Melange and Other I.T. Stories
by
Peter Hassebroek
Published by Upbound Solutions at Smashwords
Melange and Other I.T. Stories
Copyright © 2010 by Peter Hassebroek
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and to actual locations or organizations, is coincidental.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
ISBN: 978-0-9866640-0-7
Discover other titles by Peter Hassebroek at www.peterhassebroek.com
~~~~~~~~
Contents
MELANGE
FOOD
GREENER GRASS
CAREER
GOING FORWARD
THE I.T. DIRECTOR
~~~~~~~~
Melange and Other I.T. Stories
MELANGE
0001
By now all his colleagues in the IT department have settled at their desks.
Dustin Freeman enters through the revolving door of the weather-less office tower, brushes snow from his coat, and strolls to a bank of four elevators. There he waits with another man who deftly cradles a hot paper cup of tea while glancing at the recessed globes of glowing numbers. A rotund woman approaches. She struggles to balance two green shopping bags from the crooks of her elbows. A shiny teal-and-maroon DexiaTel badge, like the one in Dustin’s pocket, dangles from a thin chain around her neck. Coatless and at ease, this pair, whom he’s never seen before, regard Dustin as an intruder.
A sharp ting. Dustin pauses to let them on first but they change their minds. He shrugs, pleased to be alone again once the heavy doors slide closed. Dustin watches the tiny television screen above, ignoring the redness of the stock market numbers and focusing on the time: ten-thirteen. He’s late but he’s shown up later than this before. The doors open on the fifth-floor foyer where large panes of frosted glass bracket a massive mahogany door.
Dustin inserts his plastic badge in the slot to the right of the entrance, eyes fixed on the bead-sized bulb above. Red, red, red, he wills, as he pulls the card out. But no. The light displays a bright green, the door clicks. Dustin sighs with mock dejection as he pulls the handle.
A corridor of fading grey carpet inlaid with pastel-coloured geometric patterns circumnavigates the floor. The well-vacuumed laneway divides walled single-window offices from dozens of low-rise cubicles like a moat. Some of the office doors are open; most are not. Several have their blinds drawn. Limp Christmas decorations hang over a number of the cubicles, obscuring nameplates, workstation identifiers, and fading cartoon strips. People tap away at keyboards or speak on the phone; some entertain visitors who lean against the dusty blue risers. Sounds of busyness blending with the hum of white noise. No one pays Dustin any heed and he heeds no one. His anonymity, at one time unsettling, is now something he desires.
An intense discussion is underway in a small, cramped meeting room inside which more than a dozen people surround a narrow oval table. A few have rolled in chairs from cubicles. Their faces remain in his memory but many of the names are receding; somehow, that’s reassuring. One person is talking to a complicated diagram of boxes, circles, diamonds, and arrows, black text on red, blue, green, and brown symbols spanning three panels of whiteboard. The rest appear confused or perhaps are distracted by the nearly empty donut carton, the wall, their BlackBerry devices; a fat woman appears to be dozing.
At last, Dustin reaches the double-cubicle cosily tucked away in a low traffic area in the southeast corner. His office. His sanctuary. His prison. His routine.
Turn computer on, take off coat, sit and spin twice, check for voice mail—“Your mailbox is empty”—and wait. And wait. And wait, as the computer processor chugs away, groaning and whirring, displaying images and scrolling text, flashing lights, red and green. What to do today, Dustin wonders, during the several minutes this takes. Between personal calls, bathroom visits, snack machine purchases, Internet browsing, and daydreaming, he can only kill a couple of hours. He could read free online literature—he once stayed late to finish Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in one day—but he’s not in the mood.
Ah, an email. The daily corporate announcement sent to everyone in DexiaTel. He scrolls down the message, slowing at one item that begins with those fateful words, “I regret . . .,” signalling the cancellation of yet another project. The Telemark Conversion. A simple undertaking to transform data from an older system to a newer one. So simple yet it failed; the older system lives on. Dustin had predicted its doom based simply on the assignation of its prime manager, Chuck Bates. Such accurate prophesying no longer provides much satisfaction though.
On the contrary, to witness project after project turn into miserable failure is painful, especially when he thinks of those unwitting developers who work long hours and weekends to meet impossible, often pointless, deadlines. Deadlines blindly set by scrambling managers trying to impress their superiors or insecure ones reacting to empty escalation threats. At times it seems harder to observe Clay Fortnum’s world than to work in it. How things changed when that man became Chief Information Officer.
Clay’s first act as CIO was to eliminate the director management level, Dustin’s level. The step was hailed at the time for its braveness—even though all the other directors save Dustin had left already—and its organizational efficiency. And so sycophants like Bates and Joyce Morrison and, later on, Joyce Blanton, not to mention Fortnum’s architects and the prince of bureaucracy, Jacques Chartrand, suddenly reported directly to the CIO. The poor fools saw it as a promotion, or at the very least, that they were now prodigies. They began to emulate Fortnum’s tactics, quoting his utterances without comprehending them, meticulously interpreting every statement—missing obvious contradictions—and then attempting to accommodate them.
Dustin chose not to play that game.
How convenient then for the new CIO when that fateful Melange project came about. Simultaneously, Clay ensured Melange would fail and bring Dustin down. His only error was in assuming Dustin would want to leave.
“Do what’s right for you, what’s best for you,” Fortnum would hint after Melange’s end, in an offhand, dispassionate way of poking at Dustin’s pride.
Resigning was the dignified thing to do, Dustin knew that, but a certain twitching of Fortnum’s mouth betrayed the man’s eagerness. So Dustin applied the CIO’s advice literally, concluding that leaving was not in his best interest. It was a poor job market for IT people—it still is—so why not continue taking the money? And he still carries hope that one day the department will flourish again. It won’t happen with Clay Fortnum in charge, but CIO’s, like all executives, are vulnerable. And should that day come, Dustin would be ready.
