http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/ a blognovel en Copyright 2008 Sun, 27 Jan 2008 18:39:00 -0800 http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/ http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss that doesn't work. The camera is on the thirtieth floor of the building, the sacred ground. The gods in the sky, like some Greek pantheon, looking down on everybody else. I wonder if Zeus also set up shop in Mount Olympus because of the view, and if he also had problems with the elevators. It took me maybe ten minutes to get into the system, Jordan next to me waiting anxiously. What we're looking at is the boardroom, a mahogany table that seems to have a surface of ten acres and ten middle aged white men around it. In a corner there is a sculpture, abstract art. It looks as if someone just smashed some garbage they found on a dumpster and then sold it for a few hundred thousand. Fitting. For a moment, I think of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Was that the original board meeting? Jordan says, Look at that. One of the VPs is scratching his ass, and pretending that he's not doing it. It doesn't work. Everyone around him looks the over way. This meeting has to do with the move? I say. No, she says. And how do you know? Because we called the meeting, she says. You called it? Yep, she says. So, what are we doing then? I say, Besides practicing some good old-fashioned voyeurism. We're waiting, she says. I feel like the proverbial hamster running inside the wheel in its cage, a pile of woodchips and a tiny plastic bathtub with dirty water next to me. I might not think my stupid questions are useful, but Jordan is obviously enjoying them. For what? For when they want to leave, she says. Why? I say, but somehow I already know the answer. Because the door is locked, she says. I did know. How did I know? That's what I would've done, I guess. And so what? I say. Well... Jordan starts, but then something catches her eye on the screen, and she says, Wait! One of the VPs gets up. Is he leaving? No. he's going to get some coffee, from the small table we watched Don Cicce set up only a few minutes ago. Jordan, I say, What's going on? We're taking over, she says. What about those packages I kept receiving? That was a side effect. Side effect? Some people make a mistake and think for themselves once in a while, she says. Okay, I say, Look. You are talking, but you're not saying anything. How about you tell me what the hell is going on? She looks at me for a moment and smiles, and she seems to be about to say something when another camera, one that is looking at the entrance of the thirtieth floor, shows movement. The doors are opening. Someone's walking in. Jordan frowns. What? I say. Who's that? She says. All we see is a wad of long, black hair instead of a head, the body that sustains it walking backwards into the floor with all the graciousness of a crab. He is holding a backpack in one hand. It's Eddie.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2008/01/episode_fortyth.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2008/01/episode_fortyth.html Sun, 27 Jan 2008 18:39:00 -0800 meeting, everything that happened today is suddenly far away. I start to raise my feet from the table but I miscalculate and I collapse noisily to the floor. Jordan walks into the room and helps me up, laughing. Hey, she says. Hey. I don't know what to say. What is she doing here? When? How? Which? Pronouns and question marks fly through my mind in no particular order. Come with me, she says, her hand pulling me away. I follow her. When we reach the elevator doors, I say, Wait a minute, what's going on? You'll see, she says. I don't like surprises. Yes you do! she says, laughing, Look at you! You can barely stand the suspense! She points at my right hand, its fingers are playing some kind of hectic dance or fighting each other. This is the problem of arguing with your girlfriend. She knows too much. Okay, I say, Let's go. The stairs, Jordan says, and I say, Wait, the elevator... It's not working, she says. She's right. I forgot. So we go down the stairs. After a few floors Jordan is still jumping over ten steps in one movement, and I'm behind, panting. Every once in a while I call out for her. She stops, waits for me to catch up, then starts leaving me behind again. Well, at least she's back. While we run, I try to think about what's happening, but there's barely enough blood flowing through my lungs to breathe comfortably, much less enough to allow my brain follow a line of thought. We go down, past the ground floor, past the first basement, past the second basement. We get to the third basement. We enter and walk down a long hallway. Memories appear. I can almost feel them bumping against my forehead. I push them back. We stop in front of a white door, with a single word painted in blue. SECURITY, the letters say. What are we doing here? I say, gasping for air. We need your help, Jordan says. We? Nevermind, she says. My... help? For what? One second, she says, and puts her index finger to her mouth. In the silence, the only thing I can hear is my own breathing, slowing down. Jordan looks at her watch. Now, she says. Click, the door says. Jordan grabs the handle and pulls out. The door opens. We walk in. There's nobody inside. The floors and ceilings are white, but it's impossible to know the color of the walls. They are covered with monitors, or boxes with lights that blink in red and blue and green and yellow. The desk in the center arcs against the wall. It has four chairs looking out into the camera monitors in front of them. The monitor in front of each chair is a computer monitor, with a keyboard. Control stations. Nothing new, really. I've been here. But she can't know that. What is this place? I say. Jordan makes a face at me. Come on, she says. She knows? I think. Come on what? I know it was you, she says. Me? Please! Almost three years ago. The stunt with the security system? The sprinklers? The voice, the story? The Plan? She knows. The voice was distorted, I say, Unrecognizable. Yep, she says. But I know it was you. How? I say. I imagine she will have some strange explanation, hours of