Management Memo

It is not surprising that the best gossip is often conveyed in management memos like the one I wish to tell you all about.  Headly Images is a rather over-staffed enterprise where former college art majors gather to ply their talents in graphic art projects. I, of course, use the word “talent” ever cautiously since most of the artists do not have a clear sense of what artistic actually encompasses.

My name is Henry Pasternick and I work in the corner office.  In viewing the pecking order of Headly Images, you will find me clinging to the bottom rung of the corporate ladder.  Before being hired by Mr. Roener, my office was the broom closet which should give you some idea of why after five or so years, I am still clinging to the bottom rung. 

One of the advantages of being in the corner office is my total anonymity and invisibility in dealing with management.  I like it that way.  Granted, I do not often get the credit I deserve on some of the projects I have worked on, but the tradeoff is just fine with me.  I come to work each morning at the exact same time, I work on a project and I go home.  Nothing is expected of me since technically by management standards I do not exist.  I am a blank page with nothing noteworthy written on it.  I’ve seen what they do to worker-bees who dare to rise above their station.  They are quietly moved to the curb.  The void they leave behind is quickly filled by someone who has no idea of what transpired before they arrived.

I keep quiet.  There is plenty of gossip circulating, but my lips are sealed.

Or they were sealed until we got a memo from management sent to our overloaded email inbox. It read: 

To All Employees of Headly Images:

Male employees are no longer to use the restroom facilities until further notice.

I heard voices of discontent coming down the hall, all of them from male employees.  

Perhaps this would be a good juncture to better explain the situation.  For the fifty plus employees on the ground floor, there is but one bathroom that serves both sexes.  There is a bright red sign on the door labeled, “Restroom.”  Occupancy is one since there is but one toilet.  The door is locked by whomever is using the facility at the time and while I am sure it is not in keeping with current restroom requirements, it is what it is until we got the memo. 

Orlin Sanders was in the breakroom fuming when I happened to walk in.  Frederick Marks was discussing the nature of the email.

“What the hell!” Sanders slapped the break table with his open palm nearly spilling Marks’ coffee that he had just received from the vending machine. “This is an outrage.”

“What are we going to do?” Marks was wiping up the coffee that did manage to escape from his styrofoam cup.

“I am going to the labor board on this.” Orlin declared as I put my money in a vending machine to get myself a Pepsi.

“Is there even such a thing?” Frederick pondered.

“Must be.” He fumed. 

“We have the bathroom upstairs.” Frederick shrugged. Turning to me, Frederick smiled, “Hey Benny, how’s it going?”

“It’s Henry, sir.” I sat next to him.

“Right.” He pointed a finger at me, “Right you are.” 

“Did you hear me, Frederick?” Orlin held out his hands. “We males have to go upstairs to take care of our needs.” 

“It’s a few extra steps.” Frederick sighed hoping to end the conversation. 

“It’s just the start.” Orlin waved a finger in Frederick’s face.

The next day I saw Orlin Sanders cleaning out his desk.  His supervisor Mr. Chapelle was watching him, “You know Orlin, going to Mr. Young was not a very smart thing to do, right?”

“I guess.” He mumbled.

“People gotta learn that going off like that will only get you terminated.” He shook his head as he stood up, “I guess you figured that out.” 

“Sure did.” He shoved his art supplies into a plastic Alberston’s bag.

“Careful, some of those things belong to Headly.” Mr. Chapelle picked out a couple of mechanical pencils from the bag. 

“It’s a damn disgrace.” Orlin waved his finger at Mr. Chapelle. “That memo was uncalled for.” 

“I dunno, someone has been wee-weeing all over the floor in there.” He yanked his thumb over his shoulder toward the clearly marked restroom that was now off limits to male staff.  Orlin would have to worry about it anymore since he was headed out the door. 

“I heard it was Maynard O’Dell who was doing it.” Phil Renke stated at lunch as he ate his baloney sandwich like he did for the past sixteen years at the company.  There were five other employees gathered in the breakroom for lunch, all male. “I put in a complaint.”

“I think we should have a petition.” Thomas Grange pounded his fist on the table nearly upsetting Mr. Marks’ coffee.

“Great idea.” One of the newbees concurred.

“Now hold on a minute, they just let Orlin Sanders go this morning for raising a stink in Mr. Young’s office yesterday afternoon.  Old Man Young was in a private conference with Miss Sheila Overton.” Mr. Goodrich raised his hand as he spoke. 

“That explains it.” Phil spoke through his clenched teeth.

“This whole thing is a powder keg, ya know.” Mr. Goodrich shook his head.

“I don’t get it.” Phil Renke pounded the table with his fist. “It’s those damn women taken over.”