That day is not today, though. As has become his habit, he leaves early. Just as the nauseating odour of microwave popcorn reaches him, he runs into Rebecca Spencer from Human Resources. An awkward encounter because he knows she knows and she knows he knows she knows all about his situation. His face turns red but she acts as if nothing is unusual and walks past him, leaving Dustin staring out a large window.
The clouds have cleared, the sun is shining through. Several blocks away, beyond the grey and green city park, partially blocked by several low-rise glass office buildings, stands DexiaTel headquarters, where his accomplishments once warranted a window office.
Before Melange.
The blinds are open on the top storey. He can make out little shadowy heads, human movements.
~~~~
The DexiaTel boardroom occupies the northwest corner of the penthouse at headquarters. Forty-five people can sit wide-elbowed around its magnificent oval oak table in plush brown leather swivel chairs, while another sixty can observe from the more modest cloth-cushioned black chairs that line the walls in an outer horseshoe. A mini art gallery covers the beige walls, an eclectic collection of original paintings and photographs by Canadian artists, all of them abstracts offering occasional amusement but not so engaging as to create a distraction.
Three executives—Charles Wenham, President and Chief Executive Officer; Stu Cairns, Vice President of Operations; and Miranda Fisher, Vice President of Marketing—ponder the conclusions presented by a fourth person, Megan Watson. Megan, Vice President of Complex Solutions at Paleo Transitions, has just given an outline of her company’s proposal. She stands at the front, fingers tapping at pursed lips, observing her clients.
Stu appears agitated, his face reddening, highlighting the blondness of his hair. His frown reveals wrinkles in an otherwise youthful face and his bullish body has tensed up. There is much at stake for him, professionally, but Megan senses his motivation is personal too. Miranda, on the other hand, remains calm, occasionally brushing her long auburn hair behind her neck with the back of her hand. Her face, its prettiness marred by a persistent smirk, appears casually indifferent. An incorrect interpretation, Megan knows, and she can see in those dark, penetrating eyes that Miranda is as intensely interested as the other two. Of the three, she will survive whether this fails or succeeds. Not a muscle shifts on Wenham’s long poker face as he continues perusing the materials.
“This is drastic,” the CEO finally says.
The hesitancy in his voice strikes Megan as affected, as if he needs to show some resistance, to test the others. He ought to test them, because he has the most to lose. Their support is all he has to mitigate his risks.
“We don’t want any more fiascos like Melange, do we?” Fisher says.
“Charles, we have no choice,” Cairns says. “Firing a few people and performing another reorg won’t do the job.”
“What do you need from us next?” Wenham says, addressing Megan.
“Aside from one administrative item, nothing. My people are in place and ready to go. From here on, the less you’re involved, the better. I recommend we conduct future meetings at the Paleo office.”
“Wonderful,” Fisher says, “I love that little restaurant you guys have.” Then she stands up to close some blinds, blocking the view of the IT building across the way. “But how do you recommend we deal with Fortnum?”
“He’s got to go,” Cairns says. “The sooner, the better.”
“Now hold on, Stu,” Wenham says, “we’ve gone over this and you’ve made your position clear. His time will come.”
“I understand that,” Stu says, “but his presence makes it difficult for Jane to execute her plans. She was anxious to hire a counterpart for IT before Fortnum demanded she hire from within DexiaTel, from a list he provided. And the only person within the IT department Jane would consider isn’t available. Having seen the list myself, I can’t blame her. But without your intervention, Charles, Rebecca says her HR hands are tied and she has to support Clay’s wishes on this.”
“I’m afraid Jane will have to wait then,” Wenham says. “As far as I’m concerned, replacing my CIO too hastily—not to mention forcing him to accept an organizational change against his will—can only cause turmoil, which can only jeopardize our plans. Isn’t that right, Megan?”
“Yes, Charles, the turmoil would be disruptive. But jeopardize our plans? I hope I didn’t give you that impression. We’d still succeed, it would just take—”
“A little more of Paleo’s time and cost?” Stu says, smiling for the first time.
Megan smiles back. “But I do agree with Charles that it’s best to hold off on Clay Fortnum for now.”
“What if he gets wind of what we’re up to in the meantime?” Fisher says, as Cairns nods.
“Please, people, let’s not worry about Fortnum,” Wenham says, his voice for the first time showing frustration. “I’ll deal with him. He won’t be a problem.”
Megan watches the CEO stare down his two subordinates before they can object further. She’s satisfied now. Thrilled even. In her experience, she has never worked with a client whose top three executives, despite these smaller issues, are as involved and focused and in sync as these ones are. It’s time to enact a key piece of her plan and Cairns has provided the opening.
“Stu, you mentioned there was someone in IT Jane could work with. Who is that?”
“Dustin Freeman.”
“The guy who ran Melange?” Fisher says. “He’s still working here?”
“Yes,” Cairns says, letting out a forced cough.
“Excuse me,” Wenham says. “But are you telling me the leader of that failure is still an employee of DexiaTel?”
“Listen, Charles,” Cairns says. “It wasn’t Dustin Freeman’s fault, not entirely at least, that Melange turned out as it did. But I agree it’s not good to have him around. I’ve told Fortnum for months now, assign him something or get rid of him. He’s bound to be a distraction.”
“What’s holding Clay back?” Megan says.
“I don’t know,” Stu says, shrugging.
“That Freeman guy was pretty good though, wasn’t he?” Miranda says. “Maybe Clay’s got him working on something useful.”
“I don’t think so,” Stu says. “Apparently, Fortnum can’t trust Freeman and is unwilling to assign him anything, let alone make him available to Jane. He’ll fight to the end to prevent Dustin Freeman gaining any influence in the IT department again.”
“Well why wouldn’t Freeman just quit?”
Fisher’s question hangs awkwardly and even Megan is at a loss to explain this. The Dustin Freeman she used to know would have bolted long ago. Her old friend wasn’t the type to hold out for severance, let alone endure not working on anything. It’s a troubling notion, possibly an uncertain element in her plan.
“If he won’t go on his own, you need to fire him,” Megan says. “If there’s a way to do it without Fortnum knowing, all the better.”
