Jonathan Tropper Read online

  One of the drawbacks of doing your manufacturing in China is that because of the vast time difference, you can never get a quick answer. And today, for whatever reason, there is no response to the urgent e-mail I jotted off yesterday before I left. It hardly matters, though, since I know that everything’s already been produced. Craig will accept nothing less than a new production run, which he has no intention of paying for. The first run will have to be scrapped, at a raw cost of approximately $120,000, which we’ll have to eat. We will also have to pay for the second run, with a probable twenty percent surcharge for a quick lead time as well as expedited shipping to get it in by Nike’s original deadline. I’d calculated the Spandler Corporation’s commission on the order to be a whopping eighty thousand dollars, twelve thousand of which would have been mine. Now not only will there be no profit, but we stand to incur significant losses remanufacturing the order, even if I manage to get Craig to foot the bill for the expedited shipping, which isn’t likely. The Spandler Corporation will write off the loss, effectively halving it, but I will see no such benefit in my own loss.

  There is another option. I can go over Craig’s head and present the documentation to his bosses. It was Nike’s screwup, after all, and we’ve got the spec sheets to prove it. Nike would then pay for the first order and place a new order in the correct color, and I would magnanimously offer to drastically reduce our margins on both so that we only break even, as a gesture of goodwill. A hell of a lot of work for which we would not make a dime, but we help them through the crisis, proving to be partners rather than vendors, and they reward us with future business. Of course, this strategy presumes that Craig will be fired, because if he isn’t, he’ll be gunning for me and we’ll never get a dime’s worth of business from Nike again.

  I stand between the money and the client, between Craig and his bosses at Nike. No matter how I act, there will be negative repercussions for me, and all because of someone else’s screwup. The middleman wears a big fat bull’s-eye on his shirt, our version of the Nike swoosh. And the worst part of this whole mess is that Bill will have to be in on it, and he’ll find some way to turn this on me, just like Craig did. Regardless of the facts, there will be no getting out of being blamed for this. It always goes down this way, like a familiar refrain: Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle . . .

  And the thing of it is, today I can’t bring myself to give a shit. Something in my internal processes has gone horribly awry, and there’s this spot, this microscopic group of rebel cells breaking the rules and congregating where they shouldn’t, smoking and drinking and getting tattoos, growing and mutating and fucking around with the system. My system. And I know it’s probably nothing, but what if it isn’t? Sanderson said it would be eminently treatable, but even so, if it came once, it can come again—statistically speaking, it most likely will—and I’ll spend my life wondering when the other shoe is going to fall.

  I stare blindly at the computer screen until my vision becomes pixilated, and then I give up. I’ll be useless today. I pick up the phone and dial Hope’s number, intending to tell her what’s going on and ask her to meet me at the doctor this afternoon, but I hang up after the first ring, not ready to bear the added weight of her worry on top of my own.

  My unwillingness to involve Hope flummoxes me. Am I really so concerned for her peace of mind? That damn spot has me so worried, I could use someone else to do some of the worrying for me. So why can’t I bring myself to call her? Another, less altruistic reason occurs to me. Tamara knows. Hope doesn’t. In some way, admittedly a petty, twisted one, this makes me closer to Tamara than to Hope, and to tell Hope would end that. Hope’s genuine concern—she would, of course, insist on accompanying me to the doctor, would aggressively pepper him with questions in the nature of a concerned mate—would in effect nullify this new chunk of intimacy with Tamara, would reassert the reality that lately I seem to be bending where Tamara’s concerned.

  So, call Tamara, I tell myself. Call somebody before you explode. But I can’t call Tamara either, because I belong to Hope, and my unwillingness to exercise my right to worry her in this manner makes calling Tamara seem like nothing better than a blatant substitution, underscoring my precariously ridiculous perch in the relationship universe at this juncture. It isn’t lost on me that my waffling devotions, as secret and, so far, unrealized as they are, have nonetheless managed to thoroughly isolate me, leaving me to deal with this crisis on my own, and frankly, I’m not up to the task.

  Bill has sent me a barrage of e-mails asking for a CSR on the Nike situation, and judging by the tone and frequency of the e-mails, all sent before I arrived at work, he’s well aware that the status is fucked-up beyond salvage. Hodges, that prick, has gone over my head. Like many middle managers, Bill believes that control and efficiency are best achieved by inventing an infinite array of internal reports, to which he assigns acronyms to make them seem like sophisticated business tools rather than a direct manifestation of his compulsion to cover his corporate ass. A CSR is a Client Status Report, a one-page document reviewing all current activity on a particular account, to keep Bill up to date. We account execs are supposed to furnish him with one per client on a weekly basis, a mandate we ignore thoroughly. Bill himself forgets to ask for them, until something goes wrong, at which point he insists upon them, rather than a quick, verbal update, as if this clerical process itself will keep the chaos at bay. The more paperwork Bill can jam between himself and the clients, the happier he is. Bill is scared shitless of the clients.

  I’m about to e-mail him a response when he rings my intercom.

  “Zack.”

  “Hi, Bill.”