research, police files... She says, You talk in your sleep. Damn. I knew that would be a problem some day. She smiles. I smile. Okay, I say, Okay. What? Well, we have something going here... but now we need you to hack into the security system. Pete got in through the first layer, but we need more access. Once you're in, I'll tell you what we need. Pete, eh? Is this why you left? We need to get in now! She says. Good luck, I say, They replaced it right after my little... er... intervention. Yeah, but the backup procedure..., she says. What about it? We've been cycling the power randomly. The system thinks something's wrong. Then I remember. The third floor, almost empty, was where the security development team was. If they were not here, the system automatically rolls back to the previous version, in case there are any problems. But the backup... We replaced the backup, she says, With the old system. I smile. She doesn't have to say anything else. You switch the backups. You force the system to rollback. The result is, everything's exactly what it was when I hacked into it three years ago. I can do it again. I say, Okay, but first... What? she says. I can see in her eyes that she doesn't need to ask the question. I walk up to her, and I kiss her.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2008/01/episode_fortytw.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2008/01/episode_fortytw.html Thu, 24 Jan 2008 19:42:48 -0800 meeting adjourned. There's no dissent. Everyone here wants to go home and forget about the office. Typical meeting, in a way. Only, it's just me. No one else is here. I get up and walk to the window, and look out. It's late. The sun has set, and outside there's growing darkness. You can now see the lights behind other windows, flakes of brightness stuck to the metal and concrete. You see tiny black figures, people turned into shadows by the distance. You might even find another figure cut against the surface, someone else looking out, just like you, wondering, What the hell am I doing here? Exactly. So I turn around and I am about to walk out of the conference room when I see Ted through the glass-walls coming my way, carrying a pile of papers. He enters the room. Hey, I say. Good of you to come, he says, as if I was the one who's arriving almost an hour late. I am in no mood for condescension. You're late, I say. He freezes in mid step and looks at me. A smile. Yeah, he says. Sorry about that. I don't reply. Ted puts the papers on the table and sits down. We can begin! He says. I look around, just in case I missed a group of ten or twenty people around me. No. There's no one else. Who's he talking to? Take a seat, Ted says. He's talking to me, apparently. I sit. So, I say, Where are the others? Yeah, Ted says, The others. In the end I talked to most of them through the day, one on one, you know. It's better. Oh, I say, as Ted pretends to be really busy by shuffling the papers he brought in. Silence. So, I say, What's the news? You wanted to tell us, I mean, me something? Ted looks up. Yeah, he says. It's related to your question from before. You see... Yes? There's good news, and there's bad news. I can see he's hesitating. He might even be afraid. I think I even know why. Come on, I say, Don't worry. I don't have any ketchup on me. Heh, he says, then he clears his throat. Bad news first, I say. Okay, Ted says, and then smiles, really wide, ear-to-ear wide. A voice appears in my head, metallic, loud, full of urgency. Danger, Will Robinson, Danger! Ted says, The bad news is that since we're moving there will be some ... restructuring ... around the office. I know we're moving, I think. What I would really like to know is why. We're moving? I say. Right, right, he says, The company is moving. Out of the city. A better place. Great cost-savings. There are some trees even. He speaks like this, in a staccato of bad grammar and broken sentences. That way, he doesn't have to worry about diction. Trees are important, I say. The carbon dioxide generated by employees won't go to waste. True, true, Ted says, his face a stone, serious. So that's the bad news? Well, the restructuring means that some people will be... repositioned, he says. I should be enjoying all his idiotic rhetoric, his hovering around the point without ever getting there like a summer fly. But I'm not. I'm just tired. Repositioned, as in firing, I say. It's not a question. There will be some layoffs, yes, Ted says. Silence. I hate this. I have to get the information out of him as if this was an interrogation. So, am I fired? I say. No, not you. You are being relocated. He says relocated as if he's a travel agent pushing a journey to some amazing Caribbean destination. He goes on, But the others, well, there will be less people. I think, Come on! Just say it and be done with it! Who? I say. Well, everyone else, Ted says. What? I say, You're kidding. He shakes his head. You fired everyone in the department? Well, not me, personally, no. I mean, it wasn't my decision. Really, I say, So what's the good news? Oh! Right! Ted says, and his eyes light up. The good news is, I've been promoted. I look at him, but I know that just looking is not enough. He's oblivious. When I was six I broke my leg one summer and I spent it reading comics, and afterwards I used to try to shoot laser beams from my eyes, like Superman. I would concentrate really hard, for minutes on end, but nothing would come out. Ocassionally, I'd get a headache, which I took as a good sign. It never worked. In the end I convinced myself that I didn't really need superpowers. I was wrong. Picture Ted's face in flames, my eyes shooting death rays at him, me, laughing like a demented Santa Claus. Picture Ted running around the office looking for water to splash on his face, finally getting to the bathroom. Then Ted is looking at his charred face in a mirror, and getting upset at how he looks without skin on. Picture him looking down and seeing his suit is a mess. He'll never be able to clean it up. That's when he decides that life is not worth living. So? Ted says, face intact, bringing me back to reality. What? I say. Ted looks at his watch. Look, I gotta go now, but I'll be back