Catherine McKenzie: Hidden

Suppose I say

summer,

write the word “hummingbird,”

put it in an envelope,

take it down the hill

to the box. When you open

my letter you will recall

those days and how much,

just how much, I love you.

—

RAYMOND CARVER

The last thing I had to do that day was fire Art Davies.

I hate firing people. Truly. Of all the things I hate about my job—and their number are legion—having to tell someone they can’t come to work anymore is the worst.

But the consultants had been called in (again), and the recommendation was right there on page 94 of their 217-page PowerPoint presentation: The accounting department is overstaffed by 1.2 people.

1.2 people!

Who talks like that?

When I got the summary of the consultants’ report—there’s a guy in Reports whose entire job is, you guessed it, summarizing reports—I flipped to the page he’d so helpfully marked with one of those yellow stickies with a red pointing finger on it and my heart sank. Next to the recommendation that I reduce my department by 1.2 people were the words: Art Davies??

Art Davies?? I read again, and my heart fell a little further. Because those question marks might’ve seemed innocent, but they were as uncertain as a bullet to the chest.

Report Summarizing Guy is the direct liaison between management and the consultants. His job is to implement enough of their suggestions to justify the consultants’ ridiculous fees, and enable management to make their own PowerPoint presentation for the board claiming that 74 percent of the recommendations had been implemented.

So job well done.

Art Davies. Fuck. Art Davies is the guy who hired me six years ago, back when the department was a third the size and there weren’t any consultants around to notice that he wasn’t really the guy you wanted to entrust hiring and firing to. Truth be told, Art wasn’t the guy you wanted to entrust a lot of things to, but he was a great guy. Always in a good mood, quick to forgive your failings, always sending around some hilarious YouTube video right when your day was at the nadir of sucking.

I’d worked hard to help him escape the last two rounds of consultants. But he’d Peter-Principled himself to the head of the department, as guys like Art are wont to do, and when I’d been at the company enough years to satisfy the brass, we switched jobs. A couple years ago, I went up and he went down, and Art, good ole Art, took it so well you almost could’ve believed he didn’t give a shit.

“Couldn’t have happened to a better person,” he said, slapping me on the back like we were on some sitcom. “Look forward to working for you.”

I’d gone home in a deep funk and told my wife I wanted to quit. It took her hours to talk me out of it. Phrases like great opportunity and think what we can do with the extra money bounced off me, my resolve untouchable.

Until she said, “Art will probably be happier this way, you know. He never struck me as someone who wanted responsibility.”

I didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. Art probably would be happier if he didn’t have to hire and fire people, or report to the board, or implement Report Summarizing Guy’s suggestions.

So, I didn’t quit. Instead, I traded desks with Art, putting the silver-framed picture of my family in the faint dust outline the picture of his family had left, and went back to work. And now it had come to this.

And I couldn’t help wondering, if rising to the level of your own incompetence has a name, does having to fire the guy who hired you have one too?

When I’d phoned Tish to tell her about it, she’d made a small noise of sympathy. She knew how much I hated firing people.

“Why don’t you let HR do it?” she asked.

“No, I can’t do that.”

“Why not? Management does it all the time. Trust me.”

“Aren’t you always calling them pussies when they do?”

She laughed, a melodious thing. “Yeah, yeah. I wouldn’t call you that though.”

“Sure.”

“You know I wouldn’t.”

I sighed. “Okay, maybe not. But still.”

“You have to do it.”

“I have to do it.”

“Let me know if you want some tips.”

“You mean if I want your five-point plan for firing people effectively?”

“How the—” She clucked her tongue. “You little bastard. You read the whole report, didn’t you? Unbelievable.”

I smiled, even though she couldn’t see it. “I like having all the information.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have to keep ahead of those guys. You never know when they’re going to train their high beams on you.”

“You are so busted. ”

“I should get back to work.”

“Have fun with your numbers!”

“You know I will!”

I hung up and ran my hand over my face. As much as I liked talking to Tish, it didn’t change the fact that Art had to go, and I had to do it.

I spent Friday doing everything I could to put off the inevitable. But there wasn’t anything I could do about Art’s termination package, which was sitting on my desk. A blue folder full of helpful hints about what he might do with his future, and a single sheet of paper outlining his non-negotiable severance package. Fifty-six years old, twenty-two years with the company, not in management—thanks to me—meant he was getting 28.4 weeks of severance pay.

What was it with this company?

Couldn’t they ever think in round numbers?

But no, they couldn’t, because that would affect the pie chart, and that might end up with an eventual recommendation that they be terminated??

At four forty-five I gave one last sigh, and checked my email one last time. There was a message from Tish saying simply: Good luck.

Thanks, I typed back, I’ll give you the blow-by-blow later. I hit Send, turned off my computer, put my hands on my desk and pushed myself up.

Inertia’s a funny thing; even though it doesn’t make any sense scientifically speaking, I swear I had to push harder than usual. My steps down the hall also seemed heavier, thicker, like the feeling you get in a dream when you’re trying to run. Treacle air, molasses legs.

Art was sitting at his desk, an Excel spreadsheet open before him. He was squinting at the screen over the rim of his glasses. He never did get those bifocals his ophthalmologist had recommended a few months ago, and as per the package tucked under my arm, he had four weeks to do so or he was shit out of luck.

He glanced up at me. “Hey, Jeff, you think you could help me out on this one? I can’t seem to get the columns to balance.” He shook his head, half self-mocking, half puzzled.

“Why don’t you leave it, Art?”

“I have to get it done today. It’s on my goal sheet.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to do it.”

“You’re a braver man than—” He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of the folder. “That’s not…I mean…they couldn’t…not after all this time…”

“Why don’t we go into the conference room?”

He rose to follow me, shocked into silence. If my footfalls seemed heavy before, my feet were cement blocks now. We made it into the conference room, and Art slumped into the nearest chair. I tried not to slump into the one across from him. Project an air of confident compassion, Tish had counseled me. But what did that mean, really? I had compassion all right, but confidence?