“Careful.” Frederick Marks held up his finger to interject. “This could be a serious matter.” 

“It. Already. Is.” Phil Renke leaned in to speak into Frederick’s ear as if it was a microphone.  Pausing between each word for emphasis, Phil made sure the older man got his point. 

“Some of us have a lot of time invested in this company and I feel it would be imprudent to turn this matter into an ultimatum.  We all saw what happened to Orlin.” Frederick shook his head, “What makes you think the same thing won’t happen to you?” 

“We are the talent.” Phil growled  “Mr. Young needs us.”

“Like hell he does.” Frederick smiled and shook his head. “We are a dime a dozen.  Management upstairs doesn’t even know most of your names. They will put you all out on the street and in the morning hire your replacements.  Talent is cheap, I’m telling you.” 

“Whose side are you on?” Phil appeared as if he wanted to start something right there.

“My side.” Frederick stood up to look Phil in the eye.  His dark eyes pooled Phil’s reflection. Swallowing hard, Phil wisely sat down in a chair around the table. 

That afternoon after lunch, the parade of male employees began to walk up the stairs to the restroom on the next floor.  I joined in their exodus since my bladder was feeling kind of full. 

The uneasy stalemate continued for another week as Phil Renke collected signatures of male employees who were angry about the memo.  

“Are you going to sign, Postman?” Phil asked me edging into my tiny office.

“It’s Pasternick, Mr. Renke.” I corrected him.

“Yeah, yeah, are you going to sign this, Pastergren?” He put the petition on my desk.  Picking up the document stating that the rights of the male employees had been violated, I began to feel like that cartoon where the devil is sitting on one shoulder and an angel is sitting on the other. 

“I don’t rightly know.” I shook my head.

“Well it’s time to poop or get off the pot.” His jaw was tight and his eyes were trying to burn a hole in my head. 

“My feelings are that if I sign this thing, I will be shown the door.” 

“I can show you the door right now, Paster-punk.” He leaned a little too close to me for my liking. 

“I am not going to sign that petition.” I shook my head.

“You are a spineless punk, do you know that?” He snarled menacingly. 

“No, but if you sing a couple of bars, I’m sure I can dance to it.”  I snapped my fingers.

“You are a good-for-nothing punk.” He slapped my desk with his open palm before turning on his heel and walking out.

Things were getting tense, but that was just the start. A new memo was sent out through our email:

To All Employees of Headly Images:

Male employees are no longer able to use the restroom facilities on the second floor.  Instead we have contracted a company to provide a Port-a-Potty outside the building in the fenced in holding area.

“Are you kidding me?” I muttered to myself.  Finding the energy to leave my office, I went to check out this new device.  Just beyond the back door was a port-a-potty.

“Good going.” Phil pushed past me and became the first person to use the new port-a-potty.  I could hear him declare, “It stinks in here.” 

Thus a new stage in the war was opened with management firing the first salvo. What I had not figured in was the gossip factor that was to follow, but I soon found this to be the cruelest turn of all.

When I got back to my desk, I saw a new email had been sent to me by Mr. Obberhoffman, Mr. Young’s able assistant.  It was a simple request that I come up to his office at my earliest convenience.  I figured my earliest convenience was right at this very moment.

I knocked on his closed door.

“Come in.” A pleasant voice responded. I opened the door and saw Otto Obberhoffman sitting staring at his laptop. When he looked up and saw me, a smile dashed on his face, “Mr. Pasternick, please have a seat.” 

“Thank you sir.” I nodded as I sat in the empty chair in front of his modest desk. “What can I do for you?” 

“It is a very delicate matter, I’m afraid.” He folded his hands on the desk in front of him.

“And what might that be?” I was puzzled as he hesitated.

“It seems that we have been having problems in the lavatory.” He put his hand to his mouth and coughed. He then tilted his head as if to change the angle of his view of me. 

“So I’ve gathered.” 

“And I have two written complaints that you are the one causing these indiscretions.” He tilted his head the other way to again change his viewing angle. 

“Me?”  The weight of what he had said finally hit me full force.

“Yes, it appears you are the one who has left these unsightly puddles behind when you urinate.” He swallowed the last word as if it was distasteful to say out loud. 

“No, I am not the one peeing on the floor.” I said trying to keep a hold of my quick temper, but like a man with a dog on a leash, the power of the mighty predator became a challenge to control.

“I am just informing you that two employees have filed a complaint.” He could not look me in the eye as he spoke.

“May I ask who filed the complaints?” I asked, flabbergasted.

“No you may not.” He shook his head.

“So now what?” I could feel my grip weaken on the leash.  With a couple more insinuations, my furious dog would break free.  