in half an hour. Why don't you get some coffee and think about this for a while and I'll be back? I want to hear your suggestions. I want to talk about your concerns. I wouldn't want you to keep these feelings bottled up. Then he adds, I can tell you're upset. This is Ted, the Father Figure. One of the many ways this sociopath relates to people. Fucking idiot. He thinks he is sensitive. He once walked up to a woman who'd just signed her divorce papers and said as a form of consolation, If it helps, think of me as your husband. She emptied her mug with cold coffee all over him and quit on the spot. After that no one talked to him for a week. He thought we were being sympathetic. I say, I'll be here, then. Don't worry. Ted picks up his papers, gets up and leaves. I try to make sense of what he just said, the move, the layoffs, but I can't. I turn around but Ted's already gone. Maybe I should relax for a while. I stretch my arms behind my back, set my feet on the table. There's flat thud-thud-thud behind me. That dull, half-finished sound of someone knocking on glass. I already know. Ted, ready to ask me to get my feet down. Yeah, yeah, I say. I turn around, but what I see is not Ted. I see a smile. Green eyes. Long hair. Jordan.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2008/01/episode-forty-one.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2008/01/episode-forty-one.html Thu, 24 Jan 2008 04:27:04 -0800 not happening. What's happening is, I am sitting in the main meeting room of my floor, alone. What's not happening is the meeting. Everything is painted in deep red, the sun plunging just outside the window into the concrete below. This is the only room on this floor with a window. For the clients, you know. So I'm here, basking in the sunset, alone. The glass looks outside into the city, but it reflects my face. I'm thinking, this must be the most expensive mirror in the world. I'm wondering if maybe they will move the entire building with me and my reflection in it, and I won't even notice. And I'm waiting. I didn't see a single person when I walked on my way here. The entire floor was quiet, I could even hear the humming of the fluorescent lights. Eddie must have vanished on his way up. Ted must be grooming his suit somewhere, or socializing in the bathroom. Tony and Little Bernie may have relocated to a restaurant to continue their culinary experiments. I've been waiting for fifteen minutes. It's thirty minutes after the time the meeting was supposed to start. And no one's here. This is typical. Show up on time to a meeting and no one comes. Maybe they cancelled it. Wait a minute. Maybe they canceled it.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/forty.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/forty.html Sun, 29 Jan 2006 16:11:56 -0800 my fingers now. I pull. The doors open. I am between floors, and the view from here is what rats or cockroaches see every day. The view from the trenches. I can see the dirt on which we walk up close, what we throw, what they eat. Some people say that rats will inherit the earth. I think that rats gave the earth to us. They used to run things, but then they decided that it was much better to let a bunch of egotistical primates do all their work for them, and they let us be in charge of creating food and shelter and such things. One day, we'll take the rats to Mars, free of charge. And they will get there without having to worry about balancing the budget. I have stop thinking about rats and space travel, and get out. This thing might start up again. I pull myself out, crawling. My arms hurt. I stand up, look around. Sixth floor. As soon as I'm out, the elevator starts to move until it reaches the floor. Ding, Dong, it says. Figures. Well, at least I got here. There's no one in sight. The workers that were here in the morning are gone. And it's not five o'clock yet. What I'm doing now is going floor by floor one last time, trying to find Eddie. I approach the doors. Carefully. I cover my hands with the sleeves of my shirt, and I push. The doors open. I walk in. There's the smell of things that have just been built, paint, wood cut or drilled, solvent. There are pieces of carpet everywhere. What's left of sunlight cuts the floor in sharp shadows of chairs, lonely cubicle walls and tables. I'd never seen shadows in the office. A sound, coming from the side. I turn to it, and there's a sort of... what is that? Some sort of wall... Eddie? I say. Eddie's head shoots up behind the wall. What? he says, nervously. I clear my throat, then say, Are you building a fort? Protection, Eddie's head says. Protection. Protection, I think, In a fort. Is there any sand here? And I left my pail at home. Protection from what? I say. You know, Eddie's head says, then it disappears. Eddie crawls out from it, from a side, then stands up. What? he says. Whatdoyouwant? I make an effort to stop looking at the hideous structure behind Eddie and I look at him. The meeting's soon, I say. This is my excuse for looking for him, the result of minutes of preparation and hard work. Oh, Eddie says. Plus, you said you'd explain later, I say. Ha! Eddie says, YoushouldtellJordanI know what'sgoingon. Jordan? I haven't seen Jordan in weeks, I say. Really, he says. Well, I'm nottelling you anything, he says, then starts to walk, and goes past me. I turn around and he's by the door. I walk after him. I get to the door, open it, and he's already on the elevator, doors closing. Wait! Where are you going? I say The meeting, Eddie says. Then his face disappears, only shiny metal left. The meeting. I look at my watch. It was a good excuse then. The meeting is now.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-nine.