The Trouble with Human Resources

 

   By Gene Aronowitz

 

Melissa Townsend, a social work supervisor in a small mental health clinic, moves forward to the edge of her seat, looks at her unit director, Ben Glasser, and says, “Stephanie has to be terminated, but it’s not going to go down well. She disagreed with almost everything in her evaluation and takes every suggestion as a personal insult.”

Ben nods. “How long before her probation period ends?”

“Five days.”

“Then we have five days to let her go without having to prove anything.”

“Right, but she’s out today, and my plane leaves in two hours. Won’t be back for a week. Maybe you could meet with her.”

“I suppose, but she doesn’t know me at all. I’ve never said one word to her.”

“That’s not a problem, but be a little supportive if you can. She’s not going to take it well.”

“Alright, I’ll try to help her deal with it. Listen, Melissa, have a great vacation.”

The next day, Ben walks by Stephanie’s office and sees she’s talking to another employee. As she notices him looking at her, he decides to wait until she’s alone. Later in the day, he sees her talking with some other staff in the hall. He starts walking in her direction, but then stops. As she sees him, he nods at her. The following day, still hoping to meet with her more casually, Ben walks over to her office, but again she’s occupied. He nods again, a gesture she acknowledges by lifting her head slightly.

Before leaving work that evening, Ben worries that he’s running out of time and decides to send her an e-mail message:

Stephanie, I’d like to meet with you in my office as early as possible tomorrow. Let me know what time is good.

In her apartment, eating dinner with her best friend, Stephanie hears the phone ping and reads the message.

“What’s the matter, Steph? You look terrible!”

“My boss’s boss wants me to come to his office, but he didn’t say why, and it’s a little weird.”

“What do you mean, weird?”

“The way he keeps looking at me. It freaks me out. That happened in my last job. My boss kept coming on to me. Actually told me to get real if I wanted to keep working at the agency.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I left.”

After the dinner dishes are put away, Stephanie works on a response to Ben’s email and settles on one she thinks has the right message and tone:

I’m free at 1:00. Is that OK?. Please let me know the purpose of the meeting so I can be prepared.

The next day, Ben receives the message, and, now only two days before Stephanie’s probation ends, he writes back:

1:00 is fine. I think it’s best if I share the issues with you when we meet rather than by email.

Her suspicions and anxiety erupting, Stephanie requests a quick meeting with Human Resources. She tells the HR Director, Michelle Jones, about the problems she had in her previous job and then says, “I’m a little worried about Mr. Glasser, the way he’s been looking at me.”

“How’s that?”

“He just looks but doesn’t say anything. I feel like he’s stalking me.”

“Listen, I think I should accompany you to the meeting.”

“I’m afraid that would just irritate him.”

It might, but you do need to meet with him. I think it’s best if I’m present.”

Stephanie hesitates but then agrees. Michelle sends Ben an email message:

Stephanie Anderson has received your request for a meeting, but has expressed some concern about being with you alone. She and I can meet with you at 1 p.m. today.

Why can’t she meet with me alone?

There are some issues.

What kind of …

Ben doesn’t finish the message, blasts out of his office, and runs down to Michelle’s. “We’re about to let her go. I’m not letting you screw things up like you did last time.”

“I didn’t screw up anything. I saved us from a lawsuit. Ben, I can’t allow you to meet with her alone.”

“There’s no way you’re meeting with us. I’ll fire her by email!”

“Ben, that would be incredibly stupid.”

“You think I’m stupid?

“I didn’t say that. I think we might have a sexual harassment situation on our hands.”

Ben moves closer to Michelle, his six-foot frame dwarfing her, and shouts, “What did you say?

Michelle grimaces and steps back. “Stephanie said you’ve been stalking her?”

“What?”

“That’s what she told me. She thinks you’re stalking her.”

“She’s nuts, just like Melissa said. That woman is paranoid.” Ben clenches his fist, lifts it slightly, screams, “Fuck you Michelle,” and stomps out.

Michelle calls the Executive Director, David Meyer, and says, “I need to see you.”

“OK. What’s up?”

Michelle hangs up before responding, sprints to his office, rushes past his secretary, and, panting, says, “You need to do something about Ben Glasser. He just attacked me.”

“What do you mean attacked? Did he hit you?”

“No, not physically. He yelled at me and used the F word.”

