The Hole in the Middle (2 page)

“I'll go and see him once I've had an update from Justine. So if you could get her for me, that would be great. Thanks,” I say, retreating into my office and closing the door behind me.

I see my computer sitting innocently enough on my desk, but I'm not fooled. Recently, I have fallen into the habit of ascribing human characteristics to my computer, and unfortunately, our relationship has taken a turn for the pathological. This week, I'm having trouble shaking the irrational conviction that my computer is poised for an attack; each morning, I quake inwardly as I push the power button and hear, in the hum of waking machinery, a marauding army of data collecting itself and preparing to barrel over the horizon at me.

I log in, and the screen fills with e-mail—definitely more than twenty. Could it be as many as fifty? I avert my eyes in horror. The computer seems to vibrate with a malevolent energy; I'm convinced that it senses my fear, like a rabid dog. I back away and peek out into the hallway. “And, Joy? Could you please call everyone and postpone the staff meeting? I've got to sort out this thing with Justine.”

Joy has been at the hospital for twenty-seven years. Her seniority guarantees her a position with someone on the executive team, but she gets passed around like a hot potato because she has the worst attitude in the secretarial pool. She is also not particularly competent, and it's hard to tell if she's bad at her job because she hates it, or if she hates it because
she's bad at it. You could spend a lot of time on this age-old philosophical debate about chickens and eggs, but the real takeaway is this: getting good secretarial help is not unlike winning at musical chairs; the people who think it has anything to do with luck are usually the ones left standing when the music stops. Your chances are always going to improve if you're willing to keep your elbows out, but I, against a mountain of evidence disproving it, have always clung to the belief that civility is rewarded in the end. And even if I were prepared to sink into the fray, my bargaining power is constrained by the fact that my department, communications, is a cost center, not a profit center, which is to say that we spend money instead of bringing it in. This is a designation that presages all kinds of large and small disappointments. It's the profit centers that hold the real power in any organization, and that are routinely showered with staff and budgets. Not for the first time, I consider the merits of my career choices.

Joy actually rolls her eyes. “They're not going to like it, you know. It's the second time this week. Erica is totally pestering me about getting some time with you.”

“I get it,” I tell her. “I'll meet with them today. I just can't do it right now. Can you please let them know?”

Joy sighs heavily and departs.

“Thank you, Joy,” I call after her. “I really appreciate it!”

Deep down, I suspect that the real reason Joy works for me is that I am the only person in the office who is willing to put up with her. As I do each morning, I remind myself that Joy is paid to show up every day and make my life easier. The fact that she refuses to fulfill this basic requirement calls for a serious conversation with the HR department, but I would rather suffer than invest my emotional energy in a doomed attempt at performance management. I'm just going to wait until someone with less power than I have is hired, so that I can pass Joy off and continue the cycle of dysfunction.

I feel a little light-headed, and am taking deep, calming breaths as Justine appears in my doorway. As the director of special events, Justine is the only person with less power than me on the senior management
team. I feel for her. Event planning is a career for masochists. Events can fail for almost infinite and wholly unpredictable reasons. Providing name tags? You'd better hope that the temp who is preparing them remembers to include the appropriate honorific after the name of the megalomaniac on the board. Using audio-visuals? Pray that the AV department sends the smart guy who actually knows how to use the equipment and not the stoner who is mailing in his last few years until he can trigger his pension and still hasn't really figured out how to work those newfangled computers. Serving food? Look out for the myriad of allergies—news to you—that are likely to endanger the life of a major donor. While you're at it, hope that the bartender has recovered from the fight with her boyfriend and decides to show up after all. And here's the kicker: even if you throw the best event in the world, the volunteers will take all the credit and you'll be left managing feedback like “Didn't you think the vinaigrette was a little too citrusy? Can you make sure that doesn't happen again next year?”

Justine is made from tough stuff, though. She's been managing events for close to fifteen years and has nerves of steel. But today, she looks panic-stricken.