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-nine.html Sun, 29 Jan 2006 16:06:30 -0800 Jordan looks back at me from the edge of the bed, where she's sitting, half-naked. What you have to understand, she says, is that when you exercise every day, say, by running two or three miles, your whole world view changes. You spend all day pumped up on adrenaline or whatever. Everything is black and white. There is no thinking, just acting, as if you had an artificial warzone in your head. Making choices becomes easy. You might be wrong, but you don't care. You should try it. Please, I say, I don't want to talk politics. Jordan knows what she's talking about. She has been running two miles a day every day for the past four months. She still smokes half a pack a day, but that doesn't seem to affect her. Me, I run after the bus for half a block and my body is already declaring a state of emergency. She lights up a cigarette, and offers one to me. Tobacco seriously damages health, I say. Yeah, well, she says, Life is a terminal disease, but babies don't come with government warnings. Then she says, Do you want this? and she nods at a cigarette in her hand. Sure, I say. I rise a bit, enough so my hand can reach hers, and grab the cigarette, then fall back on the bed. This is about three weeks ago, in my apartment, the last night we were together. She was leaving on a trip, didn't want to say where. She didn't leave a phone number. I'll call, she said. She didn't. But that's okay. As a way of dumping me, it seemed almost effortless. No fighting. No arguments. Also, since she didn't actually dump me, she could come back. I don't know what I feel, but I'm not sad. She knew what she was doing, whatever it was. I could say I'm so calm about it because I trust her, but it could also be denial. You never know. The reason I'm thinking about this is, I've been chasing Eddie through the entire building for the last hour. I went back to the office after the basement nearly killed me, and there he was, rummaging through the contents of my cubicle. When he saw me, he started walking away, discreetly. I followed. Eddie and me playing this game of cat and mouse through the office. We must have looked like idiots. I am behind him, trying to walk fast without attracting attention, and the distance between us is enough that I can't really call out for him. I walk faster. He looks back, and sees me gaining on him. Then he walks faster. I walk even faster. And so on. We never break into a run though, because when we get to the lobby he manages to get into the elevator that is leaving, and that's the last I see of him. And so the chase began. Elevators, stairs, floors, more elevators, more stairs. It's as if I was chasing a ghost, something that could move through walls, or as if he knew where I'd be next so he managed to avoid being there. Everywhere I went I asked if they'd seen him, and the answer was always something like Yeah, sure. He was just here a second ago... I am past the point of exhaustion, my legs hurt, even my shoulders hurt. My shirt is sticking to my armpits. So that last conversation came back to me, and now I see what she meant. Before, I wanted to find Eddie to reason with him. I was angry, but it was anger full of ambiguity, of trying to understand his position, of trying to make him understand mine, etcetera. Right now, I don't even want to talk to Eddie. I just want to find him, then throw him out the window. If someone told me he'd done it already, all by himself, I'd be happy. Problem solved. Normally I am not like this. I guess it must be the exercise.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-eight.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-eight.html Sun, 29 Jan 2006 16:02:23 -0800 something, like the flash in your head when you see a long-lost friend walking down the street, and then it's gone. The philosophical pretensions follow. The analysis. That's when you say, That was close. I will change my life. I will enjoy it. I will do what I really want. And then you just check your clothes for dirt spots and walk on, back home or wherever, back to a living room to watch tonight's baseball game or your favorite sitcom, or back to your office and the two-hour meeting that had just been rescheduled. Slowly, the moment fades away. Then it's just a memory. One more tale to tell. But not right now. Right now, it's just me and this heavy hunk of metal that is falling on me and I'm looking at it, noticing little details, like a scratch on one of the cabinets or the drawers as they slid open while the structure falls, head first so to speak. Something, I don't know what, breaks my deer-in-the-headlights phase and I jump ahead. Behind me, the cabinets hit the floor in a loud series of bangs. It's over. I turn around, and look at the heap of painted metal, paper and binders that now exists between me and the door to the elevator. I imagine that something had been holding this mountain of filing convenience against the elevator door, and when the door opened everything came crashing down. A trap. Where I am now is in the basement. I came here looking for Eddie, and I found myself facing Death By Crushing. After the bathroom I went back to my cubicle, and I saw the unopened package that Eddie had received. I opened it. Inside were some reports that discussed Action Plan B, and a memo. The reports appeared to be just like the others I'd seen, but the memo was new. The memo said that I should be consulted on this, and that I should be able to lay the groundwork. I. Me. I have trouble getting right the order of the buttons on my shirt, how can I provide the groundwork for anything? The memo was addressed to all the department heads, including my manager. The sender was the CEO. It had to be fake. Who would go and do such a thing? Who would care? But then I remembered that Eddie had ignored the contents of the package. Eddie knew. I had to ask Eddie. He would probably tell me off, or come up with some bullshit story to appease me. But I had to try. Eddie was nowhere to be found. I walked all over the floor, something I had never done before. I walked past Little Bernie's cubicle, desk covered with open cereal boxes and tupperware. I walked past Marge's cubicle, some seventy square-feet with so many plants it looks like a greenhouse with no glass ceiling. I even saw the common printer for the first time, lonely inside its own cubicle, merrily spewing reams of memos and documents, charts and everything, secure in its job. I couldn't find him, so I looked for Kathy. Kathy said that she didn't know, but that she'd heard him say something about the basement as he was leaving the office. So there I went, and here I am. I assume that the trap, if that's what it was, was for me, but I can't be sure. I can also assume that it was Eddie, but who knows? Many people take revenge on their peers as random recreation. Even me. I call out for Eddie, but there is no reply except the echoes of my voice, dilapidated for a moment between the old furniture and the silent computers. Eddie's not here. I retreat, carefully, over the metal and the binders and the forgotten memos. I call for the elevator, and wait. Next stop: Eddie. Wherever he is.