hung up.

“ Goddamn it !” Mel yelled, slamming the phone down. He headed toward the hallway where the burned-out office was, just as Sue emerged from the ruins. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Farm and Home says they aren’t paying anything,” Mel said, striding past her. “I need to get a copy of our policy.”

“Mel, the fire destroyed everything in the office,” Sue said.

“Shit!” He looked into the charred remains of what was his office, noting that the oak desk that held his most important paperwork was reduced to rubble. He turned to Sue. “Now what the hell are we going to do?”

There was a knock on the door.

“Maybe it’s one of the detectives,” Sue said as Mel threaded his way past her to answer the door. Mel hoped so; he had to vent his anger at somebody.

He threw open the door and almost yelled in surprise when he saw Mary Barnhill and Jim Fern, the Human Resources representatives who’d beat him up and burned his office down. They were standing on his front porch flanked by the two same goons that had beat him. At the sight of them Mel fumed. “Get off my property!” he yelled.

One of the goons opened the screen door and the other leaned in and grabbed Mel by the arm, pulling him outside. Mary and Jim stood silent near the steps that led down the walkway. “You didn’t show up at work today,” Mary said. She and Jim acted like they weren’t even here Saturday.

“Get your hands off me!” Mel screamed at the goon who was forcing him out of his house.

“We’re here to collect you to return you to work,” Jim said.

“Fuck you,” Mel muttered at them as he was led past the HR representatives. “I fucking quit !”

“You didn’t show up to work today,” Mary said again, and the tone of her voice, the way she was behaving—the way all four of them were behaving—zapped all the fight out of him as he was forcefully led down the walkway to the same company car they’d shown up in Saturday. Surely, part of him thought to himself as he was marched to the car, this can’t be happening. This is insane, this is wrong , this is just… this just can’t be happening !

But it was. There was no denying it. The two large goons that had kicked him around Saturday had him by each arm as the back door to the Mercedes was opened and he was shoved inside. “What are you doing?” Mel tried one more attempt at getting a sane answer from them.

“You didn’t report in to work today,” Mary said. “We’re collecting you to return you to the office.”

“ Mel !” Sue was standing at the front door watching as the HR personnel from Wiedenhammer, Mel’s employer, led him to the silver Mercedes and took him back to work.

WHEN JEREMY TYSON got the call from Timmy’s school he was between tasks at his job as an underwriter for Macro Industries, which maintained office space in a large building in Phoenix, Arizona. Timmy had gone to school this morning complaining that his stomach felt funny. Jeremy had checked his temperature but it was normal. Aside from the complaint, Timmy was behaving like a normal seven-year-old.

Jeremy hung up the phone and reached for his jacket, which was hanging on a coat hanger on the wall of his cubicle. He turned to his co-worker as he put his jacket on and stood up. “I gotta go,” he said. “The school called, said Timmy just threw up. I’m gonna go take him home.”

His co-worker, a guy named Ed Donaldson, said nothing. He was staring at his computer screen intently.

Jeremy waited for Ed to say something. “Did you hear me? I said I gotta go pick up my son from school and take him home.”

There was movement from the offices lining the northwest corner of the building. His boss, James Burton, stood in the doorway of his cubicle. “Trouble?”

“My son’s school just called,” Jeremy said, picking up his briefcase as he prepared to leave. “He just threw up and they’re sending him home. I’m going to take him home and get him comfortable. I’ve got the papers for the McTilly Account with me and—”

“You can leave the papers here,” James said.

Jeremy was puzzled but didn’t think much of it. “Okay. I just thought I’d take them home and work on it there.”

“You can’t go home,” James said.

Jeremy blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Sit down,” James said. He took a step into Jeremy’s cubicle. James took an involuntary step backward.

“You okay?” Jeremy asked. The look on James’s face gave him the creeps; he looked… well… like he wasn’t really there.

“You will stay here and work,” James said, his blue eyes riveted on Jeremy. “You will not leave.”

James didn’t know what to say; he was speechless. Great, James picks the perfect day to turn into more of an asshole than he already is . For a supervisor, James Burton was a hardass; all he thought about was work, but Jeremy tried not to let that interfere with his working relationship with the man. He kept his personal life away from the office as much as possible, and didn’t really divulge much to his co-workers. The only sign that he had a personal life was the framed photo of Timmy on his desk and some of his son’s artwork that he’d tacked onto the cubicle walls. There were no pictures of Timmy’s mother; he’d divorced Evelyn when Timmy was a year old and had full custody of him. Evelyn was like James, more into her job as a corporate drone at some bank than she was a mother to her only child.

Jeremy gripped his briefcase. “Sorry,” he said. He made to walk past James. “But my kid is sick. I’ll take a sick day.”

James blocked his path and Jeremy almost bumped into him. “You will stay here and work,” his boss said, his voice flat, machinelike.

“Stop messing around,” Jeremy said. He could detect a hint of pleading in his voice.

“You will stay here and work,” James said, and then suddenly Ed Donaldson was joining James, and the other people in the office were crowding outside the cubical, blocking Jeremy’s path. They were all watching him silently. Jeremy felt a chill race down his back as he regarded them all. They all looked like James; their expressions were flat, stoical, wooden. What the hell is going on ?

“You will stay here and work,” Ed said, stepping up to Jeremy.

“You will stay here and work,” Sarah Ahn, the department secretary said as she stepped into the cubicle.

“You will stay here and work,” Sally Maneketti, one of the Senior Analysts said as his department began to crowd into his cubicle.

Jeremy yelled and tried to shoulder his way past them but they grabbed him. Rough hands gripped his arms, his hands, an arm locked around his throat and the only thing Jeremy Tyson could think about as he was pulled back into his cube and shoved into his seat was his son, Timmy, and hope that his little boy would be okay.

WHEN JOSÉ GONZALEZ peered through the peephole of the front door at the sound of the doorbell, he didn’t recognize the two well-dressed individuals standing on the front walkway of his modest ranch-style home in Fountain Valley, California. Assuming it was a pair of Jehovah Witnesses, he answered the door, preparing to tell them he wasn’t interested.