“What happened last night?” I ask. “Barry is freaking out. He's practically stalking me. What's going on?”

Justine groans. “It was horrible, Sophie. You can't imagine.”

“I don't understand. I thought we were just rubber-stamping approval for the art for the posters and website last night. It was supposed to be a short meeting.”

“I know,” says Justine. “Claudio did a great job on the photos. Very sexy—gorgeous models, loincloths, Cleopatra—everyone loved it.”

“So what's the problem?”

Justine wrinkles her nose as though she has just tasted something bitter. “They don't like the theme anymore,” she says.

I'm stunned. We have spent months trying to get the volunteers to agree on a theme for the evening. Every single detail flows from the theme—music, entertainment, décor, and most importantly from the perspective of the volunteers, wardrobe. It was a big day when they
finally settled on “Walk Like an Egyptian,” which the volunteers felt provided an esthetic bridge between the retro cool of eighties girl-band music and the sophisticated elegance of the wildly fashionable Halston-style goddess dresses. More importantly from my perspective, the decision allowed us to move forward with hiring an outside designer and getting the promotional materials done. In truth, the website should have been up a month ago. We are supposed to start selling tickets next week.

Justine shakes her head. “Apparently, the fundamental appeal of the Egyptian theme had to do with being able to get the Bangles to perform.”

“The Bangles,” I repeat. This is news to me. How did this never come up? “Didn't they break up, like, twenty years ago?”

“Well, it turns out that they're back together. They're doing a reunion tour, and Janelle saw them in L.A. last month. But they're committed to a long-term gig in Vegas through the spring and can't do the Gala.”

“Can't we just get another girl band?”

“I tried that.” Justine grits her teeth. “Just be glad you weren't there, Sophie. It was a freight train. It couldn't be stopped. Janelle converted every single person on the committee in the space of ten minutes. By the end, everyone agreed that the theme was too stiff without the Bangles tying it together.”

“Stiff? What about the male models in loincloths, the belly dancers, the palm trees, and the dance party in the pharaoh's tomb?” I can't believe this is happening.

Justine's smile turns nasty. “Do you know what the real problem is?” she asks. “They suddenly realized that they'd all be wearing the same dress. Not that anyone was crass enough to come out and say it.”

“Oh my God,” I say. “There's no way they'll change their minds, then?”

“Nope.”

“I need to think,” I say. “Don't cancel anything.” I suddenly remember Barry. “What are we going to tell Barry?”

“I think he knows,” says Justine. “Janelle said that she was going to tell him.”

As if on cue, Joy pops her head in the door. “Barry wants to see you now,” she says.

“Are you coming with me?” I ask Justine.

“Not a chance, friend,” she replies. “My ears are still ringing from the slap-down I got from him this morning. I'm planning on staying out of his way for as long as possible. Anyway, you can handle him. He likes you. More than he likes me, at least.”

“Low bar,” I say.

monday, december 2, 2013

I turn down the hall with all of the enthusiasm of a delinquent teenager heading to the principal's office. I wonder, idly, if Barry will make the effort to call me by my name today. Based on experience, the odds are around 60-40 against, but it's hard to predict. He usually just calls everyone “pal” or “buddy”—even people whose names he must know. He reminds me of my elementary school principal, who called all the girls “princess” and all the boys “cowboy.” Barry's cut from the same cloth; he's just updated the nomenclature to reflect the ostensibly gender-neutral values of our age.

Barry Wise is the chair of the board of the hospital. He is my boss as well, although only temporarily. Under normal circumstances, the chair of the board would make only rare appearances on the administrative floors of the hospital, which is what everyone would prefer. However, my former boss is on an extended leave after some allegations were raised about the extent of his interest in children. Ever since the police paid a visit to his house and left with his computer, he's been a dead man in the corridors of the Baxter Hospital. I've already drafted the press release announcing my boss's early retirement and praising his visionary
leadership during a period of growth and change. We'll hit
Send
as soon as the search committee announces its choice.