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-seven.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-seven.html Sun, 29 Jan 2006 15:56:20 -0800 pulling away, I had an idea. There was one more thing I had to ask. I ran after him and his clacking cart and stopped him. I said, One more question. Don Cicce looked at me, inscrutable. When are they planning the move? Ah, Don Cicce said, Tomorrow-a! Tomorrow? I said. Yes, Don Cicce said, and left me standing just like before. Tomorrow. So I walked back to my cubicle to sit down and think, and as soon as I relaxed the phone rang. God! Let a person have some rest! I thought, even though I wasn't really tired and I hadn't done any real work in quite a while. What is it with my job that it feels like work even when I'm doing nothing? Anyway, I had to get out. I went to the kitchen, but Tony and Little Bernie where there, apparently performing surgery on a sandwich and talking excitedly about different types of Italian dressing. The kitchen was not an option. So, here I am. The door is closed, and everything is silent except for the remote dripping of a faucet somewhere. I've been here for maybe ten minutes, and still the image of that sandwich with two grown men slobbering over it as if it was made of gold haunts me. Two words, whispered, reach me. The horror. The horror. All the movies about Vietnam put together are nothing compared to this. I am trying to concentrate on the problem at hand, namely, the fact that I might soon be out of a job, when I hear the bathroom door open. Steps. A faucet opens. Water. A deep breath. The door opens again. A voice. A woman. There you are, the woman says. What is a woman doing here? The water sound stops, and after comes the creaking of the mechanism as it's pushed beyond its limits. Then comes the reply. What? I recognize the voice. It's Ted's. No one else here? Let me check, Ted says. I raise my feet from the floor, and wait. A moment passes. Yeah, we're alone, Ted says finally. My feet go back to the floor, slowly. When are you talking to your people? Later today, Ted says, I figured it was better to tell them at the end of the day. Good. Be tactful. Tactful? I think. Some people are not taking this too well, the woman goes on, Mark Spielman, from Corporate, had a guy throw a tantrum in the middle of the meeting. The guy ran to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of ketchup. Splattered ketchup all over everybody. Savages, Ted says, When was this? Just now, the woman says. I try to think who would do something like that, but the conversation goes on. What happened to your pants? the woman says. My pants? Ted says. Did you wash them with wine or something? Picture Ted in his dark purple pants, the one he's so proud of he went on about them for a week, explaining everyone in the office how he'd gotten a great deal on them in his trip to Italy. They are the latest over there, he'd said. Yeah, my wife screwed up, Ted says. A beeping sound. Then hands running over clothing. Look, I gotta run, says the woman. See you at the meeting at eight. Okay, Ted says, and I can see his fake smile at full volume. The door opens, then closes. I wait. And wait. The door opens and closes again. I still wait. The door opens once more, and this time I raise my feet again. I can imagine Ted crouching next to it, double checking. The door closes. Feet go back to the floor and they stay there, still, but my head is spinning. Maybe I shouldn't pack. Maybe I should just get my hands on a large supply of ketchup.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-six.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-six.html Sun, 29 Jan 2006 15:51:30 -0800 Ted's office is the big surprise, an empty cubicle. All its contents have been packaged and stacked, just like Sally's cubicle and the others. It seems as if a strange virus is spreading through the building, or as if we are under attack by some invisible enemy that makes people disappear and wraps everything else in transparent plastic. I look at the empty chair and try to remember. Who worked here? A woman. What was her name? Have they relocated her from my mind too? What did she do? My trip down memory lane is suddenly interrupted by Ted walking out of his cubicle. Hey! he says, Finished with those memos? Yeah, I say, No problem. Good, he says. You know, I say, I have a question for you. Shoot, he says. Damn. I left my .357 at home. What's happening? I say. He scratches an eyebrow, then says, With what? Happening? All the empty floors, cubicles with no people. Everything packed up. Reorgs. Empty cubicles? he says. I take one step back and point at the empty cubicle next to his. Oh, that, Ted says. Yeah, that. You'll be at the meeting this afternoon, right? he says. Yeah. Great, he says, You'll find out then! Excuse me. And with that, he leaves. Confrontation didn't work. He didn't know, or he didn't want to tell me. Who might know about this? A metallic sound growing in the distance brings the answer. Don Cicce. Don Cicce is the man responsible for nourishing the caffeine addiction of the executive ranks of the company. He travels from floor to floor delivering the goods. Coffee made with imported beans, pastries and sandwiches that are so good he has to cover them to prevent a wave of heart attacks as he pushes the clanking metal cart with its precious cargo. Rumor has it, he even has M&Ms. For the CEO, you know. And now he is approaching me, whistling a happy tune as usual, pushing the cart along. If he doesn't know what's happening, no one does. Don Cicce! I say. Bambino! he says, raising his arms. One day I will find out what bambino means. I'd bet it's an insult. Hey, I say, I wanted to ask you something. You want some coffee, yes? he says in his inimitable Italian accent, hands already moving to pick up a cup. No, no, I say, Just a question. Do you know why so many floors are empty? The people gone? Ah, the ree-org, he says, Nobody knows. They are-a moving to a new building. And you don't know where, I say. No, niente, but I am-a working extra tonight, he says. Thanks, I say, and I pat him on the back. He leaves, and as he walks past me he starts whistling again. A happy soul. They are moving the entire company? It seems the meeting today is not going to be a happy one. Not that I didn't expect a layoff or two. But future layoffs, not everyone laid off today... and Ted is so relaxed... Precisely. I wonder, should I start packing?]