  “We’re finishing up the production meeting in the conference room. I realize you came in a bit late today, but I figured you could join us now and bring us up to speed on the Nike problem. Maybe we can do some brainstorming.”

  I’m in no mood for Bill. To be fair, I’m never in the mood for Bill, but right now, Bill could put me over the edge. “I’m actually dealing with that as we speak,” I say.

  “Well, I think we should all put our heads together on it,” Bill says. He’s got me on the speakerphone, and in my head I can see all the other account execs staring at the voice box, faces determinedly straight, silently thanking God it’s not them for whom the shit’s creek bell tolls this time. “We have our Tuesday meetings for a reason, Zack, and whether you appreciate that or not, I still expect you to attend and participate.”

  I sigh. “I’ll be right there.”

  There are sixteen account executives in the branded display and packaging division that Bill oversees, and twelve of them are seated around the conference table, shuffling files and doodling on Spandler Corp. pads or pecking away scrupulously at their wireless e-mail devices. I make thirteen; Len Schaktman and Mike Wharton are traveling, and Clay is God knows where, strolling through Central Park, enjoying a novel he’d always meant to read, scanning the classifieds, or sitting at his kitchen table staring at the wall, his hot, home-brewed coffee failing to warm the icy terror growing in his belly as he wonders what the hell comes next. Through the scattered morass of Starbucks cups, diet Cokes, and water bottles, Bill can be spotted at the head of the table, jotting notes onto his legal pad, his gold wire-rimmed glasses slipping precariously toward the tip of his patrician nose. The account execs all look up as one as I enter the room, gazes quickly and not so quickly averted, and you can smell the schadenfreude filling the air like excessive aftershave.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say, hoping we can leave it at that, but alas, we cannot. Bill won’t let such manifest disregard for his Tuesday Production Meeting go unchallenged.

  “Zack,” Bill says, still looking down at his notepad. “These are your colleagues. They’re all very busy, as busy as you. And yet, they all take time out of their hectic schedules to attend the Tuesday meeting. Because it’s important. And because, as their boss, I demand it. Updating each other, sharing our re
spective triumphs and challenges, transforms us from a group of disjointed entrepreneurs into a formidable team. Because our separate experiences become a greater whole, a collective memory upon which we can all draw when we go out into the field. Your colleagues have taken time out of their busy schedules to be here for you, and the least you could do, as a member of this team, is to return the favor. I think,” Bill finishes, finally looking up from his pad, which creates the illusion that he’s been reading this little speech, “that you owe us all an apology.”

  “Hence my opening statement ‘Sorry I’m late,’ ” I say.

  Bill frowns. “Very well, Zack. I’m not going to press the point, because I know you’re under some pressure right now. Why don’t you bring us up to speed on the Nike situation.”

  I tell the group about the wrong-colored swooshes, and Hodges’s unwillingness to take the fall for his screwup, leaving out the fact that I’ve been avoiding Hodges’s calls, since the middleman never lets a call go unreturned. There follows a brief question-and-answer session between Bill and me that feels like a skit at one of the Spandler Management Seminars the head office sends us to at Holiday Inns around the country, Crisis Management 101 over complimentary doughnuts and coffee.

  “Who’s the vendor?”

  “Qingdao Target.”

  “What’s our leverage? Anyone else here have major projects going at Qingdao?”

  No one in the room does. I know all this already.

  “What’s our exposure if we make Hodges the hero?”

  “All told, somewhere in the area of fifty grand,” I say, “not including the expedited shipping costs.”

  “Has he projected any orders after this one?”

  I sigh. “It’s a test program.”

  “Damn.” Bill is thoughtful for a moment. “Is Hodges a good guy to have in our corner?” No conversation with Bill is ever safe from the stray sports analogy.

  “Hodges is an asshole.”

  Bill inhales sharply. “Come on, Zack,” he chastises me in a hollow voice that suggests it isn’t outside the realm of possibility that our offices might be bugged by the client, little ladybug-size transmitters with microscopic swooshes on their undersides.

  “I’m sorry,” I say exasperatedly. “But don’t you ever get tired of bending over for the Craig Hodgeses of this world? You have this whole network of systems you’ve created—you’ve practically buried us in systems—all designed to avoid this very scenario, to make sure it never happens. So what the hell is the point of it all if we have to take the hit when it’s someone else’s fault?”

  “I take issue with that, Zack,” Bill says hotly. “I don’t bend over for anybody. I’m just looking for the most fiscally responsible solution for us. That’s my job. Our job. We are professionals. You don’t piss away a major account because you happen to be of the opinion that your client contact is an asshole. In the grand scheme of things, fifty grand might be a drop in the bucket, a small price to pay for holding on to Nike. All I’m saying is, we don’t want to be penny-wise and pound-foolish here.”

  “No, we certainly don’t want that,” I say with maybe just a soupçon more irony than I probably should.

  “Zack,” Bill says, slowly removing his glasses and assuming a deliberately false avuncular tone. “Do you have a problem?”