“That goes with the territory, Michelle. You need to relax. Try to calm down.”

“What do you mean calm down? You can’t let him get away with that.”

“I’ll talk with him.”

“You need to do more than talk!”

David puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently. As she pulls away, almost imperceptibly, he says, “Michelle, I’ll take care of it. You know you can trust me.”

 

 

A version of this piece of fiction is included in the book The Fanciful and the Mostly True.

 

 

The Two Birdies

         By Gene Aronowitz

 

“I’ll get the birdie,” Seymour said to his forty-two-year-old daughter, Cari, as he opened the wire door to the cage. “Ouch, don’t squeeze so hard,” yelled Donald, the larger of the two red finches.

Seymour didn’t realize he was squeezing and, of course, didn’t understand Donald’s protests, vocalized in a language only understood by finches and some other birds. Then Seymour fastened a red Velcro strap over Donald’s wings so he wouldn’t be able to fly away.

Donald spent much of his free time trying to figure out how to get away from what he considered a monotonous and perpetually painful existence. He refused to accept the fact that he and his fellow finches were born and bred to be what the pros called shuttlecocks. Donald was committed to starting a movement composed of finches and maybe some circus animals once he got away. As he was being pulled out of the cage, Donald yelled to David, “We need to figure out how to wiggle out of this Velcro.”

“You’ve been planning an escape forever,” answered David, who had been purchased, six months earlier, along with Donald, the day they graduated from The Red Finch School for Badminton Birdie Skills. There, they learned to flip around after their red breasts were hit so that the breasts would be facing the other player after sailing over the net.

David was shorter and slimmer than Donald, and Cari thought she would do better if they played with David. As the lighter of the two, he would sail further and faster when hit. Approaching 70, Seymour preferred to play badminton with the slower-moving Donald, and since he was still stronger than Cari and could hit harder, he thought playing with Donald would give him the advantage. But this time, Cari was on to him and, seeing that Seymour had already taken Donald out of his cage, suggested they use both birdies, alternating every other game. Seymour could think of no way to honorably reject the proposal and agreed to it. Cari smiled, “You’ll never be able to keep up with me when we play with David.” “Don’t hold your breath,” Seymour replied as they approached the court.

David turned to Donald and whispered, “We could do that.”

“Do what?” Donald replied.

“Hold our breath. We should learn to take a deep breath, hold it for a long time, to keep our air sacks filled. Our breasts will be bigger when they put on the Velcro. Once we exhale, the straps should be pretty loose.

“Great idea,” Donald said, but could say no more as Seymour squeezed him to prepare for the match’s first serve. After the first game, which Seymour won, David became the birdie. Sensing the possibility of release from this torturous lifestyle, David perceived the repeated poundings to be more punishing than he had in the past. He eagerly joined Donald in his quest to escape.

Night and day, they practiced holding their breath. They timed themselves to the clicks of the old grandfather clock in the corner of the living room as it moved its minute hand. They started at the first click and soon got past the second click, but could not get past the third, which was their goal. Three weeks later, by exhaling slightly and taking short breaths, they could keep their chests extended for up to four clicks of the grandfather clock, which, according to their plan, was all the time they would need when an opportunity presented itself.

A week later, Cari returned for a match, and Donald and David were ready. When they saw Seymour approaching the cage to get them, they inflated their air sacks, waited, released a little air, and breathed again, keeping their bodies an inch wider than usual. They also fluffed their feathers just before Seymour connected the Velcro straps.

Seymour and Cari went outside to the edge of the court and, as was their custom, placed their equipment aside, slowly sipping coconut water to replenish their electrolytes. When they finished and picked up their rackets, the two finches were already on their way.

Donald and David had to stop and rest on tree limbs frequently because their wings had begun to shrivel from disuse. Perched on one, they realized that their breasts were puffed out, not out of necessity, but from the exhilaration they felt from their long-longed-for freedom. Nevertheless, they understood that they should not waste any time. There was work to be done.to help others escape from the laborious lives they were compelled to live, starting, of course, with other finches.

 

A version of this piece of fiction is included in the book The Fanciful and the Mostly True.