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-five.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-five.html Sun, 29 Jan 2006 15:41:40 -0800 a memo to Pete, I say. Blank stare. Pete Prentice? The head of the department? I offer. I can tell that she is still in a trance. She takes a long time to do or say anything, her mind lost somewhere else. I am tempted to take a look at her monitor and see what she was doing, but it would probably be useless. She must have a perfect excuse for whatever it was. After maybe five seconds, her eyes light up. Pete! she says. Yes, I say, hopeful. Finally a human answer. He doesn't work here anymore. What? What do you mean? I say. He was relocated yesterday, she says. In the reorg. What reorg? The latest, she says. There's almost nobody left in there. Thanks, I say, and I step back. She goes back to doing whatever she was doing, and she doesn't look at me again. I walk into the floor, and what greets me is the same eerie silence I found in the floor where Sally worked. I walk to the nearest cubicle and everything looks the same, everything wrapped in transparent plastic foil, stacked in neat piles. Calm down. I'm sure there is a perfectly plausible explanation for this. Massive alien abductions, for example. My manager didn't know anything about this, or he wouldn't have sent me here. Or did he know? I have to talk to him. I have to talk to him now. I go back to the lobby, and press the button for the elevator. The numbers over the door start to move. Next to the door there is a trashcan. I throw all the remaining memos into it. I think about what to say, how to approach it. Maybe confrontation will be useful for once. Who knows? He might even tell me the truth.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-four.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2006/01/thirty-four.html Mon, 16 Jan 2006 00:42:25 -0800 Eddie left. I had just sat down and was about to look at the new package when Ted's head slid into view from behind the right side of my cubicle-entrance, his neck seemingly attached to the wall in a bizarre man-and-fabric-covered-carboard symbiosis. Hi, Ted's head said. Hey, I said. Ted's body moved out of hiding, and his head changed angle, no longer attached to the wall. I could imagine the body, silently panicking, screaming, Take this horrible thing off me!, arms trying to pull the head out while the head defended itself by biting. I chuckled. What? he said. Nothing... I said, the image of the head fighting it out with the body still in my mind. Do you have a few minutes? he said, with a Very Serious Look. Sure, I said, and as soon as the word was out of my mouth I started kicking myself for it. The fantasy battle between Ted's head and body had distracted me, lowered my defenses. Now, anything could happen. I had breached the golden rule. Never, ever say that you have some free time. Ted's body walked into my cubicle, and his head followed. You know, the memo we sent out last Friday to all departments about Operations Efficiency? he said. I had no idea what he was talking about. What about it? I said. Well, there was a mistake in the second paragraph. A decimal point was off-place, he said, and paused for a moment, looking Very Serious, probably waiting for the enormity of what he'd just said to sink in. Aha, I said. Ted cleared his throat, and continued, So, we need to distribute a a corrected version. But the network is down, so we need to do it by hand. Right, I said, not liking where things was going but not seeing a way out either. Kathy has a set of printed copies, and a list of the people that should get them, he said, Can you go floor by floor and give a copy to each department head? Company mailman, a new job to add to my resume. What a waste of time. While Ted waited for my response, I was trying to find a bulletproof excuse to get out of this, something that would counteract all the usual illogical arguments and, quote, issues, unquote, that would come out of Ted's mouth whenever you said something he didn't like. Nothing. Zero. Zip. Nada. Oh, what the hell. Sure! No problem! I said, big smile on my face. Great, Ted said, Let me know later how it went. And with that his body was gone, head and everything. Which brings me back to this elevator and this kid next to me, singing, or trying to. I'm out of the elevator even before the doors have opened completely, carrying a binder with the printouts of the revised memo that I haven't yet delivered. I stop in my tracks, looking at the next name on my list. It's Pete. Maybe this mailman gig won't be a complete waste of time after all.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2004/11/thirty-three.