  Every instinct tells me to back down. I should let him take me through this exercise, this middle-management masturbation, answer his questions, and quietly take his direction. I’m disrespecting him in front of his entire department, which he doesn’t deserve and which will further compel him to assert his authority with force. A bad career move, any way you look at it. But today they’re going to stick a tube through my dick and into my bladder, and while I’ve never had that done before, I’m fairly certain I’d prefer to have my eyeballs cattle branded, and that spot on my bladder wall may very well have some genuine life-changing implications, so sue me if I’m having a hard time thinking consequentially about much else. And he did ask, after all. “Yes, I do, Bill,” I say, getting to my feet. “I have a big fucking problem. I am sick and tired of kissing the asses of poorly educated, lazy pencil pushers, of ignoring the principle and paying for the indolence and incompetence of others, all in the name of making the goddamn sale. When did being right become worthless, and being at fault irrelevant? We eat shit on a daily basis, and I worry about the long-term effects of so much fiber in my diet. I may be nothing more than a middleman, but goddamn it, I’m a professional middleman, and there should be a certain degree of dignity and fair play that goes along with that!”

  My tirade is greeted with a stunned silence, and you can hear every molecule in the room look up to see how deeply I’ve put my foot into it this time. I certainly didn’t mean for it to come out as a call to arms, but goddamn if the rest of the account execs aren’t nodding in appreciation. There’s even a faint smattering of applause, but Bill quashes that by bringing his fist down like a gavel on the table and getting slowly to his feet, and I can actually see him anxiously scanning his mental database of clichés to find one appropriate to this discussion. “Listen, Zack,” he says, apparently giving up. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, and there might be a forum to debate our policies and strategies when it comes to issues like this, but this is not it. You need to calm yourself down and focus on the issue at hand. This is no time to take your eye off the ball.” Sports analogy number two, if you’re counting, which I am. “It’s just business. You can’t take it personally.”

  “Apparently, I can.”

  “Well, regardless of what you think of Hodges, he’s still your client, the Spandler Corporation’s client. Remember the rule of the three Cs. Crisis plus Communication equals Control. So be a professional and return the man’s calls,” Bill says sternly. “Work it out.”

  I sigh deeply, already regretting the whole conversation. They’ll be talking about this all day now, exaggerating it to everyone else in the office, wondering if I’m poised to go postal like Clay. My standing in the burnout pool has no doubt just risen considerably. Come to think of it, I might want to take some of that action myself. “I’ll call him,” I say.

  “And you touch base with me after you speak to him, okay?” Sports analogy number three, and we have a hat trick.

  “Will do.”

  He starts to say something about there being no problems, only opportunities, but I walk out of the room before he can finish. I can hear him shouting angrily after me as I run down the hall, and I know I should have stayed, but I’m thinking that life is just too damn short to listen to any more of this crap.

  Chapter 14

  Dr. Sanderson holds up something that looks like a miniature plumber’s snake and describes the horrific procedure he’s about to perform. “It’s called a cystoscopy,” he says. “Basically, we enter the bladder through the urethra, and the camera here gives us a full view of what’s going on in there.”

  I’m having trouble paying attention, because at the moment a young, dark-haired Hispanic woman is cradling my penis in her latex-gloved hands. She begins slathering something onto it, pulling slightly on me as she does so, and I am terrified at the possibility of an erection. If it can happen on the subway, or sitting innocently at my desk, why not here? I’m reclining on an examination table, legs splayed, completely naked but for the flimsy gown the physician’s assistant handed me right before she began handling me. She is deft and professional, and I wonder what impact, if any, spending her days handling limp, cowering penises might have on her sex life. Get that thing away from me, honey. I’ve had quite enough today, thank you very much!

  “That’s a topical anesthetic,” Dr. Sanderson continues. “Once it takes effect, Camille will administer a local and we’ll do the procedure.” He looks at me. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I usually get kissed first,” I joke lamely.

  Camille’s smirk says tell me one I haven’t heard.

  Only once I’ve been laid fully back with my
knees spread does it sink in that the cystoscope will be inserted into my tiniest of holes. A low terror starts to build in me, and I begin to tremble involuntarily. “Don’t worry,” Camille tells me unconcernedly. “You’ll barely feel it,” which is easy for her to say, since it’s not her genitals into which she’s poised to plunge a nasty-looking metallic syringe the length of a small baseball bat.

  Dr. Sanderson finally steps in, and I lay my head back and squeeze my eyes shut. “I’ll need you to relax,” he says. If so, he’s in for a disappointment. “Try to release your muscles, like you do when you urinate,” he tells me. I take some deep breaths and suddenly feel a hot pinch. “Good,” says the doctor. “We’re in.” My eyes remain resolutely shut. I am firmly committed to not seeing what’s happening below. It’s bad enough just hearing the sounds of his manipulations as he adjusts the cystoscope and flips on the TV monitor.

  “I feel like I have to urinate,” I say after a few minutes.

  “I’m filling your bladder with water,” he informs me. “I need to expand your bladder wall so that I can see everything.”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to hold it,” I say.

  “Try,” he advises me. “It’ll only be for a little while.”