“There is nothing you can do.” He shrugged, “Do you wish to make a statement?”

I did.

“I’m sorry Mr. Pasternick, I am not allowed to write such words in your statement.” His face did not change expression. “I could put explicitive in the place of the words you used provided you sign the statement.” 

“Give me a pen.”

Gossip is like a virus often producing the same results.  My privacy and anonymity had been forever shattered.  I now felt as if I was walking down the runway of a fashion show as people would peer over their cubicles at me as if I was the star.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment we are presenting Mr. Pasternick, the man who because of his carelessness using the company restroom has ruined the privilege for all male employees in Headly Images.  Let’s hear it for him.”  Applause echoes in my head.

Sitting in the sanctuary of my office, I can feel people looking at me as they pass.  When I do feel the pressure of nature’s call, I slide out as quietly as I can.   Like a reclusive spy trying to avoid detection, I slither out the back and enter a plastic room that smells foul upon entering and has all the amenities of a hillbilly outhouse.  Someone has kindly left a newspaper tucked in a small hidey-hole.

“Did you leave your usual calling card?” Phil asked me as I came in the door.  I did not say anything, but then sometimes silence can be very incriminating. 

From my perspective, things were getting quite unbearable as rumors and innuendos seemed to be flying everywhere with my name attached to these bits of idle gossip.  The only positive spin in the whole affair was that at least people were beginning to remember my name.  I was no longer the nobody occupying the ex-broom closet at the end of the hallway, but my new found notoriety was not helping my career either.  

“I have an idea.” I felt emboldened to raise my hand at a production meeting.  The other associates turned their heads and pretended as if I was an uninvited ghost.  Each time I attempted to interject some of my ideas, they all pressed on as if I had not said anything.  Before at previous production meetings, I sat there daring not to speak for fear I would not be taken seriously, but now I was just being ignored because of something I had been rumored to have done.  Honestly, I’m not sure which of the two options is worse.

“I wish to change my statement.” I told Mr. Obberhoffman.

“You can’t do that.” His dull dishwater eyes opened wide.  His facial expression revealed that what I was asking was impossible.  

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because, because…because it’s part of the permanent record…is why.” He stuttered as he spoke.  Some people are like that.  They begin to stutter when the truth is difficult to say.  Or they can’t think up a lie quick enough.  It was darn easy to see which was the case.  I chose the latter. 

“I believe the truth is best served in my recantination.” I could see how my phrasing was confusing to him.  More stuttering, but this time quite incoherent.  “In careful consideration, I believe that I am guilty of soiling the floor as stated in the management memo dated three weeks ago.  It was at that time management imposed an across the board banishment of all male personnel from the restroom.  Despite its sexist stance on this matter, I am willing to come forward and make my claim since I have already been accused and found guilty by company gossip.” 

“You can’t say that.” Obberhoffman said in a shallow voice. 

“Why not, it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I put the typed document on his desk.

“You make some allegations that are not necessarily fact.” He picked up the document, adjusted his horned rimmed glasses and pretended to read it. 

“How so?  I have lived the past week in my office and have been subjected to allegations and eye witness accounts that I am the one with the poor aim…as it were.” I folded my arms across my chest. 

“This is…is…putting us in a bad light.” He managed to squeak out.

“And this is my resignation letter.  You are not at liberty to change a single word since I have signed it.” I put the letter on his desk.  I will save you the trouble of Obberhoffman’s reaction to my letter, so I will just present it as written:  

To whom it may concern, 

I, Henry Pasternick, have loyally served Headly Images Inc. for over five years and in that time, I have been both design artist and company scapegoat.  In the first capacity, I contributed very little since those project managers did not value either my ideas or my creative inspiration.  While I am not taking issue with the rejection of my professional abilities, it was not until I became the company scapegoat when I gained a certain amount of notoriety.

As the company's unwitting scapegoat, it is my hope that I managed to serve the company very well. Through the gossip channels, of which I became the main topic of discussion,  I am led to believe I served honorably and managed to gain some opprobrium for my tenure as scapegoat. In this capacity,  I am glad I could be of service.  To be remembered as the employee whose aim was lacking, I do take pride in my meager accomplishments.  

It is for the reasons I have stated that I am tendering my resignation.  Not for the injustice of being falsely accused through gossip, rather that like all scapegoats before me, the penalty far outweighed the offense.  It is when we build cages and exclude people from our perfect societies based on principles we assume are just, we discover as time washes away the intent, it leaves only with the weight of our miscalculations and hasty conclusions and the victims.  I hope my letter will serve as a warning and a lesson for the future of the company.

Wishing for best possible future, 

Henry Pasternick