Misunderstandings

         By Gene Aronowitz

 

Dinner was terrific until the chimes from Frank’s cell phone intruded. It was his mother, and, anticipating another difficult call, he excused himself, went out on the deck, and shut the door. Sara couldn’t hear the muffled conversation. I wonder if that’s Carol, she thought, aware that Frank’s ex-girlfriend was now back in town. Two years earlier, Carol abruptly halted their relationship or, as Sara suspected, postponed it when she moved to San Francisco. When Frank returned to the table, Sara simply smiled, hoping to avoid any disputes that might spoil the exceedingly special weekend she anticipated.

Frank awoke the next morning before Sara and, after grooming, went into her kitchen, ground some espresso beans, and got the coffee maker ready to brew. About twenty minutes later, Sara walked in, rubbing her eyes. “Good morning,” Frank said. “The coffee’s almost ready, and I’ll make you some eggs. This is what every morning can be like if we get married.”

Sara smiled, “Yeah! Sure! You know, last night was lovely. Dinner was delicious, and bed was beautiful.”

“I really love you, Sara,” Frank said, rolling his eyes and smirking, “especially when you talk in alliteration.”

Sara laughed and said, “Listen, I’m going to make a very special dinner for us tonight. Can you be back by six?”

“Definitely,” he said, already regretting that this was his weekend on.

His day, working at the local newspaper, was routine until 5:15 when the Editor came over to his desk. “The battered body of a well-known woman was found floating under the Williamsburg Bridge on the Brooklyn side. I need you to get on it quickly.”

Frank was waiting to hear about the application he had submitted to become an Associate Editor and hoped for at least near-perfection on this assignment. He dialed Sara, but the call went to voicemail. “Hi. It’s me,” he said. “I just got put on a big story and I’m definitely going to be late. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

Sara didn’t hear the phone ring. She jumped into the shower after preparing dinner, timing a soufflé to be taken out of the oven and eaten at 6:20 after a drink or two. When she got Frank’s message, she scrunched her face, thinking about the soufflé, which had to be cooked perfectly. It wouldn’t rise if cooking stopped prematurely and would collapse if cooked too long. She searched her pantry and refrigerator to see if anything could substitute for the soufflé, but found nothing suitable.

Frank approached a police officer at the scene. “Do you have any suspects?”

“We do,” the officer said. “He’s at the Nine-O now for questioning.” It took Frank seven minutes to drive to the 90^th precinct, but the only parking spot he could find was four blocks away. He rushed out of the car and ran to the police station.

Sara hurried to the supermarket to find something for dinner. When she arrived, she dialed Frank but heard only his outgoing message. He must be with Carol, Sara thought. Otherwise, he’d answer the goddammed phone. He can see it’s me. At the prompt, she droned, "Got your message. Really disappointed,” then, a little louder, “What time will you be back?”

Inside the police station, Frank asked about the case. The desk sergeant said that the suspect was being interrogated. Frank sat down on a bench and patted each of his jacket and pants pockets, feeling for his phone. Oh shit, he thought and approached the desk sergeant, “When do you think they’ll be out?”

“At least another half hour.”

Frank sprinted to his car, retrieved his phone, and, after hearing Sara’s message, tried to call her. But she was back in the supermarket's meat department, where there was no phone reception. Goddamnit, she never answers her phone, he thought. Really hard to reach. Irritated, he left a cryptic non-response, “I’m still tied up.”

When Sara entered the express lane, she saw that she had a voice message. She pressed the play button with one hand while taking the rotisserie turkey and rolls out of her shopping cart. When she heard Frank’s message, she crashed the can of cranberry sauce on the check-out counter conveyor belt. “He’s not on any fucking assignment,” she exclaimed, loud enough for the cashier to hear. “Sorry,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. When her next call to Frank went into voicemail, she left him a message that she immediately regretted: “You need to be at my place by seven. I’m tired of this shit.”

Frank heard the phone ring, but just then, the detective came out of the interrogation room and said to the Desk Sergeant, “We’re gonna book him.”

Frank rushed over, introduced himself, and said, “What’s going on?”

“The man I was questioning killed his wife. We’re pretty sure of it. Got a statement. Need to get him over to Central Booking. Can fill you in if you want to meet us there.”

Frank nodded and, on the way back to his car, listened to Sara’s last strident message. Who needs this? he thought, shook his head, frowned, and returned the phone to his pocket.