“Why would it matter to you, Megan?” Fisher says.
“If anyone can stumble on to what’s going to happen, it’s him.”
“And how would you know that?” Fisher says, smiling.
“Because he and I once worked together,” Megan says,” her voice defiant, ready to answer any challenges. Beyond an exchange of glances, none comes.
“I’ll get Rebecca Spencer on it,” Wenham says.
~~~~
Paper jam.
Marty Tellerini releases a series of curses under his breath. This would happen just as a meeting is ending with people streaming out. Some slow to greet him but no one lingers to help. Alone again, he opens the uncooperative machine, rips out the spoiled sheet, and slips it into the shredding bin. Back to his desk then to resubmit the file. In a minute, the printer resumes with Marty’s hands at the tray ready to snatch the output before anyone can discern its contents.
He needn’t worry because everyone seems to have gone for lunch, allowing him to inspect the three concise paragraphs of this fifth draft. Oh, how he wants to say more, much more, pages more in fact. But what would that achieve? He is far too young to be this bitter and it is far too early in his career to burn bridges. Marty signs the bottom, folds it neatly, inserts it into a letter-sized envelope displaying the maroon-and-teal DexiaTel logo. Then he takes a deep breath and marches to his boss’s office.
Marty stops to peer through the blinds before knocking, sees Chuck’s belly pressing against the desk edge, his left hand blindly fumbling through a bag of Doritos nestled between two piles of documents, his right hand expertly dragging and clicking the mouse. Probably jostling meetings so he can tag along with the IT architects on some offsite vendor seminar, Marty thinks, as he raps on the door and opens it.
“Chuck, can I—?”
“Oh, Marty,” Chuck says, sliding his chair back, brushing crumbs from his shirt. “Sorry man, it’s not a good time.”
“It won’t take long.”
“I said no. Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait a few hours. I’ll come by after Clay’s meeting. Promise.”
Chuck grabs a notebook and brushes past Marty. For some reason, this is not as annoying as it would have been at any other time. Indeed, Marty is actually relieved, as this only strengthens his resolve. Telling Chuck can wait a few hours.
Marty passes by the elevators where he spots Jane Gooden doing up the buttons on her fur coat. He has rarely seen her since Stu Cairns promoted her to Vice President of Business Automation. Her long black hair has been cut, making her stature shorter, but at the same time adding an aura of power to her feistiness.
Jane was one of the first non-IT people Marty met at DexiaTel. Already then she had a chip on her shoulder about the IT department, which strained their relationship at first. Marty’s newness to the company, and to the industry for that matter—it was his first job out of college—soon became evident to Jane and she latched on to him after the success of their first project together. From then on, she demanded he be her dedicated IT liaison for all her important projects, and usually got her way. That suited Marty. Jane was the only person from the business capable of making decisions that stuck and succinctly articulating what end-users truly needed. Yet Marty now believes he lost standing with his peers—and particularly with his superiors—in the IT department because of this. Some were envious of his favoured status, and his knack for getting her to agree to his suggestions, while others actually made him feel traitorous. Her recent promotion only promised to isolate him further within his own department.
“Slumming?” Marty says, with a brief chuckle.
“What would you call a half-day meeting with Missy?” she says, with a weary smile. “I’ll be glad to get back to my headquarters haven.”
“Ouch, Missy—that’s rough,” says Marty, as the elevator door opens and he follows her in. “What’d she do this time?”
“I’ve complained about her so often but either your managers are too impotent, too stupid, or too scared of her. Or, something else.”
“But at your level why would you be dealing with someone like Missy? Can’t you delegate?”
“Believe me, I would if I could, but there’s a lot of work to do on my side too,” Jane says, with a helpless shrug. “A lot of work. But God, how you IT people love your meetings. And why can’t a meeting scheduled to end at noon actually end at noon?”
“I know. If we had done more work and had fewer meetings to talk about the work, I’m sure Telemark might have been successful.”
“Don’t remind me about that one. Between you and me, Marty, my people messed up just as much. If IT cleaned up its act, my problems would be quickly exposed. I’m not ready for that kind of embarrassment yet. Which is why I’ll be back and forth a lot, attending these meetings—don’t laugh—I mean how could someone as smart as you work for someone like Chuck?”
He stops laughing and shows her the envelope. Just then, the elevator car stops at the fifth floor where three people get on and he deftly slips it behind his back. They keep quiet until they reach the busy concourse where Marty hands it to her.
“Here’s how I’m handling it,” he says.
She reads the letter, gasps, shakes her head. “You’re resigning?”
“You bet. I’m giving that to Chuck later.”
“Well, I’m sad to hear it. We’ll miss you. I’ll miss you but, congratulations. Where are you going? I didn’t even know you were looking.”
“I wasn’t. I’ll find something.”
“You mean you don’t have another job lined up?”
“No, haven’t even looked. I know the market’s not great, but I’ll be okay. Also, this’ll send a strong message, don’t you think?”
“What message?”
Marty pauses and Jane waits. “I don’t know. Someone will—,” he says.
She tears up the letter and hands it back to him. “I’ve a better idea.”
0010
Chuck Bates arrives at the eleventh-floor meeting room precisely three minutes before one o’clock and takes his usual seat between the two Joyces, Blanton and Morrison. Morrison is his best friend. Once again she is wearing that frumpy plaid skirt, which makes her square body look even heavier. Blanton, in contrast, is the most attractive woman in the department; she could easily blend in with the women of Sales and Marketing. Her tailored black pantsuit, rather than her normal jeans, indicates she may have had a meeting earlier at headquarters. Or maybe she’s trying to impress Clay.
On the facing wall hangs a pair of paintings, those nostalgic Toronto winter scenes with the old streetcars. The bobbling heads of Thom, Ron, Carl, Ralph, and a few other IT managers block the wheels and tracks. The architects are present too, all three of them—Ted Scholes, Al Chang, and Fred Holochuk—which is unusual because normally only Fred shows up. Even the tardy and absent-minded Jacques Chartrand from Montreal has already called in, the green light on the black conference device indicating his presence.
