severed Ties

Severed Ties

The design of the cubicles on the second-floor offices of the Aero-fast Inc. building are laid out as intentionally as those loathed neckties that the V.P of procurement, John Watson, picks each morning, fingers incessantly through the day as he stalks the aisles, with the color and design of those ties presaging the type of day his subordinates will have, like a mood-ring on a volatile teenager. His nest of productivity was always chirping with activity as parts were ordered, parts were shipped; parts were lost and found, directed and redirected, and if all went well—which it always did, with a taskmaster as willing as that bull-named-John—then jets were assembled and delivered to customers; then bonuses were heaped upon Mr. Watson and his superiors: the Masters of the Third Floor.

It may not surprise anyone to learn that the trickling down of that bonus structure petered out before it made it to those busy souls filling those desolate cubicles, on an office floor where fear reigned supreme and the neckties set the scene: today, for example, John is wearing a very conservative, cobalt tie, no designs and a titanium tie-clip holding it into place; usually more expressive with his neckwear, it gets more subdued (so I’ve been told) as the end-of-quarter approaches and he takes up the whip to drive on the chariot of commerce, the mares and stallions he depends on in their grey-cubicle-hell, with fresh white paint on the looming walls, a perfect stall for those beasts of burden.

There is very little color on offer in this barren place, but it was all concentrated in a back-corner-cubicle, forlorn and looking like a satellite knocked out of its orbit. This is where the desk of Becky Thatcher sat, very near the red-gash of an exit sign screaming by the stairwell adjacent her cubicle; the sign was government mandated color, and though I’m sure it agitated that debased bull-in-a-necktie greatly, but he was no match for the state bureaucracy, so Mr. Watson allowed it to exist there in spite of himself.

The only other bit of color in the office wasn’t government-mandated or any way native to the building itself which were two items perched on the top of Mrs. Thatcher’s lone cubicle, standing defiant like a homing beacon pulsing towards her compatriots in their sad, grey galaxy: a red, plastic poinsettia, and little green cactus arms akimbo like it were giving her coworkers a thumbs-up and offering her boss the proudest one-fingered salute.

The two glaring icons affixed to her cubicle were a victor’s relic from a battle with the old bull, Watson. This all happened before my time, but I was brought up to speed by a coworker, Linda Millikin, inside one of the four quiet-spots, which were offices that ran along the sides of the cubicle farm’s floor, used for meetings; the only private office on the floor, of course, was Watson’s which sat in the western corner of the floorplan and had a commanding view of the cubicle-farm.

Linda and I were waiting for a meeting with a supplier, sitting at this hulking conference table and I was wondering about the poor saps who had to lug this thing in here, moving being fresh in my mind from relocating for this current opportunity. It was then that I looked out and just happened to notice that striking green and red flag of defiance and looked to Linda and asked, “what’s the deal with those?” as I gestured to the fake-flower and the succulent.

“Oh, that’s something we’ll never forget around here,” she said as the proud smile formed on her face. “So, even though he is the boss, and is who should rightfully answer any questions, Mr. Watson HATES when people ask any questions, and a couple of months ago he has one of his great ideas.”

“Oh, boy! I can only imagine where this is going” I chime in.

Linda’s grin grows a little larger, and she continues, “So, you’re already familiar with the big-brained ideas, huh?”

“Yes, unfortunately he is my direct supervisor and has already corrected my outlook on work/life balance—which is to say it shouldn’t exist until I’m older, in management and basically, him.” I looked out the glass that made up the office-facing wall of the quiet room, looking out to see if our colleague, Jason Atkins was bringing in the big-wigs from Bowman machine shop, which makes several of our specialized pieces for the production floor, and not seeing them anywhere in sight I went right on with our conversation, “He’s also given some unasked-for advice and myriad amounts of unwanted and useless information, a lot of which involves his reasoning behind his daily choice of neck-tie.”

“Self-absorbed bastard” said my coworker, loosening up a little as she sensed I was on their side and not some company sycophant. “Everything comes back to those damn ties! I can even remember he was wearing a Sopranos tie—don’t get me started on those silly themed ties he wears—the day he had his great idea, he was standing there so cocksure and molesting that tie as he laid out his grand-plan: hanging a red or green tie on his doorknob, like a dorm-room booty-call, indicating if he were taking questions or visitors, and suddenly the man owned not even a single tie in any shade of green.”

I can imagine him manhandling the Sopranos tie, taking the office atmosphere from a solid PG-rating to R, pontificating on the privacy of executives and how hard they work, sounding like a real sob-story when my reverie and our conversation is interrupted by an incoming text message. It’s Jason, who is downstairs in the lobby and just wanting to let us know that the Bowman folks had to cancel last minute, something about an emergency with one of the reps who were supposed to be present, and asked if we could reschedule.

