The Egg Code (39 page)

Finally we pull up to the mall. I get out, shake her hand. For a minute there, it looked like—well, never mind. In my opinion, one-night stands are a bad idea. How do you get rid of the girl without hurting her feelings? That’s the conundrum. Sometimes it’s best just to play it safe. Stick with what you know. Take me, for example. I’m a manager. That’s what I’m good at. And that’s
still
what I’m good at. To heck with Cam Pee, Jim Carroll, all those guys. The furniture business is in for a big surprise, anyway. In two, three years, everyone’s gonna be selling kitchen gadgets. Now’s the time to get in on the ground level, take a drive down to the home office,
Hello, my name is Steve Mould
, wait for someone to make you an offer, you say I’ll think about it, then BAM! two days later you’re running the entire region. I can do that, no problem. I’ll ask for a catalog, do a little research first. I wonder what it pays? Clerk—that’s probably three-fifty a week. I can’t swing
that
for very long. A month, maybe. A month, then I’ll call for an appointment, talk to the senior veep. He’ll recognize my name. These guys all know each other. I’ll have to lay low for the first few days. Don’t want to give myself away. Once they see you’ve got potential, they start to wonder: What’s
he
doing here?

XXII

Fuck Technology

I Had an Unpleasant
Conversation Today

T. Kenneth West sat in his office, his feet on the desk. “I’m not
interested in your excuses. All I know is, I’ve got five separate attorneys working on this, I’m buried in lawsuits, and I can’t
deal
with it anymore!”

Gray leaned forward in his chair. “If you’ve got lawsuits, Ken, then just give them to the legal department and forget about it.”

Lifting a manila folder, T. Kenneth gestured at a stack of papers and threw it back on the pile. This motion suggested a task of great magnitude, futile to even contemplate. “It’s gonna take five years to pay this thing off, Gray. I’ve got to
stick
with this company. I can’t just pack up and leave.”

“You should’ve thought about it when you—”

“Oh, don’t give me arrogance. I’ll take care of myself, and that’s the end of that. You give me arrogance, we end this discussion right now.”

“I’m not being arrogant, Ken! My God!” Gray knitted his eyebrows, shaking his head. “What is your
problem?
”

T. Kenneth swallowed and started again. “If we have a disagreement on certain issues, that’s fine. But we’ve already made some decisions here—”

“You don’t find this a little unprofessional?”

He began to speak, paused, then laughed bitterly. “I am not here . . . to defend my actions. That’s not what I’m here to do. I am so angry with you right now that I can’t even . . .
talk
.”

“Well, how do you think I feel?”

“Probably pretty angry! And that’s understandable, but the facts are the facts.”

“Oh, come on. You know as well as I do, if you can show an eleven-year-old kid on television
simulating masturbation
—”

“He wasn’t simulating masturbation.”

“Yes, he was. I know—I wrote the script. What I
didn’t
do—”

“He wasn’t simulating masturbation. That certainly wasn’t my understanding, and if I’d had even an
inkling
—”

“You would’ve said, ‘Rah-rah-rah! Let’s make some money!’ It’s okay, Ken, you don’t have to pretend. But when a client asks me to use their own talent because someone on the board of directors gets a blow job, then I have to do it!”

“Not necessarily. You have an obligation to do your homework. It’s not the client’s job to research their own staff.”

Waving both of his hands, Gray stammered a bit, his raised eyebrows expressing a lack of comprehension, an eagerness to understand. “Wait a minute. Let me, let me . . .”

“That’s
our
job! To make sure all the bases are covered.”

“It’s not the client’s job . . . ?”

“The kid was moonlighting, for Christ’s sake! Not only that, he was working on a subversive project which you
knew
would cast a negative light on this company.”

“I guess I don’t get it. Why is it okay for me to put a kid in a leopard-print G-string—”

“Because bad taste is one thing, subversion is another. Bad taste doesn’t mean anything. You of all people should know that. No one feels threatened by it, no one takes it seriously and no one cares. This is different. Cam Pee won’t even talk to me anymore. He gets a stack of angry letters in the mail, and now he wants to keep me in court for the rest of my life.”