Why is everyone so prompt all of a sudden? A nervous tingle creeps through Chuck’s belly and he wishes he had brought his Tums. What’s next? Will that jerk, Freeman, suddenly show up for one of his dramatic cameos? No, that could never happen now that Clay’s banished Dustin to that fifth-floor Siberia. Nothing to fear there, not as long as Fortnum runs the show.
A booming baritone from outside the room announces the imminent arrival of Chuck’s boss, Clay Fortnum, DexiaTel’s Chief Information Officer.
“Well there’s not much we can do if they haven’t provided all the information we need, is there? Do they expect us to rely on osmosis?”
The remark draws a few smirks inside the room. Chuck can picture the scene outside, imagine the events leading up to it; relieved to be witness instead of participant. It is also evident Clay intentionally raised his voice for the benefit of those in the room.
Fortnum enters and surveys the filled seats, momentarily distracted by the scribbled notes on the large whiteboard—the same notes have been on the board since before Christmas—but then strolls to the head of the table. The CIO, today in a navy blue suit with pale orange tie, is not a tall man. Joyce Morrison once told Chuck the man’s habitual lateness was to ensure he always remains physically above everyone else. Chuck has to admit the ploy works. Whether from reverence or fear, no one makes eye contact with Clay until he takes the empty chair at the head of the table. Several seconds pass during which Fortnum says nothing.
“All right Joyce, let’s begin with you,” he says, as if unsure of the meeting’s purpose.
Joyce Blanton and Joyce Morrison exchange glances across Chuck who shrugs. Joyce Morrison, more senior in age and service, begins.
“My projects are fine, no major issues, all green.”
“Good.”
“But I do have a situation with Sue Greeley from Network Operations. She keeps pulling one of my best programmers, Dennis, away to answer her questions. They’re not simple questions either, but ones that take time to investigate. I’m afraid, if it goes on, it will encroach not only on my projects but on others’ too.”
Chuck can sympathize. He’s worked with Greeley before, has personally suffered from the business manager’s manipulations and hasty escalations. But Fortnum only stares at Joyce, his eyes unsympathetic.
“And what does she say to that?”
“She? Who?”
“Sue Greeley,” Fortnum says, and flashes an exasperated glance at the architects who grin.
“Well, I haven’t—I mean—there’s not much point in talking to her. She just doesn’t understand how we do things in IT. I wanted to bring it up now, before someone here complains.”
“For crying out loud, you’re managers. Can’t you people control your staff?”
A hush goes over the room. Joyce Morrison is one of Fortnum’s pets; it is rare to see her challenged this way. Chuck, and undoubtedly his peers too, sense that in her misery there may be personal benefit. Chuck shifts his body slightly to put space between them, but then shifts back. He feels for his friend when he catches the desperation in her voice.
“It’s not that exactly, it’s, well, it’s, Dennis does try to resist but Sue’s very persuasive. And they go back years, and have developed a strong relationship—don’t get me wrong, I think that’s a good thing—but it also makes it harder to manage him.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” Fortnum says.
The room becomes completely quiet, all eyes on Joyce Morrison. When she fails to answer, Fortnum sighs sharply and makes no effort to hide his frustration.
“I take it you’re asking me to intervene and talk to Greeley’s superiors?”
Joyce meekly nods.
“All right, I can do that. Anything else?”
Chuck knows she has plenty to bring up, recalling the hour he spent commiserating with her at lunch the day before. Joyce shakes her head. Smart move, Chuck thinks. Her experience with Fortnum is paying off. She knows that next week his mood and responses will probably be different. She leans back, wounded, but not beaten.
Now hostage eyes regard Fortnum with fear and wonder: whom will he target next for execution? Then, as if from some logical instinct, several heads turn to Joyce Blanton. She does not hesitate, her voice confident.
“I’ve had to put Phase B of Calypso in yellow, and I expect we’ll have to red flag it any day now.”
Another bout of silence fills the room; declaring a project in trouble so boldly is risky.
“Why?” Fortnum says, calmly.
“The usual problem, business requirements stability. Almost every day they change their minds on something they were certain about the day before. It’s hindering development.”
“Ah yes, just what I was talking to Kevin about before the meeting. I apologize if I was a little loud out there.”
He pauses. Joyce Blanton, as if done playing her part, sits back and keeps quiet while the CIO leans forward, arms on the table, fists clenched and joined at the knuckles.
“The problem never seems to go away, does it? As I’ve said before, too often before, do not let your business clients confuse you with their indecisiveness. Or their appeals for urgency. Or their escalation threats. Or any other tactic in their bureaucratic arsenal. Remember, we are the end of the line, the machine end. We have no humans to whom we can shift the blame. A computer is a wonderful thing but it doesn’t care a whit about politics. It has no ability to identify or excuse human laziness or incompetence. A computer can’t think for them, or for anyone, nor should it, right? You all know the old adage: ‘This damn computer, I wish they would sell it; it never does what I want it to, only what I tell it.’ For some reason, our business partners have difficulty grasping this.”
Clay pauses again, perhaps to take a breath, perhaps to ensure no one’s attention has drifted from his impromptu speech.
“So from now on, going forward, in all cases, and I mean all cases, we’re taking a hard line. Until the business documents the required system changes—explicitly and thoroughly—we cannot, and will not, proceed. That means getting approvals, signoffs from all their key people, whomever they identify at the outset. No exceptions. And make sure you get all the approval names up front. Don’t allow a last-second VP or Director So-and-so whack-a-mole to pop up and demand to review and approve it and stall progress. After all, if they can’t get formal agreement on their side, how can we be confident about what we build?”
Fortnum exhales dramatically, stands up, removes his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and walks a circle around the room. Clay is in high form today, Chuck thinks, recalling stories of Al Capone and his baseball bat. The same menace is there, albeit weapon-less. Clay mostly addresses the ceiling and walls as if the room is empty, occasionally clasping the back of Fred Holochuk’s chair.