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2004/11/thirty-three.html Fri, 19 Nov 2004 18:16:07 -0800 Eddie is sitting on my chair, his left hand holding a small cup full of paper clips. His back is turned to me, and I stand in silence. He doesn't know I'm here. My extraordinary ability for stealth has allowed me to creep up on him unnoticed. I should be working for the CIA. Eddie's right hand moves rhythmically, from the cup, to my computer's floppy drive. He takes one paper clip, and slides it into the drive. When I got here he was already doing it. Since then he has inserted at least ten clips into the drive. I've watched him move his hand methodically back and forth, trying to figure out why he is doing this. I can't. I cough. I was waiting for a word, he says, in a weird calm tone, his speech slow and understandable. So he did know I was here. There go my extraordinary ability for stealth and my CIA job down the toilet. What are you doing? I say. Nothing, he says, as he sinks yet another paper clip into the drive. Stop that, I say, What is wrong with you. He pushes sideways with his feet and the chair spins until he's facing me. On his lap there is a package. Not another one, I think. So, you didn'tknowanything? He says, Becausethat'swhatyousaidright?That'swhatyousaid?Thatyoudidn'tknowanything? Explain... this. He throws the package and it lands at my feet. It cameforyoufiveminutesago, he says. I don't know what this is, I say, looking at the package on the floor. And youdon'tknowwhatthatis either? He says, pointing at the binder under my arm. I ignore the last question while I bend down, and pick up the package. I look at it. It hasn't been opened. The label is almost like the other one, the one that started this whole thing. It says, sent by me. It says, it's for my manager. Except this time the label also says, Re: Strategic Reports, URGENT. Eddie stands up, and walks past me. Bytheway, he says, Ted said themeetingwillprobablybetoday. Great, I think. I say, Okay. See youlater... traitor, Eddie says, and leaves. I am left standing there, holding the package in my hand, thinking. We live in such interesting times. You can be a traitor simply for receiving some mail. Good thing that it's not a federal offense yet. Then I realize something's wrong. Back in the basement, Eddie was desperate to find anything related to strategic plans. So why didn't he open the package?]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2004/11/thirty-two.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2004/11/thirty-two.html Tue, 16 Nov 2004 18:54:02 -0800 ex-cubicle, looking at its contents wrapped in transparent plastic foil and all I can think of is the cash registers at McDonald's. They are wrapped as well, so the machine will be protected. People can walk around with their hands dripping grease without much of a problem, you see, but not machines. Because machines are an investment. People are a resource. Investment appreciates or depreciates. Resources are simply spent. I wonder if at some point it was the other way around. Probably not. Most of the cubicles around this one are empty as well, their contents packaged and stacked in neat piles, ready for transport to a new life somewhere. The contents of the whole floor will be moved soon, or that's what the secretary at the entrance told me. Moved, away, to a new office fifty miles out into the suburbs. A cost-saving measure, she said. Then she said, The move alone will cost more than the rent for the entire year. I said, No kidding, what a joke. Then she said, Yeah tell me about jokes. I got this one today. Do you get it? Then she pointed at her screen, an email. I read it. The joke was, There are 10 kinds of people in this world, those who understand binary, and those who don't. I chuckled. She said, You think this is funny? I said, Well, on some level... She said, You're an engineer? I said, Well, sometimes. I felt embarrassed. Here it was, the famous digital divide, the result of a world where not even the jokes are user-friendly. I changed the subject, and asked about Sally and her cubicle. Could she take me to it, maybe? Instead of replying, the secretary pulled a piece of paper out from a drawer and handed it to me. It was a map. A map? I said. She smiled, nodding, then the phone rang, and that was it. So I walked into the floor, few of the noises of corporate life around me. No voices, no phones ringing, no clicking of keyboards. A bizarre cemetery, the gravestones replaced by thin walls with a name hastily written down on a sticker slapped on them. It took me a while to get to Sally's ex-cubicle, hidden in the center of the maze. It was the only one where the sticker had been removed, and I found everything shrink-wrapped and ready to go, and here I am now. The computer is almost certainly a dead-end, I don't even try to get it out of the packaging and plug it. What I'm looking for is blood. Or, as we call it these days, paper. Paper, that's what will help me. I look through the thin shiny plastic at the binders's labels. Emails, Emails, Memos, Projections. Then I find it. Strategic Plans. I rip out the plastic. I look around for a trashcan but there isn't any, so I just leave the crumpled plastic foil on the desk and I open the binder. The contents of the binder look just like what I left at home. Mentions of Strategic Plan One, then Plan Two, then Plan B. Charts, printed emails. Garbage. But... The last item of the binder is a printout of Plans One and Two. I flip through the pages, but there is nothing strange here. One buzzword after another, words with no meaning like Synergy, Responsibility, Growth. Semantics and syntax bent and twisted to their limit. But at the end of Plan One there is a special item. It says, After Plan One is complete, it should be followed up with Plan Two. Plan Two is pretty much the same garbage. One number up the chain, and the joke comes back: from 1 to 10. But Plan Two offers nothing new, except another section at the end that says that all the steps have been followed and the next stage should start. Then it says, Refer to Plan B. So that's why the reports mentioned to Plan B. Somebody's already gone through Plans One and Two, and now they want the rest. I remember a sentence from the reports at home, printed in uppercase letters that jumped out of the page. ACTION PLAN B IS OF STRATEGIC IMPORTANCE AND SHOULD BE LOCATED IMMEDIATELY. ALL NECESSARY STEPS APPROVED. Which steps where approved? The steps to execute Plan B, or the steps to find it? It must be to find it. And Eddie knows something about this. Eddie must know where Plan B actually is. Eddie wouldn't talk about it over lunch. We just sat there, both with our Big Macs, fries, and super-sized monster plastic cups that look like they could hold entire oceans in them. I asked questions, the same questions, over and over. Eddie wouldn't say anything except, Not here. Then we went back to the office and the smell of Tony's sandwich was almost gone. We sat down and stayed in silence for a while, then I came here, leaving him alone. I still wasn't sure what he was up to. But now I'm sure. He knows. He has to tell me, but doesn't want to. So how can I get it out of him? There must be a way. I have to think. Back to the office. I leave the cubicle, binder in hand. And this time, I will not tell Eddie about it.