In the meantime, Barry has taken up residence in the office of the vice president of advancement, just down the hall from me. I find him with his back to the door, staring out the window. It's a studied pose, designed to give the impression that he is wrestling with a management issue of great complexity. But since he begins virtually every meeting this way, I've concluded that he is simply watching the pigeons and waiting for the opportunity to practice his pained, faraway expression, befitting one who must climb down from a lofty perch of contemplation to deal with the mundane matters below. It is an expression that has been imitated in the staff room on countless occasions, usually after Barry has made a particularly boneheaded pronouncement. In truth, Barry has absolutely no idea what any of us do, and why should he? He runs a hedge fund, and is only the chair of the board because he has what is known in our business as “capacity”: he is rich, and so are all of his friends.

“Hi, pal,” he says. “So I hear we have a problem.”

I dip my toe in, very cautiously. “Justine briefed me,” I say. “I understand that the volunteers want to change the theme. Of course that will be difficult, not to mention expensive, at this stage. Not impossible, but definitely far from ideal.”

“Hmmm.” Barry nods sagely. “I've spoken at length with Janelle about this issue.” Of this I have no doubt. Barry is putty in Janelle's hands and she knows it. I can see that we are doomed. But I make one more attempt.

“I think that we need to be quite concerned about the impact that this could have on ticket sales, Barry,” I say. “Our experience suggests that we need at least ten weeks of advertising to get the word out. The designers have been working on the marketing for at least a month. We are going to run out of time.”

“I hear you, buddy,” says Barry. “But Janelle assures me that she can make up any losses by selling tables to her friends.”

“It's not that simple, Barry,” I say. “If we change the theme now,
we'll throw away thousands of dollars, not to mention all of the time that our staff has put in on this project. We can't recoup those losses with ticket sales. Our budget for the event already assumes that we'll sell all the tickets.”

Barry's expression hardens. He hates being told what to do, especially by women. And even more especially by young women. I brace myself for the explosion, but it doesn't come. The restraint is uncharacteristic, and I wonder why he is making the effort.

“Look, pal,” he says. “I know it's going to be a lot of work for you.”
For me?
“But you'll just have to put your head together with—”

“Justine?” I suggest.

“Justine, precisely. Tell her that I want you two working together on this. You have my full confidence. I look forward to hearing what you come up with.”

“Um, Barry? You know that I'm always available to help, but my responsibility for the Gala is pretty limited to the marketing side.” I can see Barry's face starting to redden. “I'd be reluctant to horn in on Justine's territory. She's doing a terrific job and I wouldn't want to give her the impression . . .”

I trail off as I see Barry's expression darken and his cheeks begin to puff out in a malevolent expression known around our office as the Blowfish. “We're not selling aluminum siding around here!” he huffs. “We don't have territories. This is a game for team players, and we need to get in the same boat and row together. When someone tells me something isn't in her job description, I hear an excuse—and what's my motto?”

“There are no excuses in business,” I say.

“You got it in one shot,” says Barry.

Barry's contempt for the HR department and all of its policies and procedures is well-documented, so it seems pointless to tell him that very little of what I do every day is actually in my job description. And in any event, I know my strategic advantage. I'm a stroker, a smoother; I'm the career-girl version of the angel in the house. I'm nurturing and supportive; I can be relied upon to laugh at jokes, even when they are bad or inappropriate or at my expense; I'm still slightly better-than-
average-looking, holding steady with the help of well-fitting bras and control-top hose and incredibly expensive moisturizer; and I work hard at being nonthreatening in every way. And that is why I'm going to fall on my sword, fix the problem, and make Barry feel like he's in charge. Not for the first time, I contemplate the years I spent in graduate school on women's studies. I should have done something useful, like Latin.

Barry is looking at me expectantly. It's my cue. “Of course, Barry,” I say. “Justine and I will get right on it. Don't you worry. It will all turn out just fine.”

“Excellent!” Barry beams. “I knew I could count on you, buddy. Now, there is just one other thing that I wanted to discuss with you.”