“No wonder they complain about costs when they ask, demand, cajole, or beg us to begin developing before what we are supposed to deliver is known. ‘Just go ahead,’ they say, ‘you know what it is we need.’ And then when they inevitably change what they want, midstream, not only do we have to understand what’s changed, we have to undo what’s done and throw it away. I shudder to think how much this has cost the company over the years.”
Fortnum returns to his seat. His face regains pallor as he looks past Chuck and straight at Joyce Blanton. To Chuck’s dismay, his pretty colleague is revelling in the exclusive attention.
“Joyce, here’s what I want you to do. Arrange a steering committee meeting so I can straighten this out. It has to be within the next two days. Until we have that meeting, you are not to proceed, unless by some miracle the requirements stabilize to your satisfaction. But even if that happens, get my approval first.”
She nods, scribbling frantically, but when he stops talking, she looks up as he seems to be searching for words.
“Clay, what about the work that’s—?”
“What?”
“Well, in some areas we have—”
“I hope you’re not about to tell me you’ve already begun programming any of this. I don’t want to know that.”
Her mouth remains open but nothing comes out. Clay stares at her until it closes. She’s learning when to keep quiet, Chuck thinks. Everyone knows damn well she’s lying and that she’s gotten a head start, just as they would have done in her position. Part of him admires and another part resents her blatant ambition, which appears to be effective. Fortnum pulls the telephone closer.
“Jacques?”
The phone emits a guttural sound, Jacques clearing his throat.
“Yes, Clay, I am here.”
“Jacques, update me on the new requirements gathering processes, especially those signoff documents. As you can see, things will only get worse until we formalize our approach on paper. We need this yesterday.”
“No problem Clay, we are almost ready. In fact I am in the process of scheduling a meeting with for the end of the week—the end of next week—to review what we have produced.”
Chuck and everyone else can sense the gloating in Montreal, just as they know Jacques perceives the envy in Toronto.
“Well, call my admin immediately after this meeting and re-schedule it for first thing tomorrow morning.”
Envy turns to relief; gloating to fear.
“But we still need a few days to make some final adjustments.”
“C’mon, Jacques, what can you do in a few days that you haven’t done in the past six months? I don’t care if it’s unpolished or needs a bit of proofreading. We’ll review what you have. As is. Email all of it—and it had better be substantial—to Trudy, before she leaves today, so she can make copies, all right?”
“Sure, but—”
“What?”
“Yes, today, of course. May I leave the meeting now to attend to that?”
“No. I have to share something with all of you first.”
Fortnum leans forward in his chair. Unconsciously Chuck apes his boss’s movement, sensing that whatever he is about to hear will resolve his still lingering uneasiness from the beginning of the meeting.
“Folks, I have a couple of announcements. The first is that in a couple of days I will be off to Europe for a technological symposium, followed by a vacation. So I’ll be away for several weeks.”
“What if issues come up in the meantime that need your approval,” Joyce Morrison says.
“I suggest to you,” Fortnum says, glaring at her, “that you speak with some of the others here who may have been paying better attention.”
He pauses until Joyce nods sheepishly.
“Now then, there’s another matter. As you’ve all probably heard, Stu Cairns recently created, under Jane Gooden, a new position—a director level position no less—specifically to address what they see as a deteriorating IT / Business partnership. I personally don’t see any benefit to this but I’m a team player and so I’ve agreed to establish a corresponding position within my department.”
A murmur runs through the room; this is the first inkling of advancement since the merger.
“I’ve provided Ms. Gooden with a list,” Clay continues, “with the names of everyone at this meeting and, in the spirit of good relations, agreed to allow Jane to select who that person will be. Now, I must admit, she wasn’t fully receptive to the list at first, thought it should have contained some more names, including the name of one individual we need not mention here.”
Then he pauses to glance at Chuck and smiles.
“She also suggested I include Marty Tellerini.”
“Oh?” Chuck says, his voice dry.
“Do you think I should include him? I mean, she made a reasonable argument.”
“Ah, no,” Chuck says, but then gains his composure. “Of course not. He’s not experienced enough.”
“Right,” Clay says, and then looks away, signalling the end of the meeting.
0011
The next morning when Marty visits Chuck there is no mention of his manager’s promise to see him after Clay’s meeting, let alone an apology. After lukewarm pleasantries, Marty hands his boss a piece of paper and sits down, his clammy hands clasping and unclasping on his lap belying the calm confidence he feels inside. Chuck reads the letter and his eyes alternately widen in surprise then squint as if reading hieroglyphics. Marty is not sure whether this reaction is genuine or a delay tactic. It comes as a liberating relief to realize how little that matters.
“Is this what I think it is?” Chuck says, finally.
“At the moment, I’m not really happy about things,” Marty says, looking away.
“Oh?” Chuck says, rising slightly. “Not happy? Not happy about what?”
“For one thing, I put in a lot of effort on the Telemark Conversion and I guess the cancellation’s gotten me down. I mean, it was a pretty straightforward project.”
“You’re too sensitive, Marty. It was just a project and some projects tend to fail.”
“It seems a lot of projects tend to fail around here.”
“Now listen—”
“No, Chuck, I didn’t come here to get into an argument. Maybe I just need a break. A little time to think about it all.”
Chuck’s lips twitch briefly before his expression resumes its original impassiveness. He picks up the piece of paper again and looks at it as if there is more to it. Now he turns to his computer where he performs a couple of mouse clicks, perhaps consulting an electronic oracle. Chuck has evolved his stalling techniques well and it frustrates Marty to endure them.
“The form’s all filled out, is there something else you need?” Marty says.
“I’m not sure. This is the first leave of absence request I’ve ever received.” Then Chuck frowns. “What about your projects?”
“Cancelled, remember? And Telemark’s not likely to resurface again, according to Jane’s announcement.”
“Jane Gooden, ah yes,” Chuck says, his voice carrying an odd inflection. “She’s getting pretty comfy in her new role, isn’t she? I wonder what she’s—hey, you’re pretty good friends with her, aren’t you?”
