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CHAPTER 1
Senseless Goodness
Today is a day like any other, except that a thick layer of snow covers the road on my way to work. I have to focus to not slip off the road in my BMW, but as usual, I have a hard time not letting my thoughts slip to my work. I drive to the company parking lot and glide into my reserved place. Carefully, I cross the road to the company building.
"Good morning," I say to the building caretaker, who faithfully keeps watch with his arms crossed in his glass loft. I get back a gentle nod and a smile.
I walk up the stairs and then check in with my colleagues to see how the day has started. Through the large stained-glass windows, I see my assistant, Susan, shaking off the snow from her coat. Just like every day, my first job is to check in with her.
"Good morning," I say.
"And a very good morning to you," she says back, cheerful as a young doe.
"No news?" I ask.
"No, not really, except that Harry was looking for you yesterday evening," she says as she gets to her desk and starts her computer.
Meanwhile, I see the workers passing by, and I also see Harry coming up the stairs. We make eye contact, and immediately, he waves me over.
"Well, keep warm," I joke to Susan before going over to Harry.
"Jack, have you thought about what I told you yesterday morning?" Harry asks nervously. You could describe Harry as a teddy-bear man. He is big and good-natured and always smiling. When we call on him for one malfunction or another, his standard answer is "Relax. There are no problems — only opportunities." Therefore, it is weird to see him so tense now. Normally, he is calm, but apparently, he is losing his cool.
"I have not really had much time," I say. "I'm just glad I got here with all this snow." I smile while I try to use humor to bring the situation to its correct proportions.
"Yes, right," he says. "It's early in the year, and because nobody expected snow, we did not clear the parking lot." He obviously thinks I am trying to reprove him, which is certainly not the case.
"Don't worry," I say. "This is probably not what you want to talk about. Come; let's walk to my office. It's easier to talk there, instead of in the middle of the hall."
We walk up the long corridor to production, where my office is situated. The corridor is like a backbone that connects the various departments. The closer we get to the weaving department, the heart of the company, the more the cadence of the looms penetrates and determines the atmosphere.
As I step into my office, I hang my coat on the coatrack, invite Harry to sit, turn on my computer, and check the heating. "Can you once again explain the situation?" I ask while I rub my hands together.
"Well, as you know, I am looking for a new mechanic. Yesterday, I got a short phone call from George, who said that he knows someone and that I have to recruit that person."
"From George, our big boss?" I joke to relieve the tension.
"Yes," he answers in earnest.
"Harry, do you know his candidate?" I ask.
"No, not at all," he says while he looks at me strangely.
"And did you explain to George that you want to see that person first before you hire him?" I try to say gently.
"But of course," he says, kind of agitated, as if he thinks I don't take him seriously. "George seemed decided, and I have the impression that he has left me with little choice. Yesterday evening, I actually heard from another mechanic that the guy George is talking about is related to George."
"So ..." I murmur.
Suddenly, Harry's phone rings, and he answers it. "I'll come right away," he says.
"Apparently, two cars have slid against each other in the parking lot. I have to go and have a look," Harry apologetically tells me as he stands up. "Can you think about this annoying situation and assist me?" he asks me with a worried look.
As he leaves my office, I hear the compelling tune from my computer announcing that I have a new email.
Today, only one email, I think with a big smile.
When I open the email, I notice I cannot find a sender. There is also no one CCed and no other addressee. I have absolutely no idea who the message is from.
"Another spam message," I think aloud, but a strange feeling comes over me, so I open and read the message.
What are you doing?
I read the email again. "What are you doing?"
That's an easy one. I'm the personnel manager at Enosi, a well-known English textile company with 850 employees here in Oldham. For personnel managers, the measure of your job's prestige is often determined by the number of employees that you are responsible for. In that respect, few others in this sector have an area of action that is as large as mine.
I do not have time to think any further on this because my phone is ringing.
"Jack, can you come over to George for a second?" It sounds quite chilly on the other end of the line. It is Charlotte, the secretary of the general manager. She is a devoted employee, a real management assistant with a reputation that goes with that title. Yet I like her. I know she has not had it easy since the previous general manager, Jacob, retired. After twenty-two years of being Jacob's executive secretary, she now serves George, an ambitious forerunner who has been with the company for six months. George apparently earned his spurs in another company and was brought to Enosi by the current shareholders.