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2004/09/thirty-one.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2004/09/thirty-one.html Fri, 03 Sep 2004 19:42:08 -0800 started to happen. Or maybe before I knew that anything strange was happening. Right now we are waiting, on a line as usual, Eddie and I, waiting, waiting for our turn to get our order at the local McDonald's. Half the people from the office are here. It could take a while, so my mind inevitably wanders. To the subway that day... Full stop again. Doors open. Some people get on, others get off. I hear someone calling me. I turn around. It's Sally. Hey, I say. Hey, she says, sliding between bodies and finally standing close to me. There are a few shoulders between us, but it doesn't matter. Your typical modern conversation, mediated by flesh, or electrons. No real contact here. I say, How are you doing? She says, Fine, considering... I say, Yeah I know what you mean. But I didn't know, I just assumed I did. Now I know. She was talking about losing her job. And she assumed I really did know. But back to the subway. I think you should also watch out, I think this has something to do with ITSRG, she says. She pauses for a moment, as if she's wondering whether she should tell me this or not, and then she adds: Before I left I was working on a list of strategic plans, apparently some big new thing. Task force? I say, For what? The reorg, she says. Reorg? I think. I say, Well, there's always some reorg going on. She says, Yeah, tell me about it. And that was that. We worked together occasionally, but that was it, so we had nothing to talk about. Nothing except work, that is. Before I left she'd said. Now I know what she meant. This afternoon, when we get back from lunch, I'll go find her things. They must still be there. If Eddie won't talk, I'll find out what's going on myself. In the meantime, it's my turn. The person in front of me disappears, replaced by a guy dressed in standard-issue McDonald's clothing, like a soldier, and he smiles. A generous, heartwarming, fake smile. Hi, he says, What can I get you?]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2004/09/thirty.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2004/09/thirty.html Thu, 02 Sep 2004 19:46:51 -0800 smell? Smells like... salami? Eddie is sitting next to me, on a chair that he stole from somewhere. I have been telling him everything that�s happened to me in the last day or so. I was just finishing with my story when that godawful smell interrupted us. Eddie looks up, sniffs and says, What the hell is that? I say, Let me see. I stand up halfway and raise my eyes just above the cubicle walls, and I see everybody else doing the same, a sea of heads, silent, we all look at each other but no one says anything because there is no need. We know we all are looking for the soulless creature responsible for this criminal behavior. Eddie says, Do youseeanything? No, I say, But I have an idea of who it might be. Who? Eddie says. The Tony Odor Broadcasting System, I say. Tony? Eddie says. Who'sTony? Nevermind, I say. I leave Eddie and the cubicle behind and I walk to Tony's cubicle. When I get there, I find a small crowd surrounding it, and behind the bodies I can hear Tony saying, Fog-gedaboudit! I make my way through and I am finally face to face with Tony, who has a half eaten sandwich on his hand. Things that can�t be named without risking eternal damnation are dripping between the slices bread into the floor, the blots camouflaged with the dark carpet. As he chews, something red and greasy leaks out of his smile. UGHSBUDJASHOIN, he says as soon as he sees me, and I can see some horrible goo greeting me from inside his open mouth. Tony, please, I say, Finish chewing before you talk, will you? He gulps, then says, Okay. What the hell are you doing? I say, and I point at the remains of the sandwich in his hand. Don't you know these things have been outlawed by the Geneva convention? He-hem, he says, It's a ge-nu-ine I-ta-lian Salami sandwich. Where did you get it? I say. Tony smiles, and says, Starbucks! Genuine indeed. I turn around and I'm alone. I see people standing in their cubicles getting ready to leave, half-bodies moving their arms and shoulders, looking down at things I can�t see. Everyone has arrived at the same conclusion: there is no way to weather this, the only solution is to leave. I go back to my cubicle. Eddie is still sitting there, doing something with my computer. Hey, I say, We have to leave. Eddie says, Okay, and gets up. We can finish this over lunch, I say. Eddie shrugs. As we are walking to the elevators I say, So, now you know everything I know. So can you tell me now what's happening with you? Eddie says, No. I stop, Eddie keeps walking. What do you mean, no? I say, starting to walk again faster to catch up with him. No? No, he says. Okay, so what's up with these things we found, we should start to go over them... where do you have them? I say. Idestroyedthem. You did what? I say. I don�t believe this. On which team is he? Who�s he playing for? Is he hiding the ball? Who has the ball? Is there a ball? And why can�t I stop thinking of sport metaphors? I�destroyed�them, he says again. Why? Why? I say. Not here, he says, looking to one side, then to another, narrowing his eyes. Later? I say. Later. We reach the lobby, and there�s a long, long queue waiting for the elevators, everybody fleeing the floor like the plague. It will be a long, long time before we get down. I grab Eddie by the arm and say, I know a better way. Down the stairs.]]> http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2004/06/twenty-nine.html http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/planb/archives/2004/06/twenty-nine.html Sun, 13 Jun 2004 17:51:53 -0800