Gossip is a Thing with Feathers

Deb was sure she had him by the balls when the Corrine tidbit surfaced.

She’d been draped over the bar, mocktail Cosmo in hand, pretending to be tipsy. It wasn’t hard. She just mirrored the gaggle of office girls around her. They were downing the real thing. They hadn’t slipped the bartender $20 to quietly serve them sober drinks all night. They could afford their fun. They weren’t trying to save their careers from the chopping block.

“The buns on him – Oh. My God!”

“I know, right? Gimme some!”

The women of Max Allen Communications were letting it all fly. Deb was on her fifth day of Girls Night Out drinks, each night with a different Max Allen crew, hoping to hear the one thing she could use to stop Max Allen from firing her.

So far, it had been five long evenings of routine office whining, punctuated with occasional bursts of lustful commentary. Max Allen women were smart, beautiful and over-achievers. That’s the way Max liked them. Deb fit that mold nearly two decades ago when she first came to MAC, fleeing a brief and unsuccessful stint as a newspaper reporter. PR seemed like a safe place to hide. But Max made her feel special. “I love newspapers. But that’s not the only way news gets into the world,” he said.

Max showed her the wider, nuanced, unapologetic world of information management. “Information wants to be useful,” was his watchword. Deb proved adept as its helpmate. Dropping hints. Creating relationships. Understanding how information travels through the network of confidences. She knew the difference between business intelligence and red-hot gossip – and how to play both for maximum impact. She got information and made it take flight.

That’s what she told Max when he’d pulled her into his office and told her she had two weeks to wrap up her projects and clean out her desk.

“The world has changed,” he said. “It’s not just about information. It’s about influencers.”

“I’m not an influencer?”

Deb watched Max’s eyes dart up and down her middle-aged body.

“Seriously! Because I’m not built like a Barbie?”

But it was hardly news to Deb. She’d noted the shift in hiring. Experience and education had moved down the list of job requirements. Social media and star power moved up. If pressed (or deposed) Max could list plenty of perfectly legal reasons to fire Deb. Her new business was down. Her old business was retiring in droves. But you didn’t need the numbers to understand. PR was a beauty game now. For men and women. The open office plan of MAC made that abundantly clear. Everywhere you looked, the tall, slim, coiffed army glided confidently about the modern, curated space. Max Allen could grow old and grey, so long as he surrounded himself with the best-looking influencers in the business. And he did.

Deb spent two days mourning the impending loss of her job and then two more plotting its rescue.

“Everyone has a weak spot. The trick is to find it and use it as a weapon,” Deb told Maisy, her oldest, a second-year associate at Sorrell Epstein, a law firm with a commitment to social justice and a tendency to bounce paychecks. Maisy’s father, Deb’s ex, had advised his daughter to follow him into corporate litigation. Maisy declined.  

“How does that kind of gossip make you any better than him?” Maisy was always quick to the moral high ground.

“There is no ‘better’ here, honey. There’s winner and loser.”

Maisy sniffed. “There’s always ‘better’ if you’re looking for it.”

But Deb was looking for something Maisy didn’t yet understand: A handhold. A foothold. A way to hang on in a world that was ready to shake her off and watch her fall. At 55, Deb understood this was her last job and that if she couldn’t hang on…well, what did happen to women without husbands and jobs and homes that weren’t under water with the bank? No one could say for sure. It’s not like Deb hadn’t lost track of former female colleagues as they aged into oblivion. Maisy thought gossip was mean. Deb knew it was her only hope.

On Night Five of drinks with the gals, Deb heard what she needed to hear.

Last year’s summer intern had filed a lawsuit. Max had been too specific with her about the ways her various body parts would make her a star influencer. Corrine left her iPhone memo app running during a meeting in which Max caressed Corrine’s ample skill set.

The account exec who sat close enough to Max’s office to overhear the dirt knew it was a powerful piece of information. “Don’t tell anyone, tho,” she slurred into Deb’s ear.

“My lips are sealed,” Deb answered, sweeping the younger woman’s hair back out of her half-finished apple martini.

Deb downed the rest of her alcohol-free drink and left quickly. She was waiting for Max in his office the next morning.

“The case is settled,” he said calmly.

“I don’t need the case,” Deb responded. “I just need to spread all over town that you’re squeezing the melons. Beautiful people have options. Why should anyone who looks that good bother to work here?”

Max’s eyes narrowed as Deb crossed to his white oval conference table and poured herself a glass from his pitcher of cucumber water.  

“It’ll take time, of course, to get the information to stick,” she added. “But then according to you, I’m about to have a lot more time on my hands.”

By noon, Deb’s layoff had been rescinded.

By 5, Deb was at the bar, once again, with the office gals. “The good stuff this time,” she told the bartender with a wink.

By 8 the next morning, Deb realized the war wasn’t over.

When her key card didn’t work, she called security for help. They sent a buff, blond young guard to escort her to her new office – in the windowless basement.