Charlotte has not felt comfortable with the switch, and certainly not with the switch in executive style. Jacob was a very calm, warm, understanding person. Shaped by the former family shareholders, he was a top Enosi manager who could put things in perspective and who acted in everyone's best interest. Last Friday, after a few drinks, Charlotte called George the "hunter". From my point of view, this name is quite correct. He is always looking for situations where he can prove he can lead Enosi in these turbulent times.
I take my coat and hurry slightly nervously to George's office situated in a more recent building, which houses Enosi's administrative and sales services. Unfortunately, the building is literally on the other side of the street. All employees therefore speak about the "other side" when they talk about colleagues who work in this building. As we know, communication loses its impact with each step we are separated from each other. It is clear that this situation is not conducive to cooperation among the various departments.
Arriving at George's office, I first shake the snow off my coat and then knock on the door.
"Yes." The response sounds coldly from the other side.
Inside, I find George sitting with Charlotte at a small round table, going through his mail. "Just a minute," he says briefly without looking at me.
I keep standing because the table is full of mail, and also, it seems to be the right thing to do. After some minutes, Charlotte takes the papers and makes a place for me to sit down at the table.
"Jack," George says firmly while he pretends to read one of the letters he just got from Charlotte. "Good news. I have a candidate for the function of maintenance mechanic." Carefully, I raise my eyebrows. I nod gently but keep silent. Once, in a management course, I learned silence is louder than opposition.
"Yes," George continues. "I have his application letter right here. He is called Thomas Wilson, and as you soon will read in his résumé, he fully meets the profile description. I have already informed Harry about him. So I suggest you see Thomas for a contract discussion and bring him in as soon as possible."
Surprised as I am by this abruptness, I stay silent as an act of resistance. George is not aware of or even interested in my thoughts about this situation, and he slides his chair back to leave the table. I stay seated in silence. George now looks up in amazement.
"What's up, Jack? Is there something wrong?"
"I do not know if this is a good decision, George," I say, somewhat shakily. Now, I feel like a teddy-bear man. I know that George is a man who is used to getting his way. It also occurs to me that George will decide if I get a raise at the end of this year.
"Not a good decision?" George replies in astonishment. "The man perfectly meets the profile, and I talked to Harry about it! What the hell?"
"Still, I'm not convinced that this is the way to go, George," I reply with a trembling voice. "Undoubtedly, the man meets the objective criteria, and you probably discussed this with Harry. However, I am not convinced that this would be a good thing to do."
Even though it is snowing outside, I get very warm. I clearly see that George is fading, but his eyes are going crazy. He is obviously not used to getting this kind of feedback from a subordinate.
"I do not see any reason not to recruit Thomas," George says as he forces himself to calm down. He laughs contemptuously.
"Have you ever thought about how Harry should feel about this?" I carefully respond. "He is looking for an employee who will support him without any question or resistance. And as Thomas would be an employee indicated by you, the big boss, I am not convinced that this would always be the case." George looks at me perplexed. "Think about how Thomas will be perceived by both Harry and the other maintenance technicians," I continue without showing fear this time.
At this very moment, Leo, the head bookkeeper, puts his head around the office door. "George, I have an urgent matter here. Do you have a spare minute?"
"I'll call you to discuss this later in the day," George says to me without giving me a further look and gestures I can go.
"Do you want to take along your mail?" Charlotte calls to me from her desk. "And Harry's too?"
Seconds later, I do not know where I am anymore.
The whirling snowflakes and the little walk to my office make the adrenaline inside me go back to a more normal level. But when I arrive at my desk, my heart is still beating fast, I'm confused and worried, and my mind goes crazy. Why did I do that? Finding a maintenance technician is not easy at all. Would it be so bad to recruit George's relative?
When I sit at my desk, I notice a new email has arrived, again without any notion of its sender. What's going on here?
I click to open the email.
The only certainty on which we can base our actions is the knowledge that nothing remains the same. And you, what are you doing?
Still impressed by my struggle with George, I reply briefly, as I do to most of my emails:
Annoying my boss.
Send.
* * *
What am I doing? I wonder while I walk up the stairs to the top floor of my building, where the editorial board for our company magazine Warp & Woof will later come together. Colleagues from different departments will decide on the articles for the next edition.
I'm early, but I already take a coffee. While I stare at the idyllic snowy landscape as the inland vessels follow the river, I lose myself in a daydream.
In days gone by, here grew, as far as you can see, flax on the banks, and now, not much of it is left. In its stead, you see buildings overtaking the banks year by year. When I started at Enosi, everything was much simpler and clearer. The landscape was open and free, just as in the company we all spoke the same language and obeyed the same rules. As long as you performed the known rituals, you were safe. We formed a close-knit community, and when others came to the company, we were careful, because they were foreigners who did not belong to our group — strangers we could figuratively undress or enslave. If we succeeded at this, we sometimes even celebrated with champagne.
