Joshua Ferris - Then We Came to the End

FIVE YEARS LATER — WHO’S HANK? — THE DAY OF THE GODFATHER — THE MONTAGUES AND THE CAPULETS — JIM GOES TO A MEETING — FOR US IT WAS NEVER A WORRY — HANK’S READING — HANDLEBAR HARRY — TO LYNN, AND LATER, TO TOM — THE REFORMED LAMA — IN THE END

IN THE SUMMER OF 2006, Benny Shassburger received an e-mail from someone he couldn’t place. The name was familiar, he knew he should know it, but the longer he stared at it the more it eluded him. He said the name aloud. His cubicle neighbor, a lank, annoying person who never let anything go by without making inquiries, popped his sandy groundhog’s head over the cube wall and said, “What’d you say?” Benny hardly had the energy to explain. “I’m just talking to myself,” he said. Ian replied that there was a new study claiming that whenever anyone said something out loud and then someone else asked, “What did you say?” and that person responded that he was just talking to himself, that that person wasn’t just talking to himself, but in fact was most likely addressing someone specific, even if only subconsciously. Ian kept abreast of all the new studies. Benny felt tired.

Where had we located the energy? Updating our resumes, interviewing again, learning a new commute route. We had spread out across the industry, finding work at other agencies, at design firms and in-house marketing departments, usually the first place that would have us. The less fortunate or talented among us went to direct-mail shops or turned to the temp agencies for uninsured day jobs. The floor plans, the shapes of the desks, the names of the people, and the colors of the corporate logos were all new and different, but the song and dance remained the same. We were delighted to have jobs. We bitched about them constantly. We walked around our new offices with our two minds. All those new faces and names to memorize, the strange coffee pots and unfamiliar toilet seats. We had new W-4s to fill out and never knew if it was zero or one that would give us more money back. HR was there to assist, but they were never as good as our old HR. We spent the first two or three weeks, and some of us more like a month or two, in isolation and anonymity. For an unbearable spell, lunch was a solitary affair. Only slowly did we get folded into the mix, only slowly did the new political realities start to dawn. Who was wrangling and for what, who was crass, arrogant, stupid, powerful, fake, prepossessing, double-crossing, or a good person all around — all this began to shake out. But it didn’t happen overnight. It took weeks, it took months, and that we mustered up the oomph to start over again at new agencies was a testament to our tenacity. It was a sign that buried beneath all the bitching, there were parts of the job we loved. It was proof we needed the money.

“You know I’m a friendly guy,” Benny said into the phone, peering over the cube wall to be sure Ian hadn’t returned. “But I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m telling you, this guy Ian? He’s destroying my core personality.”

Some had adjusted better than others. There was freedom in starting over because nobody knew yet if you were crass, arrogant, stupid, powerful, fake, prepossessing, double-crossing, or a good person all around. You could reinvent yourself. Wasn’t that part of the promise of America? A few blissful months passed in which pigeonholing was impossible. Lessons learned from past mistakes held us in good stead. Some of us displayed a rapid growth in political savvy. Others wondered what happened. “I used to be such a mensch,” Benny continued. “Remember? People used to come into my office and I would regale them with stories. With the exception of maybe Paulette Singletary, I was the person everybody loved the most. What happened?”

“Why don’t you come down to my office and let’s talk about it,” Jim said to him.

When Benny arrived, there he was. Jim Jackers. Composing an e-mail. If the expression on Jim’s face was any indication, thought Benny, the fate of the entire agency depended on that one e-mail. Benny took a seat across from him and waited. He disliked being on this side of the desk. He wanted to be on that side. Jim’s side.

“Okay, listen,” said Jim, once he had finished composing the all-important e-mail. “You’re next in line for an office, okay? You just have to be patient.”

“How do you know I’m next?” asked Benny.

“I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. But you gotta wait until somebody vacates. We can’t just kick somebody out of an office they’re already in and send them to a cube.”

“I was kicked out of an office and sent to a cube.”

“Because you lost your job,” said Jim.

“A technicality,” Benny replied. He sat back in his chair. “Don’t get me wrong, Jim. I’m eternally grateful to you for hiring me. I’ve been doing freelance too long. But a small agency doesn’t suit me the way it suits you. I can’t look at the same thirty people over and over again every day. I need multiple floors. I’ve learned this about myself. I’m a creature whose natural habitat is multiple floors. And I need an office. I miss my old office. I miss the people. You know who I miss? I’ll tell you who I miss,” he said. “I miss Old Brizz.”

“How can you miss Old Brizz?” asked Jim. “You never really knew him. If you miss him at all, it’s because he was old and he died and nobody here currently occupying an office fits that description.”

“Jim, you have turned into a cynical man,” Benny said. “I blame the corrupting influence of power. I miss Old Brizz because I got ten bucks a pop from all you Charlton Heston hopefuls when poor Old Brizz kicked off.” He got closer to Jim across the desk and lowered his voice. “What I miss, Jim, is Celebrity Death Watch. I can’t even get a Super Bowl pool going on around here. What is wrong with these people? I’m not clicking and it’s driving me crazy. I miss clicking. Speaking of which,” he said, sitting back. “Who’s Hank Neary?”

Jim’s attention was seized by the sound of the name. “Hank Neary,” he said. “Hank Neary.” Furrowing his brow and looking away, he slowly, methodically incanted the name as a word absent of all meaning. “Hank,” he said. “Hank. Hank.”

“We worked with him, right?”

“Hank Neary,” said Jim. “Hank Neary.”

“Didn’t we work with him, Jimmy? At the old agency?”

“Hold on. Give me a minute,” said Jim. “We worked with him.”

“Neary,” said Benny, slitting his eyes at Jim. “Hank Neary.”

“Hank Neary,” said Jim. “It’s escaping me.”

“My memory,” said Benny, shaking his head.

“Mine, too. You know what? Call Marcia. She’ll know.”

Benny shook his head. “Can’t call Marcia right now,” he replied. “Marcia’s mad at me.”

“What’s she mad at you for?”

“Jim, have I got a story to tell you,” he exclaimed. “I’ve got the best story you’ve ever heard. Hold on a second while I get more coffee.”

“No, Benny —”

“What?”

“I got a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Oh.”

“Well, don’t get defeated,” said Jim, seeing Benny’s disappointment. “I still got ten minutes.”

“All right, I’ll do without the coffee. But do me a favor,” said Benny. “Let me sit in your chair while I tell it.”

“Are you serious?”

Benny got up. Jim got up reluctantly and they switched places. Benny smiled. He was on the right side of the desk again. He could look out into the hall and see all the people passing by and call them in.

“Michael!” he hollered out into the hall. “Michael, get in here and listen to my story. It’s a terrific story, you’ll love it.”