“Then
why
did you . . . when this campaign started—”

“I was
very
supportive.”

“You were very supportive.”

“Because the client was happy and I assumed that everything was in order.”

“And
that’s
good leadership?”

“It may not be. I am not a perfect person, Gray. And God
knows
—”

“It’s got nothing to do with being a perfect person. If you have a situation where a client is not forthcoming—”

“Then you talk to them. You talk to the store manager, you talk to the kid, you talk to the kid’s mother.”

“If I’d actually done any of that, Ken, you would’ve said why are you wasting your time—”

“I would’ve said good for you, because—”

“You would not have said good for you.”

“—because I’d rather have it done properly than six months later, here we are, every day I’ve got to see this nonsense on the evening news and everyone’s running around saying why the hell didn’t you
do
something about it?”

“So I gotta be the fall guy.”

“So
you’re
the fall guy, Gray. If you want to put a real fine point on it. That’s right.”

“So why don’t you acknowledge that?”

“Acknowledge what?”

“Why don’t you
publicly
acknowledge—”

“You want me to go out there—”

“If you’re going to terminate me, Ken, I’d think you’d at least have the decency to—”

“I’ll do it right now!”

“Good!”

“I’ll send out an e-mail.”

“Fine.”

“You can write it yourself.”

“I don’t work here anymore, that’s not my job. I don’t have to do that.”

T. Kenneth glanced at his computer screen just in time to see the message docket change from eight to fourteen. “Well, I can’t do it now, I’ve got . . . too many things going on. Give me till five.”

“I want it spelled out, because this is my reputation we’re talking about, and if I’m the fall guy—”

The conversation lurched; both men seemed to check themselves before moving on. “Gray, when I say that you’re the fall guy, yes, that’s true. But that’s not the whole story.”

Gray’s facial expression changed from one look of amazement to another. “So you’re saying I botched it.”

“I’m saying that you, in part . . . yeah.”

“And I can’t make a mistake?”

“Of course you can, but when it becomes a legal issue, then I have to take action. I’m gonna be tied up with this thing for the rest of the year. That’s at least nine months’ worth of lawyers, and suits, and countersuits. We may not even have a company when this is all over!”

“Well, you can’t blame me for that.”

“Why not? You were the one who went out there—”

“Under your direction.”

“That’s implicit! I’m the goddamn CEO. That still doesn’t absolve you from—”

“A good leader would assume responsibility for—”

“What, you want
me
to resign?” Touching his chest, T. Kenneth hunched over the desk, his eyes wide with good intentions.

“I don’t want you to resign, I want you to take charge of the situation in a way that’s fair.”

“I’m being very fair to you. I’m not suing
you!
”

“Why would you sue me?”

“Because of the incredible damage your behavior has done to this company.”

“Oh, that is the most horseshit—”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

The tempo picked up; both men snapped, shouting at each other.

“Since the day I walked in here—”

“I’ve been very nice to you.”

“—you’ve been nothing but an obnoxious, overbearing—”

“Fine!”

“And I dealt with it, because I didn’t care!”

“And now here we are! Isn’t this wonderful? We can all sing and shout and dance around.”

“Oh, no, that’s great! I can do that just fine, so long as you know—”

“I don’t need to know anything!”

“—that it’s a
goddamn bullshit
—”

“Lower your voice or get out of here.”

Gray stood up; his chair tumbled over, striking a display of glass knickknacks. “You, and all of this . . . hoopla crap!
It’s all garbage!
”

“Good! I’m happy! I’m real glad!”

“Yee yee yee!”

“We can all go home and jump out the window!”

“And if it wasn’t for your incompetence—”

“Gray, I’m about
five feet away
from—”

“You wanna punch?”

T. Kenneth leaned over his desk; he could smell Thousand Island dressing on Gray’s breath. “Oh, boy, you need a slap.”

“Let’s do it!”

“Oh-kaay, oh-kaay.”

“Cah-mon. Cah-mon.”

“Let’s stop. You get out.”

“Fucking idiot.”

“That’s right!”

“Look at you. You don’t know the first thing about . . .
life!
”

“I know I don’t.”

“Gimme my arm!”

