Wild Fyre (6 page)

Ed jotted down the name.
 

“Are you going to check out the source?” Ed asked.

“I’ll glance at it, but I’m not expert on compression algorithms. That sounds like something Lister would do.”

“Good point. Do me a favor though—let me know if you see anything odd in there,” Ed said.

“Yeah, no problem.”

After Maco left with his envelope of money stuffed way down in his front pocket, Ed returned to his desk to look for news about 28c. It was everywhere. Well, it was everywhere on the technical sites that Ed read. He tried to stay current on all the latest trends in technology, but it was difficult. When he read about a new breakthrough, or some fancy new technique, he had to read the article several times before it began to make any sense. People he worked with—Jim, or Maco, or Lister—could read the headline and immediately guess exactly what was going on.

# # # # #

 
Autobiography2();

/*****

When I first set up my staffing business—Statler Staffing—I worked with anyone. I didn’t have that much business, so I would take anyone who walked through the door. The figurative door, I mean. I didn’t have a real door at first. I was still working for the government during the day, so I did my staffing hobby during lunch, while I was on break, or nights and weekends. Someone would send me their résumé, I’d sit on it until I found them the right job, and then I’d give them a call. Sometimes, before I’d get a chance to call, the person had already taken a job.
 

You might think the really talented people would get jobs before I could place them—you’d be wrong. Often, the most talented employees have to wait the longest before someone recognizes their value. At least that has been my experience.
 

My break came with a machinist. She was brilliant with her hands. Give her some specs and a mill and she would turn out perfect parts every time. She was also really frugal with her stock. Any other machinist would cost twice as much in raw materials. She had a way to understand how to get the most out of limited resources. When she first sent over her qualifications I thought she would have to move to Portsmouth, or Norfolk, or even out west to one of the naval shipyards. That’s a good spot for a machinist. She wouldn’t move though. She liked her house and intended to stay in it.

There were no jobs for a machinist in DC at the time. At least there were no good ones. She had already interviewed a few times and turned down the offers. They didn’t pay enough or offer any challenges.

I sat down with her at a coffee shop one afternoon.

“You like to work with your hands,” I said.

“Yes, of course,” she said.

“Do you have to?”

She laughed. “It’s what I do. I guess I don’t understand.”

“Would you be willing to take a chance on project management?”

“I’m sorry?”

You have to understand—at the time, Project Management wasn’t a buzzword, or it was only becoming one. It started in the ’50s, and became popular in the ’60s, but not with people like machinists. She had probably worked a project or two and not known it. All she knew was here are the specs, give us a part.

“You would organize all the tasks involved with a project. Organization and communication would be your primary duties, but there’s some amount of resource allocation in the project I’m thinking of.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start. I like learning things, but I already have a specific set of skills. Shouldn’t I stick with what I know?”

“First, this is a short-term commitment. It’s only going to run about five months, and if you find a better job during that time you can burn the bridge. Since you don’t care about this field, who cares if you piss off some company you’ll never want to work for again?”

“That’s not the way I like to leave things,” she said.

“That’s one of the reasons why you’re going to be brilliant. Look, you’ve been underemployed for eight months. Why not give this a shot? I’ll write you up a short-term contract and you can test the waters. You could do it for six months, right? The pay is generous.”

“But why would they even want me? I have no experience.”

“That’s
my
problem. You go in for the interview and I’ll get you an offer. What do you have to lose?” I asked.

“Nothing, I guess.”

Self-esteem is what she had to lose, but I didn’t mention that. I didn’t need to, either. I got her in the door with some smooth talking and a promise to cut my fee in half if they took her. She got an offer based on the interview. After almost a week’s deliberation, she took the job. It turned out to be the best decision of her life.

She excelled at the job. Her skills translated perfectly from manipulating metal to running the project. They finished on-time and under-budget and then she took several months off to have her first baby. She was pregnant when I met her. I had guessed it, but of course I didn’t bring it up. It was probably the reason she was willing to walk away from the metal shop. They’re pretty safe places, but not as safe as an office environment.