“Why?” Marty says.
“Never mind. Okay, who’s going to be your backup when you’re gone?”
“Backup? Isn’t it your job to assign a backup? Besides, I’m an analyst. I don’t support anything operational.”
“Everyone’s got to have a backup arranged if they leave, no matter how short or how long. Those are Clay’s rules, not mine.”
“But what would they back up? I have no projects.”
Marty sighs as a superior smile crosses Chuck’s face; the only way forward for him is to play this game.
“You still need to put a name down.”
“Maybe you could help me out with that,” Marty says.
“I can’t promise anything but I’ll see what I can do,” Chuck says.
Marty nods and then leaves, still confident he’s made the right decision, but also frustrated by Chuck’s inability or unwillingness to deal with it immediately.
~~~~
Chuck saunters into Joyce Morrison’s office, closes the door behind him.
“Lunch is on me today,” he says, gleefully. “I got Tellerini out of the way.”
Usually pleased to see him, Joyce now pays him little attention, perhaps still sore about the last meeting with Clay. Chuck plops down in the chair across from her. Joyce’s desk is tidy, with only her computer, an opened binder, and a pencil caddy. That’s always bothered him. But he’s too pleased with his good fortune to let her desk or her mood put him off. Chuck sits silently until she pushes in her keyboard and gives him her attention.
“Did you hear what I said?” he says.
“I’ve got ears. Is that it? Is that why you interrupted my online chatting?” Chuck smiles and keeps silent, knowing she’s taunting him with her indifference. “Okay, I’ll bite,” she says. “How’d you manage it?”
“Actually, I didn’t have to do anything. He requested a leave of absence.”
“Really? For how long?”
“Only six weeks.”
“I’m impressed. That’s perfect. Long enough for him to find a job somewhere else.”
“You think that’s what he’s going to do?”
“I know Chuck, it’s hard to believe someone would want to leave Your Majesty’s kingdom for another, but you’ll be better off without his kind.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, forget it. Did you get Fortnum’s approval? If not, you’d better do so before he’s gone.”
Chuck shifts irritably in his seat and sniffs; he never likes reminders of the limits of his authority. Not having dealt with this situation before, he’d forgotten such a move needs the CIO to sign off.
“He’ll okay it, won’t he?”
“Beats me, Chuck. But what about Blanton? She’s about to kick-off Phase B of her Calypso project. Weren’t you going to assign Marty to replace Phil for that?”
“Damn it, I forgot Phil left.”
“Relax, you can always get a contractor.”
“Too expensive and it’s too big a learning curve for such a complex project.”
A quiet minute passes until Joyce’s lips and eyebrows rise simultaneously to form a crude smile.
“I’ve got your answer for you. And I’m surprised you didn’t think of it.”
“Think of what?”
“Why, Missy, of course.”
“Missy?”
“Sure, throw her on the project. It got that other one killed, didn’t it?”
“But she’s a technical analyst, not a business analyst.”
“Oh, come on, she’s neither a technical analyst nor a business analyst. Of course, according to her she’s both and everything else in between, at least until she gets in over her head. Then she just nags and annoys the real developers and tasks them into doing the things she should, but can’t. Really, I adore her, she’s as useful as poison. Let her do her thing and soon enough everything will be so confused no one will have time to even remember her role.”
“That’s good, that’s very good. I like it. But, won’t it harm our friend, the lovely Ms. Blanton?”
“Are you kidding? First of all, Joyce Blanton is not as lovely as all you boys think. Stop blushing. And talk about being in way over her head. But at least she knows it and I’ll give her credit for that. With Missy around and drawing all the attention, our friend Ms. Blanton can appear in control and still stay out of the way. She’ll be forever grateful.”
Slowly Chuck’s smile grows to match hers. “How grateful?”
“Oh, get your mind out of the gutter. Believe me, not that grateful. All kidding aside, Chuck, move fast. Do it today. Skip lunch, if you can. And then, if it works out, don’t announce anything until after Marty’s gone.”
Despite his hunger, Chuck follows Joyce’s advice, glad to save a few bucks on treating his friend. His run of good luck continues when Fortnum instantly approves the leave of absence request. Then Missy eagerly accepts the new assignment when Thom Sturm readily agrees to reduce her role on his project. At the end of the day, Chuck silently pronounces Joyce Morrison a genius, when Joyce Blanton’s reaction is as exactly as his best friend predicted.
Late in the afternoon, his hunger becomes overbearing, made worse by the smell of microwave popcorn permeating the floor. But he needs something more solid than popcorn. He is thinking about what he can get at the concourse eatery when his office door opens abruptly, banging the wall. He looks up and feels a lump in his throat as his voice cracks.
“Jane, to what do I owe this honour? Are you here to discuss with me this new role that’s been created? Clay told us about your plans to—”
“Cut the crap, Chuck. Do not put that woman on Calypso.”
“What are you talking—?”
“You know damn well what this is about: Missy Patenkoffel.”
“But how did you find out?”
“Who cares? Just remove her from the project.”
“Listen, Jane, who are you to tell me—never mind, you should take this up with Joyce Blanton, not me, she’s your IT contact for the project.”
“I have and she sent me to you.”
“That’s because she’s happy to have Missy. Marty’s no longer available, which I’m sure you already know too. Therefore, I’m afraid I have no one else, not that I’d reassign it anyway. You’re going to have to work with Missy.”
“I’ve seen what she does to projects and I’d rather have no one.”
“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? I don’t see why you’d have a problem with her. She’s one of our most versatile analysts, just the type of person this project needs.”
“Yeah, right,” Jane says, and departs.
Alone again, Chuck sits back, a nervous yet exhilarating feeling running through him from his first successful confrontation with this woman. He then indulges in the darkly wonderful realization that Missy will drive Jane Gooden nuts.
