Chapters (87)
This past week, I had avoided talking to my employees, which made me a terrible manager for the ones who needed constant hand-holding, I’m talking to you, Yosef and Tiffany, and a good manager for the independent ones, Wren and Niko. I didn’t ride my employees, micro-anything them, as long as they got their work done.
If only my boss had the same mindset. In the Work Gospel According to Kevin, time spent in the office was all that mattered. Any day now, Kev and I would come head-to-head.
Sixty-two employees at J&B, a youngish company big on team-building. They held bi-monthly Fun Fridays, which were evenings of Whirlyball and laser tag. Seemed good-hearted, but it was pre-packaged corporate-adopted bullshit. Work your fifty-hour work week and just when you haven’t seen your family enough, come play laser tag with your coworkers. It was a cruel trick designed to foster the idea that pay and flexibility shouldn’t be important to your productivity, but that your coworkers were your team, your family, your fucking family; you owed it to them to work hard no matter the pay.
My company was located in the business and technology park in Elton, north of Chicago. When you turned into the tech park, you passed a large waterfall flowing over a shiny black obsidian stone—a value-building mirage. Black stone and waterfalls said: This place is classy and important.
J&B rented two floors in a tall building with large glass windows and a modern interior painted in white and shades of yellow, a productivity-boosting color.
I drove around back to avoid a time-eating conversation with Wren.
I didn’t like parking back here. It wasn’t that the back was seedier than the front. The back of the building was just as gorgeous. It was the pair of geese that had made a nest on the four-by-ten-foot curbed island of grass in the parking lot. They hissed and spat and chased anyone who parked near their goslings.
There were large ponds and grassy fields all over the place around here, why would they pick the parking lot?
Here they came now, from the far end of the lot with their brood following. The mother and father geese were like a pair of gun-slinging cowboys, chins up, ready for a fight.
My mom used to roast goose with obscene amounts of butter. It was moist and rich, so much better than turkey. Which reminded me, I wanted to take Sawyer hunting again. Man, that had been a good day. My chest loosened.
I stuffed my keys in my pocket and grabbed my coffee out of the holder.
I stepped out, forced my muscles into a good-natured smile, and headed toward the back entrance.
My phone buzzed with a text. I knew the number.
It read:
-I’m worried about your wife.
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21
HEATHER
Her fingers had been cut off.
My mom confessed, but took it back.