I make my way back to my office in a state of disbelief and with my arms full of binders, living proof of the axiom that no good deed goes unpunished. Now in addition to assisting with the Gala, I have been selected to serve as the staff rep on the search committee for the new vice president of advancement. The only good news is that it should be done by next week. The bad news is there are at least three meetings this week, and accommodating them is going to require scheduling contortions that would be awe-inspiring even if I had a willing assistant, and probably impossible in my current circumstances.

Barry is a little disappointed in me; I think he expected me to exhibit more obvious pride at being plucked from the herd and elevated so far above my station. But it's widely known that the committee has been meeting for at least a month without a staff rep, a state of affairs that has been both observed and roundly denounced for weeks in the staff kitchen, a closet just spacious enough for a coffeemaker, a microwave, and two employees muttering to each other about a conspiracy at the highest levels to circumvent the collective agreement. Now it appears that someone has checked the hospital bylaws and realized that staff consultation is a disagreeable necessity. There's no way to disguise the fact that I'm joining up by way of a shotgun wedding, since they've picked a short list and start interviewing this week. But I can smile for the photo if that's what's
required. I'm supposed to go through all of the applications today and let them know if there is anyone else that I think should be included on the short list; I think I can make time to flip the pages, show up for the meeting, and venture no opinion, which is exactly what the committee wants from me.

Geoff Durnford sticks his head into my office, and I feel my spirits lift. Everyone should have an employee like Geoff. He is the head writer on my team and does incredible work with almost no direction. He never gives me a hard time about anything, never whines, and never demands attention. I can take him to any meeting; I can even send him in my place. The rest of the staff admires him, and when I'm not available—which is all too often lately—he steps in and keeps the team on course. His fashion sense runs to the whimsical, especially in ties and socks, and today his ankles are adorned with a riotous paisley in pink and tangerine. He is tragically single, but I just know there is a perfect man out there for him, someone who loves theater and fine restaurants and will overlook the fact that his hair is thinning as quickly as his middle is thickening.

“Not your best day?” he asks. “Have you even checked your e-mail yet?”

“Is there anything urgent?” I ask.

“Probably not super-urgent,” he says. “Although Erica's head is going to explode if you don't sign off on the Family Care Center press release today.”

“Noted,” I say. “Have you seen it?”

“It's fine,” he says. “It's all boilerplate except paragraph six. That's the only part you have to read.”

“Can you e-mail it to me?”

With a flourish like a conjurer, he whips a few pieces of paper out from behind his back. “I just happen to have it here,” he says. “Since I had a feeling that you may be a bit behind on your e-mail.” He grins, flips over the first page of the document, and places it in front of me, pointing to the relevant paragraph. “Just read this,” he says. I do what I'm told.

“It'll do,” I say. “Tell her to issue it, with my apologies for the delay.”

“Done,” says Geoff. “I'm heading down to grab a coffee. Can I bring something back for you?”

“You're an angel,” I say. I don't have time to run downstairs, and in any event, I need to stay as far away from Nigel as possible. “Hot tea, please. With lemon.”

Geoff looks concerned. “Are you sick again?” he asks. I shrug and Geoff shakes his head. “Has it occurred to you that your body might be trying to tell you something?” he asks.

“It can get in line,” I say.

At ten past one, I'm walking as quickly as I can with the binders in my arms. I'm late, of course; I'm always late these days. I can remember a time before I had children when I was always early; I have a mental picture of myself standing outside the movie theater, waiting for friends, checking my watch every thirty seconds starting at the appointed hour. Back then I thought chronic lateness was a character flaw, evidence of a profound self-absorption. Now I regard it as a mark of efficiency. Imagine how much time you would lose if you were early for everything. I read once that economists say if you travel for business you should miss one out of every three flights; the repeated close shaves save you more time than the occasional missed flight loses you. I like this justification; the alternative theory is that I can't get my shit together to be on time for anything anymore, but I don't like that one as much.