This satisfaction lasts only until he goes to the snack machines and returns with a Pepsi and a bag of Doritos. He’s halfway through the bag when he realizes how he and Joyce Morrison never chatted about the new position Clay had announced. Had Joyce avoided the subject on purpose? Did she suggest he assign Missy to get Jane pissed off at him, to get him out of the way? Would his friend do such a thing? He takes a long sip of the Pepsi but then his stomach rumbles so much he has to reach for the Tums.
~~~~
From the back of the room, Jane struggles to follow the buzzwords coming out of the mouth of Chuck’s versatile analyst as Missy, with her curly red hair and perky freckles on her chubby face, rambles through the issues. Before Missy’s arrival a week before, there were barely four pages of outstanding issues. Now there are eight and next week there likely will be sixteen.
Part of Jane’s new role—the time-consuming dreary part—involves observing what’s going on, but doing so by taking a longer view. Meaning she has to restrain her anger and not turn pit bull on every matter. Meaning she’ll have to forfeit some battles, perhaps plenty of battles, before she can even hope to win the war. This Calypso project—Phase B—is a challenging one, primarily because in Phase A they deferred all the difficult stuff. She foresees a Phase C and possibly a D as well.
Joyce Blanton, supposedly the one in charge of Calypso, is conspicuously absent. However, there’s Chuck, looking bored, occasionally glancing up from his BlackBerry to observe Jane. Lately, he’s made a point of showing up at all the meetings she attends. Clay’s other managers are doing it too, but not as overtly as Bates. No matter how spur of the moment her decision to attend a meeting is, he somehow gets wind of it. It’s a tiny consolation to Jane that, while with her, he is unable to inflict his incompetence on another project.
“On issue thirty-three, we’re still waiting for the business to clarify requirements,” Missy says.
Issue thirty-three. Jane’s personally familiar with that one, a spill over from Phase A. That may be why her people are so reticent; they’re afraid to say something wrong in front of her. How disappointing. She needs stronger, less fearful people working for her. Until that happens, she’ll continuously have to attack Clay’s people, to deflect the weaknesses within her own team.
Sometimes she feels sorry for the IT folks, many of whom are capable and cooperative and innocent victims of her wrath. It must be hard to work with the outcasts from the various business departments that treat their computer systems as a necessary nuisance. Jane intends to revolutionize that situation but she needs Stu’s help.
It’s becoming tougher to remain patient with her Vice President. He keeps promising he’ll convince the other executives to give her the power she needs. And what’s so hard? Why can’t she just get Dustin on board? Or hire someone from outside DexiaTel? But no, Stu’s asked her to avoid the one IT manager worth keeping. She still feels that way about Dustin, despite the mess he allowed Melange to become.
“Now for issue thirty-four, I need—”
“Hold on, hold on,” Jane says, her voice jarring Chuck’s attention away from his BlackBerry. “Back to thirty-three. I personally know we closed this in the first phase. Why are you bringing it up now?”
Missy, not intimidated, seems to have expected this reaction.
“Yes, Jane, you’re right. And closing it was the right decision at that time. However, since then, we’ve discovered that that fix may not be the best solution for all aspects of that function and that there may be other options. So, really, we’re back at square one with this item.”
Jane’s irritated less by Missy’s explanations than the cheerfully condescending manner in which she offers them, as if implying this discovery is good news.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Jane says, “the issue is closed. End of story. You, me, all of us will work with the solution agreed to back then and move on.” Missy shrugs helplessly, as if to say no one can control the impossible. Chuck remains mute but attentive. Jane struggles to maintain calmness in her voice. “We’ve developed our business processes and our training based on that decision. There’s no time to change it, let alone coordinate the resources again.”
“But I’m afraid we can’t do it your way,” Missy says.
“Why the hell not?”
“Well, for one thing, we’re limited by how the current system works,” Missy says.
Jane’s tempted to point out the limits seem to have more to do with the people working on the project, and not the system itself, but it would be futile and undignified, considering her position.
“How?” Jane says.
“How, what do you mean, how?” Missy says.
“How is it that we are limited by the system?” Jane says.
Missy hesitates, looks at Chuck. He puts down his BlackBerry. “It’s complicated,” he says.
Jane perks up like a fisherman feeling a tug on the line.
“In what way?”
“It’s technical. The explanation would be much too involved to get into at this type of meeting.”
“Give me an abridged version. Dumb it down.”
“All right, if you insist. It has to do with how our systems were originally developed and how they’ve evolved over the years. So even small fixes like this can prove significant upon further investigation.”
“So because of your previous short cuts, I have to suffer now.”
“That’s an unfair and simplistic characterization.”
Before she can respond, Chuck undertakes the type of long-winded explanation she has heard too often from technical people who should be working at their desks rather than attending meetings, a verbal cocktail of obscure terms, acronyms, clichés, euphemisms, given in a clinical yet condescending tone intended to both mollify and confuse the listener, but mostly to deter further queries.
“You’ll have to trust us on this,” he concludes. Then, as if taking Jane’s silence as surrender, his voice becomes conciliatory. “But Missy, we need to treat Jane’s concerns seriously and ensure we apply due diligence on this issue such that her team can work with the altered solution. Perhaps you can arrange a separate meeting for this?”
“Sure thing,” Missy says.
Jane feels helpless. Sure, she can try to continue the fight. With only a scrap of her intelligence, and a great deal of energy and patience, she would win this particular point. While it may give her satisfaction, behind this issue a dozen more like it await. So she says nothing and sits back.
The meeting resumes and once attention turns away from her, Jane quietly exits.
In the hallway, she senses Chuck coming up behind her. She quickens her pace but he is persistent and in a few seconds overtakes her, trying not to huff as he catches his breath. He gives her a boyish smile.
“Jane, I feel bad about that issue but situations like that are inevitable. We are trying our best to meet your requirements, but we have our constraints.”
“Chuck, I don’t believe a single word you say and if, for once, you were honest with yourself, you’d understand why.”
Chuck’s face is blank, stunned, but he does not appear offended. In fact, Jane cannot ever recall Chuck showing offence. He’s like a robot programmed to process criticism through some delusional logic engine, an engine that rationalizes and reverses negativity into self-congratulation, discarding the remainder.