Since we had the time blocked off for the meeting already, we decided to just use the rest of the hour we had to have a strategy session to prepare for the meeting we should have been having, which, to us, meant Linda would continue with the story of the two icons. As soon as we had agreed that that was the plan, we saw Becky Thatcher’s fire-ball red hair crest the top of her cubicle; a raging, red planet storming over the horizon. Neither Linda nor I could tell if she had won the lottery or seen a bug--as her face was facing the opposite direction, which happened to be the direction of Watson’s office--but we could tell she wasn’t standing up just to stretch.

Watsons office was across from us, on the other side of the little galaxy of cubicles that sat in the center of the office and afforded the perfect view of Becky Thatcher taking all of her five-feet-and-six-inches barreling towards the bullpen. Becky wasn’t a very talkative person, you heard her fingers clacking the keyboard way more than you heard her speak, but not even her nimble fingers could express as much as the gait of that little titan storming into that office.

Linda picked up her story as we saw the two of them start a lively conversation through the glass-front of Watson’s office, him looking surprised and the gesticulation of Becky’s arms seeming quite serious. We pretended not to look while Linda proceeded to lay out the story of how, after John’s rousing speech that day, Becky had talked much of the cubicle farm into using red and green objects, perched on their cubicles to also indicate if they were in any mood to be bothered. She tells me that the next thing you know there are thermoses, larger-than-average crayons, fruits, vegetables and many other green and red items, brought from home and battling back against the Bull and his bland haven.

“Yes, sir,” Linda merrily went on, “Watson was as mad as a devil, and he threatened to fire anyone who displayed anything on their cubicles that wasn’t work related.”

“That sounds about right, pretty on-brand for him” was my reply, and like coworkers do, we talked about how everyone took their things down in compliance with his tyrannical demands, except for the defiant Becky, who left hers up--knowing the company royalty upstairs would melt down if she were let go; so she left them out like a crater on that fragile moon. I was starting to deduce that Becky Thatcher was placed in the corner because she is a lot of the things the Bull and the Masters of the Third Floor hated: efficient, articulate (when she was inclined to speak), prone to take notes and bring receipts, but what they probably hated most—besides her being female and daring to not be in their dating-pool—was that she knew her worth and despite being small in stature, she would demand her spot at the table; a really rare moon, indeed.

I can’t really remember what morsels of gossip we were digesting when it happened. It just happened.

The situation in the office across the way was flaring up, very dramatically. Watson had burst out of his expensive chair and looked uncomfortable like he was trying to hold in a shit. He starts to make his way towards the blinds, I’m assuming to lower them and save some dignity, when that tiny-ball-of-fire boxes him out like she was on the varsity basketball squad, and she is motioning out that wall of glass, at our little galaxy, at all of us, as if saying “I don’t give a damn, Watson, let them watch you earn those preposterous bonuses that we sweat and get laid off for.”

Watson was on the ropes, and I could see he was out of his element. I’m sure I would have been folded up and turned into office furniture if I had done half of what was apparently going on in there. He knew there wasn’t anything he could do, physically, and being physical is his bailiwick, and so he was struck dumb. Just when I thought the quarrel to be letting up, then his face turned mean, and he must have said something horrendous, because in a flash of movement Becky grabbed a pair of scizzors that sat in a politically offensive coffee cup on Watsons desk along with pens, highlighters and such. Linda and I sat there wide-eyed, caught somewhere between homicide and high comedy, as Becky grabs the Bull by the reigns of his necktie and snips it right below the knot.

I’m dumbfounded, not sure who else can see the action as Becky walks out the door proudly, carrying the severed necktie like a victory banner from a mission overthrowing an evil empire. She then walks to her desk, grabs her purse and jacket, but leaves her two defiantly colored items in full view, and just walks out. Mr. Watson immediately lowers the blinds and it’s several minutes before we speak again. Linda finally breaks the silence and say’s “well those Bowman reps sure missed a show today, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s the understatement of the day”

We continued on with our strategy session, staring at the closed blinds of his office, and I heard other stories, such as how he wore a Halloween-themed tie that had a hatchet on it on a day, in August, that he was firing three of their colleagues; but no matter what we talked about we kept wondering about that conversation between Becky and the Bull.

It was several quiet-room gossip sessions later that we finally found out what had happened, which was that Becky was, as most of us suspected, responsible for a good chunk of the ideas and reports that the Bull fed up to the Masters of the Third Floor and was a slam dunk for a promotion that was coming up, and most everyone, company royalty included, assumed Becky the best candidate.

This obviously didn’t sit well with Watson, and he emailed the Masters to appeal their decision, and suggested that they put Hayden (who was the newest employee there, excluding myself, and was generally despised for starting to wear bowties and shamefully playing second-fiddle to the Bull) up for promotion. This proposition, in all reality, would have been shot down on sight, as even the Masters of the Third Floor seemed to dislike the little cretin, Hayden. The big hick-up came because John, not being savvy at much, definitely not technology, was trying to copy Hayden on his email chain, and had accidentally added Becky as well. I never saw Becky Thatcher again, and the Bull, after being castrated in full view, gave up on the neckties for the two or three weeks it took him to move on to greener pastures.