“Well, this isn’t good,” Deb muttered as she flipped open her laptop and prepared to salvage what was left of her job. It would be okay, she told herself. She still had much to contribute.

Her email wouldn’t open.

Her work folders wouldn’t open.

She was locked out of everything. The calendars. The intranet forum everyone called “The Newsroom.” And, most importantly, the form for IT help requests.

Deb climbed the stairs and walked to IT. But the entrance of a live person into the tech den produced almost no reaction. All eyes stayed on screens.

“Good morning, all. I wonder if someone can help me resolve a technical issue.”

No response.

“Hello?”

“Support button on the help page.” One of the technologists spoke, but since no one turned to look at her, she couldn’t tell which.

“I can’t get to the help page. Or any page. I’m locked out,” Deb supplied.

She listened to the light clacking of keyboards for a good 30 seconds. Is this how it ends, she wondered? Career death by IT inertia? Sad. But it would fit on a tombstone.

Finally, the one woman in the department stood and moved warily towards Deb, like a gazelle approaching the water hole. She held out a yellow Post It.

“Visitor’s login,” she said quietly. “One day access, everything erases when you log off.”

“Thank you,” said Deb.

“Don’t mention it,” the woman replied. Then she glanced back at her co-workers. “Seriously, don’t mention it.”

Deb sighed. “My lips are sealed.”

As she exited IT, she saw Max in the hall. There was time to dodge him, but Deb raised her chin and passed him, head held high.

“You can’t beat me,” she whispered.

“I don’t have to,” he said, at full voice. “All I have to do is spread it around town that you’re a gossip.”

At that word, all heads in the hallway swiveled to stare.

Gossip was possibly the worst insult you could hurl at a PR pro. Clients had to trust their publicists. They had to believe their best interests were paramount and their secrets –stuff that could sink a stock, trigger a lawsuit, get a nice comfortable CEO fired – were safe.

Deb gulped and carefully slowed her walk to appear casual. She smiled at her co-workers. They wouldn’t meet her eyes.

At lunch she sat in the MAC courtyard that was filled with manicured bushes, a spring fed koi pond and colleagues who avoided her like she had broken out in boils. To even be seen with a gossip could get one bounced off an account. And this was a business all about appearances, Deb thought grimly.

Back in the basement, she fired up her new login and waited for it to connect. For about ten seconds. Because that’s all it took for the data floodgates to break loose.

Deb could barely keep her eyes focused on the information that filled her screen. It quickly became clear that she’d hit some kind of Max Allen Communications vein. On the screen, it all appeared. Not just her email – everyone’s email. Not just her folders – everyone’s folders. Not just her intranet – everyone’s intranet.

There was a lot going on at MAC behind the scenes. And screens.

Biff Sandeman, Max’s longtime No. 2, was writing a screenplay on his company laptop. And apparently, getting quite a lot of writing done during the Max’s senior staff AM meeting.

Alison Eldred was dating a client and the client’s compliance officer. Deb raised her eyebrows. “That sounds complicated.”

Multiple staffers were booking the conference room for “confidential” meetings that were really “sex on the conference table.” One emailed pics! Deb turned her laptop sideways. How did you even get into that position? And how many times had she eaten bagels off that very conference table? “Yikes.”

Deb enjoyed the afternoon roaming through everyone’s personal business, assuming the IT bros would rectify their mistake the next day.

They didn’t.

Her guest login still worked. And it was still, somehow, the master key to the information universe.

Max’s voice echoed in Deb’s ears.

“Information wants to be useful.”

She shifted in her seat. “Okay, little info nuggets. Now you work for me.”

Max’s private calendar showed a series of dental appointments. Every time he left the building, Deb pumped anonymous fiction through the intranet.

Max is meeting with a new Russian client and is coming back to the office with caviar!

Max is signing the deal for a Paris office and will be choosing an existing staffer to run it!

Max landed the World Cup account and will have tickets for the finals in Buenos Aries!

For every one line Deb crafted, ten staffers picked it up and sent it swirling. The result: Max trudged back to work, his mouth full of Novocain, his office full of staffers who just wanted a “quick sec” of his time.

Deb imagined his miserable puffed face with drool hanging down from the corners of his mouth. Yeah, who’s too old and ugly to work here now?

The next day, Deb branched out. These new tidbits were true, her snooping revealed. But she attached no names.

Two MAC co-workers are having an affair.

Two female MAC staffers are having affairs – with the same male staffer.

The conference room table is just the right height for…certain sex acts.

Deb didn’t add the photos. “Let ‘em wonder.”

But by Day 3 in windowless exile, Deb was losing her sense of humor. That reflected in her creations. These items were not true. But they could be. That made them terrifying.

Max knows who is sleeping with whom.

Max knows a client’s information has been compromised.

Max has hired a private investigating firm to suss out the gossip.