When she was done with maternity leave, the company begged to hire her full time. She jumped at the chance. I took my full commission the second time.

I’m not sure how word got around, but it did. Hiring managers started taking my calls without hesitation. I would place almost anyone, regardless of how small the commission. I placed a fast food manager one time. Another time, I placed a grade school janitor. I don’t think I earned enough to pay for dinner on either occasion, but I built my reputation. If I called, managers understood that a talented person perfect for the job would show up.

 
As my confidence grew, I dreamt of quitting my government job and doing nothing but staffing. It seemed like a reasonable goal, so I worked the numbers. I would have to start working with higher-wage talent if I wanted to make it pay off. My approach required a decent time commitment to research just the right fit, and there was only so much volume I could handle. That meant that I would have to get paid more for each placement. Which, in turn, meant I would have to work with people who could command a higher salary. I began to reject people. I didn’t tell them I wouldn’t work for them. I would say, “Keep up with your own job search and I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

Then, if they called again, I would repeat the same line. It felt horrible, but I got used to it.

So that’s what I did for a few years. I’d wait for someone to show up, examine their skills, estimate their value, and then find them a job. The market got a little tighter and it felt like everyone decided at the same time to lower commissions. Less money per client meant I needed more clients, or better clients. My standards lowered. Then, as recruiters placed less-worthy applicants, companies moved most of the bounty out to after probation. I might get 5k for placing a welder, but I’d only get one thousand on signing and the other four if the worker lasted a year. Tell that to the mortgage company—I’ve got twenty percent now and I may give you the rest in twelve months.
 

I began to think I’d have to go back to the government and start at the bottom again.

That’s when I met Bertrand Russell Arthur Williams—how’s that for a name? He had a ton of talents listed: cabinet maker, mathematician, author, sailor, physicist, drafter, auto mechanic, art critic, lawyer. I arranged a meeting in my humble office.

Bert stood about 6’2”, but he seemed even taller. He was one of those really skinny guys who carried himself like a flamingo. His charcoal-gray pant legs looked like marble columns until they moved. Then they flapped against his skinny legs and you watched to see if his knees bent backwards or forwards. I’m not allowed to ask age, but based on his timeline and look, I’d say he was mid-fifties.
 

“Have a seat, Mr. Williams,” I said.

“Bert,” he said.

“Thank you, Bert. I’m Ed,” I said. I shook his hand and gestured towards the chair again. He looked down at it, as if assessing its worthiness for his boney ass. He lowered himself gracefully. His smoothness surprised me.

“So what brings you here today?”

“We arranged a meeting,” he said. There was a hint of an accent there. I’m not great with accents, but I thought I heard New York. He went to school out in California, but he could have moved.

I smiled and nodded. “You’re looking for employment?” Why was I speaking so formally, I wondered.
 

“Yes, I am,” he said. “And you’re a recruiter, yes? Seems to be a natural fit, yes?”

“Indeed,” I said. Indeed? “What type of work are you looking for? You didn’t list an objective.”

“I excel in a number of fields,” he said. “Any of those would do.”

“Are you filling your time, trying to earn money, or seeking to achieve something? What puts you in the market for a new endeavor?” I asked.

“Any of those will do,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. I flipped through some papers on my desk and wondered what to say. Sometimes I got nervous people, or excited people, or depressed. I’d never sat in front of someone so combative. I couldn’t figure out what to ask him, and I couldn’t get any sort of feel for what he would be good at. “Where do you work right now? Do you have a job currently?”

“I’m working as an apprentice taxidermist,” he said.

“Oh? Paid?”

“In trade, yes,” he said.

I understood why that wasn’t on his job history. Fucking creepy.

“And you’re looking for a change, right? You’re not looking for an apprenticeship or something in the field of taxidermy?”