“Here, move, move.”

“Don’t touch me, you retarded piece of shit!”

Walking quickly, T. Kenneth guided the other man down the hallway and into a freight elevator. Gray rode alone, smiling at his own reflection in the copper-burnished doors. He’d deliberately prolonged the conversation, not out of any conviction, but simply for the fun of it. It was fun to argue, he felt, especially from the perspective of sheer apathy. Besides, he had no reason to disagree. After all, he’d gotten what he wanted, and now he could return to his former life of failure and exile— two essential criteria if one wants to say something meaningful and put it on the page. Success had stolen his ambition, and now he had it back. He had to tell Olden.

He arrived in Big Dipper Township thirty minutes later, driving east across the state highway. Spring had come early to the country; the trees were still bare, but the lake had thawed to a blue shimmer. The sunshine was very warm; patterns of hot and cool flashed across his face as he headed along a winding road, then turned off and steered down a hill, where a narrow drive stopped short of the lake.

The front door to Olden’s shack was open, the entryway partially blocked by a pile of clothes. Gray parked his car and approached the house, calling out his friend’s name. Inside, the place looked abandoned. Olden’s computer lay in pieces, its broken monitor leaking snarled cables. Someone had taken a mallet to the hard drive; its vented panels bulged near the center. Stepping over the mess, he felt something under his shoe—a square of plastic, the letter
F
printed on one side. Other letters lay nearby, here an
M
, there a backspace button, the
7
, the Tab, the Scroll Lock. Butchered, the keyboard hung from its coiled cord, rotating solemnly as it dangled over the edge of the nightstand. He picked up a few letters; they seemed to wriggle in his hand. Leaning outside, he tossed them onto the front porch, where they struck the step and ricocheted in all directions.

Back inside, he found the telephone and called the police. A dispatcher took down his report. “We will be there in under ninety seconds,” she said, talking away from the receiver.

“Fine, do you need me to answer any—”

“Stay where you are. Do not attempt to leave the premises. If we do not arrive in under ninety seconds, it does not mean that we are not coming.”

“It does not mean that you are
not
coming.”

“It does not mean that we are not coming. That’s what I said. What did you think I said?”

“Just that . . . it doesn’t mean that . . . This is the police, right?”

“This is the police. My name is Frieda Moore. I am a dispatch officer for the Township Consortium.”

“Township Cons—”

“Big Dipper Township, Big Lake Township, Clay Township, English Fire Township—”

“Okay.”

“Yellow Dog Township, Diamond Township, Steelcutter Township—”

“Do you need me to stay on the line?”

“Indian Township, Union Pride Township, The Sorrow of 1951 Township, and other . . . selected . . . townships.”

“I’d like to go now.” He hung up the phone and walked outside. Something about the woman’s voice bothered him; she’d spoken as if his was the only call she’d received all day. Whatever agency she represented—and it wasn’t the police, he was fairly certain—wanted to bury Olden bad enough to keep a constant watch over his house. It made a guy feel kind of
important.

Gray smiled, thinking about his friend. Olden always was a bit of a crank. Did
not
get along with the rest of the art-school kids. Girlfriends were never a problem—there were always plenty of those. This was one of life’s great wonders, the attractive madman. Recent assassins, murderers, sex fiends—a good-looking bunch, if you take away the obvious rejects, the four-hundred-pound no-necks, the Jesus types. Given another brain, another political orientation, Olden Field would’ve made a nice PR man. And why not? The beautiful should not be made to suffer, this Gray felt very strongly. We subsidize intellectuals; why not pinup dolls? The extra cash might’ve kept Olden out of trouble. Buy the rebels’ loyalty. This network nonsense was not worth fighting for.

Sirens came from all directions. A man’s voice made an announcement, but the sound was garbled, too far off. Looking away, Gray turned toward the lake, now alive with sunshine. The distant shore was black, hidden by the glare. Staring into the light, he could see a windsurfer gliding over the water. Powerboats circled on all sides, keeping at a cautious distance. Gray smiled without understanding, sensing only pure excitement, the thrill of seeing it happen. He cursed in admiration as his friend passed under the shadow of the tower.