Now, no one went near Max’s office. Instead, they gathered in tense groups in the courtyard and whispered about who might be exposed. Deb sat by the koi pond and tossed bits of her carrot muffin to the oversized gold fish. Sucks to be so beautiful and visible, doesn’t it kiddos?

“I think it’s awful,” said Maisy. “It’s sneaky. It’s probably legally actionable. I don’t even recognize you.”

Deb chafed at the criticism. “I’m doing what I have to do.”

Maisy wasn’t having it. “You already did what you had to do to stay employed. Now you’re reveling in the aftermath.”

Maybe a little.

Was that wrong?

On Friday night, Deb passed on the bar scene and headed to Temple Beth Emet. Deb wasn’t a regular at services, but she was a fund-raising force – always knowing the right thing to say to a congregant with a sizable checkbook and a guilty conscience. The rabbi, so young he made Deb think of her college senior son, saw her lurking by the grape juice cups. “Hello Deborah, Shabbat Shalom. How are you this evening?”

She cut right to the chase. “Rabbi, I have a religious question.”

The young rabbi perked up noticeably, pleased to talk religion rather than AC temperature in in the sanctuary or the dearth of parking spots near the synagogue entrance. “How can I help you?”

“Is gossip always a bad thing?”

The rabbi was silent a moment, but then he said:  “Let me tell you a story.”

Once a woman shared some gossip she’d heard. She only intended to tell one person, but the gossip quickly spread all over the neighborhood.

The subject of this gossip was upset. The gossiper visited her rabbi, distraught, and asked what she could do to fix the situation.

The rabbi told the gossiper to go home and fetch her feather pillow from her bed. When she returned, the rabbi told her: tear a hole in the pillow, pull out the feathers and toss them away. The woman obeyed. Soon, features were everywhere ­– in the synagogue, out the window, into the breeze.

Then the rabbi said: Now collect those feathers and put them back.

The woman was aghast. “That’s impossible. How can I chase down so many feathers?” 

The rabbi nodded. “That’s what happens when you gossip. You can never take it back, even if you’re sorry. The impact cannot be undone.”

The rabbi finished and leaned in to look Deb in the eyes. “Ask yourself: Are you happy with your impact?”

Deb arrived in her basement spot the next day, armed with her super-charged login and her new mission: No more gossip. She’d show her value, if not as an influencer, then as a force for positive impact.

Accessing the training files, she noted that after initial onboarding, little was offered in the way of development. That’s a miss, she thought. Next, she dove into the complaints lodged in HR and the vast majority revolved around work/family issues. Staffers who wanted to leave early. Staffers who wanted to work from home. Staffers who missed work due to childcare difficulties.

Deb typed quickly into her newly-opened file. The needs were clearly there. There were so many ways to make this a better place to work. There was an education gap, a support gap.

Then in her final folder of the day she saw it: the pay gap.

Payroll wasn’t where she intended to be. She was actually searching for PTO when her cursor landed at that link. The department that used to cut checks but now simply send monies directly into bank accounts. Deb remembered her early days at MAC when Dan, the lone security guard, would make the rounds every other Friday, handing out pay checks. It was a game to try and sneak a peek at your colleague’s stub. Now, it was all electronic.

With the curiosity of her younger days, Deb clicked open a pay file. Then another. Then another.

As the pattern began to form in her mind, she started moving all the data onto a spread sheet. In an hour she had it: the chart of salaries at Max Allen Communications. In which men earned 30% more than women, across the board.

“Motherfucker,” Deb said quietly. Then, she shouted it. Who could hear her, down in the basement?

Who, indeed?

Deb knew she could get this information out there. She was a PR pro.

But you know who could really get it out there?

A whole lot of PR pros.

That was surely, as Maisy would say, better.

She accessed the intranet Newsroom, attached her spread sheet, and hit enter.

She was gathering her personal possessions into a cardboard box when she heard the first howl from upstairs. She loaded everything in, her desk photographs, her World’s Best Mom coffee mug, the red Swingline stapler she managed to hold onto all these years. On top of her personal items, she placed her company laptop.

On her way up the steps, she could hear the commotion.

“What the hell? Jared makes how much?”

“This is outrageous.”

“I quit.”

“I want a raise.”

“I want a raise and then I quit.”

Instead of walking directly out the door, Deb detoured through the open office. No one paid her any mind as she snaked her way through the uproar. Every woman was on her feet, calling out to Max, to the women in the room, to the men who were glancing around hoping to find the quickest way out of the fracas.

Max emerged from his office, holding his hands in the air. Deb couldn’t tell if he was appealing for calm or offering to surrender. She caught his eye as she made her way past his office. She’s pretty sure she knew the single word he mouthed. And it was not ‘gossip.’

Outside in the courtyard, Deb made one stop by the koi pond. Into it, she tossed her laptop.

As she crossed the open space, she could still hear the voices rising from the building behind her.

She squared her shoulders and marched forward. “Fly, little feathers,” she said under her breath. “Fly.”

-End-