“Yes to change, no to apprenticeship,” he said with a smile. His teeth were stained around the edges. His front teeth looked narrow at the roots and then they flared out. They reminded me of shovels.

“Well, your qualifications are excellent and quite diverse. Amongst these fields, is there any I should focus on? Anything you’d like me to pursue?” I asked.

“What do you recommend?”

“Are you currently licensed to practice law in Virginia, Maryland, and DC?”

“Yes to all. I prefer to abstain from litigation.”

“Any field of law you’re more interested in?”

“I enjoy Maritime and Entertainment Law,” he said. “They interest me.”

“Great,” I said. At this point my feet were getting itchy. I wanted to walk him out of my office. He gave me the creeps.

“On second thought,” he said, “let’s not go with law. Could you focus on finding something in the medical arts?”

“I don’t see that listed in your skills,” I said. “Do you have relevant training or experience?”

“I am a medical doctor by training,” he said. “We can obtain my transcripts and letters of recommendation from my residency.” He gave me the names of the institutions. As I wrote them down, I looked back at his timeline, trying to figure out where he had fit in the M.D.
 

“Any particular focus you’re looking for? And you’re licensed to practice medicine?”

“No, and no,” he said. “I will remedy that as soon as possible.”

“Doesn’t that process take months?” I asked.

“Do you suppose you’ll find me an interview before I’m able to reacquire my medical license?”

“It’s not out of the question,” I said. At the time, I knew very little about physician recruiters. One thing was clear to me—I didn’t want to be a physician recruiter. I would get Bert out of my office and if he called back, I would claim that I had searched with no luck.

“We’ll deal with that problem if it arises,” he said. As he spoke, he rose from his chair. I shook his hand again and walked him to the door.

“Nice to meet you, Bert. I’ll be in touch when I have news,” I said.

“I look forward to it,” he said.

When I closed the door behind him, I wiped my hands on my pants. At that moment, I hoped I would never talk to him again. By the end of the week, I was digging through my files for his number. It wasn’t only my financial distress that made me call Bert. I can’t resist the perfect fit.
 

I was reading a Post article about a new company in Alexandria. They were making high-end furniture for yachts. Their specialty was to be expandable tables. Imagine a round center-pedestal table made of beautiful hardwood. It’s bolted to the floor because it’s on a yacht, but aside from that, it’s exactly like a really nice table you might find in a house better than yours. But with this table, you can unscrew a little knob and rotate top surface. As it spins, the tabletop opens like a flower and becomes a much bigger table. It’s like magic. A four-seater becomes an eight-seater right before your eyes. They cost a fortune; they’re perfect for a yacht.

The article didn’t say they were looking for help, but I got the sense from the article that they were understaffed. Bert would be a perfect fit. He looked like someone you’d find on a yacht, and he had all kinds of relevant experience. At the very least, Bert had some experience selling high-end furniture. He had sold his own stuff for years. I called them and talked to the owner of the company.

He had heard of Bert. In fact, the owner was a fan of Bert’s cabinetry. I couldn’t believe it. He was eager to meet my client. I gave Bert a call.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Hi. Is this Bert?”

“Yes. This is Ed, I imagine?”

“Yes,” I said. I almost hung up right then. He was simply too odd. How did he know I would call? Was I the only person with his phone number? I didn’t hang up. “Bert, I was just thinking of you. I ran across an interesting company. They’re going to manufacture boat furniture.”

“Oh? Do you mean the expandable tables?” he asked.

“Yes.” Again, I had the urge to back out of this arrangement. I could pass the number of the owner to Bert and wish him a good day. But I needed the money. “Would you be interested in speaking with Michael York, the owner of York Custom Furniture?”

“Certainly,” he said. “It seems a natural fit.”

I arranged the meeting. Michael had given me a number of times he was available to meet, and Bert was available for any of the times.