“You know that we’re only trying to fulfill your wishes.”
“You know what I wish for, Chuck? I wish for people who can work with us on a solution, instead of spending their time coming up with ways to tell us what they can’t do. People with the passion to get things done.”
“We have passion,” Chuck says.
“Passion? Really? Okay, maybe so. But it’s a passion without imagination. It’s easy to argue passionately for taking the safest course of action, to cry out the need for risk assessments for the smallest decisions.”
“You’re right,” he says, and now she stops and turns around. “You’re right. We need to improve things. That’s why I think Stu chose you for that role. I want to help.”
“You want a promotion, Chuck, that’s all,” she says, her voice low now.
“Sure I do. But I think I’ve earned it. Speaking of which, are you close to making a decision?”
His pleading voice is so pathetic. At times like this she regrets making the announcement. Jane wants to put him out of his misery and tell him that she’ll never consider him, or any of the others on Clay’s list. If it comes to the point when she’s forced to choose, Jane’s not sure what she’ll do. Until then, she’ll put it off, weaving other options in her mind.
“No, Chuck, I haven’t made a decision yet.”
“Okay,” he says, and then his broad face widens in a smile as he toddles off.
0100
This has to be the feeblest career fair I’ve ever attended, Marty thinks, as he strolls along the thick, colourful carpet of the three-star hotel, indifferently passing small, hastily assembled kiosks and flea market style tables. So unlike the years leading up to Y2K when these events took place in grand halls of fancy hotels and lasted three days, not one. One could visit dozens of elegant booths hosted by smiling, attractive representatives, proudly bearing logos of stable, independent companies on badges, golf shirts, crests and business cards. The competition between companies for talent was fierce then, positions offered on the spot, along with signing bonuses, guaranteed annual performance payouts, moving expenses, and other meaningful incentives. Now, with all the Y2K refugees around, it’s become a buyer’s market. Salaries have decreased and Marty will be lucky if he finds a job paying eighty percent of what he makes at DexiaTel. Nonetheless, he leaves a few resumes with the pathetic optimism of a novel writer sending a query to a publisher.
Of course, many organizations avoid job fairs now and rely on the Internet, either using public job search sites or developing internal HR applications. Marty has tried them but with little success. Oh, he’s received many responses but few match the criteria he provides. A big problem with internal sites is that they filter out candidates before a human being has a chance to see them. His lack of a university degree, for instance, now more and more a stated essential requirement, makes Marty a victim of these filters. He shudders to think how many good people are passed over. He wonders too if citing DexiaTel as his current employer is a filter.
While waiting at the coat check, Marty concedes it’s time to try Sam Kraaling. Up till now he’s put off calling the headhunter who negotiated his current job. That’s because so many organizations recruiting internally to save costs, any association with Sam might get in the way of opportunities rather than find them. Not only that, to Marty, using the same agent to arrive and leave seems unethical; Sam might even have a policy about such situations. But that would be Sam’s problem and, with time running out on his leave of absence, what does he have to lose?
The small recruiting firm operates out of a rundown building just outside downtown. Marty enters into the tiny reception area but finds the desk unoccupied. He pokes his head into the narrow hallway behind it and then walks along the creaky floor, passing several noisy and disorganized rooms. In each, people type busily at workstations, side by side, an IT version of a sweatshop. Finally, he reaches Sam’s office where the headhunter welcomes Marty with a strong, hearty handshake, invites him in and then closes the door. Everything becomes quiet again.
“Sit down, sit down,” Sam says. “What brings you by?”
Marty tells him about his leave of absence and attempts to find work. At the mention of his career fair and Internet forays, Sam winces.
“Don’t waste your time with lotteries, son. You should have called me earlier.”
“So you have something?”
“Actually, not really, not now. The market’s not good and it’s hitting me hard. Those people in the other room. They’re unemployed programmers. I’m taking on outsourcing work just to get revenue.”
“I see,” Marty says, unsure if Sam’s going to offer him to do the same thing. He doesn’t.
“But listen Marty, you never know when something’ll come up. This afternoon I’m meeting a potential client for a drink. I’ll keep you in mind and let you know.”
Well, better than nothing, Marty thinks, as he takes the subway home from Sam’s office. Yet not enough to prevent an intense feeling of dread. It seems inevitable he will have to return to DexiaTel, and to Chuck.
But maybe it won’t be so bad. When Jane talked him out of quitting, she hinted that there could be something for him in her department. How unusual it would be for someone from IT to transfer to the business, rather than the other way around. The irony appeals to Marty, as does imagining the look on Chuck’s face. But whether he ends up with Jane, or has to go back to Chuck, he is glad she intervened when she did. Resigning would have been disastrous.
The phone is ringing when he enters his apartment. Someone from a company called Paleo Transitions. They want to talk with him, want him to come to their offices. He cannot remember the name from the career fair or from his online searches, or from anywhere else. It certainly couldn’t involve Sam, because a headhunter would never allow a potential employer to call a recruit directly. Curiosity, more than hope, makes him agree to see them right away.
Paleo Transitions’s seven-story office building is located a subway ride, two bus connections, and a ten-minute walk away, in an industrial area close to a highway exit. The modern structure blends in with several others like it, grey steel and tinted glass, at once warm, sleek, and foreboding. Aside from a nondescript restaurant on the main floor, its only tenant appears to be Paleo Transitions. There is no directory. A security guard greets Marty, signs him in, and escorts him to the elevator. An attractive woman, about ten years older than Marty, is waiting for him when the elevator doors open on the seventh floor.
“Marty Tellerini, I’m Megan Watson,” she says, her manner an elegant combination of casualness and professionalism.
Her office is modest compared to those of the DexiaTel vice presidents, although the desk, sofa, table and four chairs look expensive. Their thin chrome supports appear fragile but do not give when he sits down. A large window overlooks the highway along which the little cars and trucks appear to slide, eastbound, westbound, in mesmerizing patterns. Nothing in the room seems ostentatious yet it has an aura of wealth and success.