When he’d gotten all the information he needed, Frank returned to his car, typed his rough draft, revised it, and then revised it twice more. Nailed it, he thought, and while transmitting the story to his paper, noticed the time at the bottom of the laptop screen. Oh my god, he thought. It’s almost eight. He dialed Sara. It rang four times and went into voicemail. He dialed her cell phone with the same result. Then dialed again. His tires screeched when he pulled out of his parking spot. When he arrived at her apartment, he ran up the steps and rang the bell. No one came to the door.

 

A version of this piece of fiction is included in the book The Fanciful and the Mostly True.

The Automated Attendant 

         By Gene Aronowitz

Thank you for your call. We are here to serve you with love, care, and efficiency.

Because we have recently cut costs to maximize profits, trying to satisfy the demands of our rather greedy Board of Directors, you may find your wait time much longer than usual. Your call is particularly important to us and will be answered in the order in which it was received. All calls will be recorded for quality assurance and training purposes. Please do not think that this means that we believe our employees are not doing their jobs or that we do not trust you, our customers.

To get started, please say or enter your date of birth, two digits for the month, two digits for the day, and four digits for the year. You might find it puzzling that we have asked you to use two digits for the month and day since the numbers one through nine are only one digit long, but that’s the only way our very cheap phone system can understand what you mean.

Thank you. You have entered zero-six-zero-five-one-nine-three-nine. That’s June fifth, nineteen thirty-nine. If this is correct, say or press one. If not, say or press two.

Thank you for accurately entering your date of birth. That doesn’t happen every time. Because we appreciate your patronage, and since you may experience an extended wait time, we will play a medley of songs from 1955, which is when you would have been an adolescent. Our telephone system has a call-back feature in case you want to avoid what might be an exceptionally long wait time. We can call you back at a time that is convenient for you. A call-back might be a good choice since music from 1955 is very primitive rock and roll and a little irritating to yours truly. Too bad you were not born a little later; music in the 60s was splendid. To use our call-back feature, say or press one. To wait your turn, say or press two.

Thank you. You have selected our call-back feature. If that is correct, say or press one. If not, say or press two.

Thank you. If you wish to be called back today, please say or press one. If you prefer some other day, please say or press two.

OK, you do not want to be called back today. If this is correct, say or press one. If not, say or press two.

Thank you. Now, enter the date you wish us to call you, two digits for the month, and two digits for the day. Sorry again for the two-digit requirement.

Thank you. You have selected tomorrow. Since your inputs have been exceptionally accurate up until now, we will no longer ask you to confirm your entry. To continue, if you want to use regular time, say or press one. If you want to use military time, say or press two.

OK, you selected regular time. Please enter the time you wish to be called using two digits for the hour, two digits for the minutes, the letter a or p depending on whether it is a.m. or p.m., and the letter e, c, m, or p depending on whether you are in the Eastern, Central, Mountain, or Pacific time zone.

Thank you. If you’d prefer to converse in English, say or press one, Spanish, two, French, three, German, four, Italian, five, Mandarin, six, Japanese, seven, Urdu, eight, or Hindi, nine. If your language has not been listed, pick the one closest to the language you speak.

Thank you. Now, I’d like to take a moment for a brief attitude check. If you’ve lost your temper, or are about to, say or press one. If you’ve managed to maintain equanimity, say or press two.

Glad to hear that. The talk around the office is that I can get on people's nerves. To continue, say or enter your phone number, three-digit area code first, and then the other seven digits. It's unnecessary to input a one at the beginning, and please, please, do not leave any spaces.

Sorry, the number you entered is not in our database. If your phone number has changed, please say or press one. If you will be using someone else’s phone, please say or press two. If you think our database is mistaken, which, believe me, is not out of the question, please say or press three.

Thank you. Since you entered the fact that you have changed your phone number. I can transfer you to our Technical Assistance Department, where you can update your contact information. If you wish to be transferred, say or press one. If you wish to wait your turn while listening to 1955 classics, say or press two. If you have forgotten what you wanted and wish to end the call, say or press three. If you wish to enter our lottery to be able to speak with a live person within the next half hour, say or press four, followed by a pound sign and the numbers five, six, four, nine, two, two, nine, eight, four, one, one, six.

Thank you. I understand you wish to wait your turn and listen to music. Fine choice. Your call is particularly important to us and will be answered in the order in which it was received. All calls will be recorded for quality assurance and training purposes.

 

A version of this piece of fiction is included in the book The Fanciful and the Mostly True.