Over the years, however, we have come to understand that all suppliers and customers are also real people. Eventually, we started calling them partners, even though they have different habits than we do and they do not always understand us. To deal with that, we have learned to set up masks and let the outside world in while wearing our masks. We have several actors in our company who now each play their own part. One is aggressive toward the supplier while the other tempers that with serenity. Each and every one of us has a mask that fits best with our predispositions, upbringing, experiences, and hopes. Underneath that mask brood our unspoken emotions, insecurities, doubts, fears, and desires — all that I am prey to.
My head is full of anger after the collision with George. I am angry with George and myself. I don't want to be angry, because that is not normal for me, but my tense shoulders and neck tell me otherwise. And the coffee does not taste good. "What should I do?" I say imaginarily to the skipper who, in the middle of the river, runs his ship with a thick, woolen scarf around his head.
I realize that George is actually a stranger to me. Whereas we should be partners by excellence, we are now almost outsiders with knives drawn at each other. "What is best for me?" I repeat, thinking of my future. "Will I go apologize to George, or will I persist in my own will?"
"You are early." Suzan suddenly brings me back, my feet on the ground. With sprightly steps, she enters the meeting room with a pack of papers on her arm.
"Yes" is the only thing I can stammer at the moment while I keep watching the ship following his path.
As she puts the papers on the tables, I think about how Suzan, who has not worked at Enosi for a long time, joked about George last week with a worker. If she stood in front of George, would she say what she had to say? When would she feel safe speaking openly with him?
* * *
Back in my office, my computer screen indicates new email has arrived. Curious, I instantly look to see if the stranger sent me some more messages. Yes, goes my mind, and as enthusiastic as a child who has gotten a birthday present, I open the mail.
The wind tells me, my friend, that there is a clash of egos both claiming to know the answer. As there is no mere authority that can proclaim the meaning of life, no one can say he has all the answers. What are you doing?
"The meaning of life." I slowly reread the message, trying to discover the message's true meaning.
To be or not to be — that's the question automatically pops up in my thoughts. Is that what this stranger is referring to? What does demanding my question of George have to do with the question of all questions? I ask myself.
In a reflex and without further thought, I answer the email.
I strive to be, to be free.
Jack.
As if we are in a chat session, a new email arrives after a few seconds.
Jack,
Nice try. Many people indeed interpret 'to be free' as an ideal. However, we are sentenced to freedom, as Sartre says. Man realizes his being because his being is not having a being.
In a reflex, I answer.
This I recognize if I look around me at how people live and work: we are not human beings, but human doings.
Apparently undisturbed, the unknown thinker continues.
Jack, that's a good one; we all are human doings. Everyone has the same uncertainty about the how and why of human life. We are therefore forced to examine together what the ideal is. The basis of this thinking is the principle of the equality of partners. Even though we are all different, young or old, man or woman, high or low on the social ladder, we are all equal in this quest.
The telephone rings, and conditioned as I am, I pick it up automatically.
"Hi, Jack," I hear Charlotte say on the other end of the line. "George asked that you come to his office immediately."
"Well, I'm actually preparing for an important meeting tomorrow," I say, telling a white lie.
"If I were you, I would put that work aside, as he sounded pretty decided when he asked me to call you," I hear her say convincingly.
"Okay, I'll come over. Do I have to put on my helmet?" I make a joke.
"I do not know, but I'll stay in my trench," she replies wittily incisively.
I put down the phone, take my coat, and hastily walk to George's office. "Keep breathing, keep breathing," I hear myself inspire me with courage while the snow crackles under my feet.
"Jack," George begins immediately upon my arrival. He does not even invite me to sit down. "I have been thinking about our conversation this morning. I have a lot of problems with it. It's unheard of that my decision, as general manager, is being called into question," he says sternly.
Keep breathing, I think to myself again while I try to keep cool.
"More than that," George continues vigorously, "you know we told you a while ago that you would be promoted to the management committee, but with your attitude as I experienced it today, I have my questions about your loyalty."
I almost turn my head away for the figurative blow to my jaw. I feel as if I'm back in military service, where I stand as a cadet in front of an officer who spits at me literally and figuratively.
George goes on without hesitation. "I'll give you another chance and ask you one last time to invite Thomas and hire him."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Second Life"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Patrick Verschelde.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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