Outsourced, p.2
Outsourced, page 2
Gordon drove to Peyton’s house, if you could call it a house. To Gordon it seemed more like a collection of ill-fitting structures. Like some sort of three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle gone awry. Peyton had owned what was for the most part a small shack before becoming a multi-millionaire and, instead of moving into a larger home, had instead added one extension after the next. The original dwelling was no longer recognizable and the monstrosity that was left in its place didn’t fit in with the simple farmhouses making up the rest of the street.
Gordon felt somewhat uneasy as he pulled up to the house. The last couple of years he had been seeing Peyton less and less. No real reason, other than that he was beginning to feel like a leech when around his old friend. He parked in the driveway and, after ringing the buzzer a few times, Peyton answered the door wearing a robe.
“Hey, hey, what’s up, man?” Peyton asked.
“Not much. I was driving by and thought maybe we could go out for a couple of beers?”
“Hey, you know I’d like to, but, well…” Peyton hesitated, flashing a sheepish grin. “The kids are out of the house and I’m entertaining my wife right now, if you catch my drift.”
“Oh jeez, sorry I interrupted you.”
“No sweat, man. Maybe next week I’ll get us tickets for a Sox game. Maybe I’ll even be able to pick up a couple of Green Monster seats. Sound cool?”
“Sure, sounds like fun. Uh, I wanted to tell you about an email I got from Elena.”
“Now’s not really a great time, but next week, okay, Gordon?”
“Uh, sure, next week. Um, I’ve been thinking more about that restaurant idea.”
“Yeah, man, so have I. Probably not the best idea to mix business with friendship, you know what I mean? But we’ll talk about that next week. Cool, man?”
“Sure, uh, cool. And give my best to Wendy.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll do that and in a few minutes I’ll also be giving her my best.”
“Oh, uh, just one more thing, Pey—”
“I got to go, man. Next week, okay?” Peyton said as he closed the door.
Gordon stood frozen for a moment, feeling red-faced, his hands shaking. “Stupid idiot,” he whispered to himself. “Why’d you have to bring up that restaurant now? Stupid!”
Even though there were no neighbors around, Gordon couldn’t help feeling self-conscious, as if people were watching him and seeing how much of a fool he had made of himself. With a sick grin stuck on his face, he lumbered back to his car. Once inside, he smacked himself on the side of his head with an open palm.
“Stupid!” he swore to himself. “Well, that’s it. I’m not going home now!”
It was only three in the afternoon. Too early for dinner, but he could drive to Lowell and pick up some takeout Cambodian that he could eat later. For him Lowell was an oasis, one of the few places nearby where he could get good ethnic food. When high tech was booming, most of the companies settled within a rural area about thirty miles northwest of Boston. Not a bad area if you were into horseback riding, or maybe raising a family, but it sucked as far as eating out went. Lowell, though, was only a twenty-minute ride.
Traffic was light, and Gordon got to Lowell in less than fifteen minutes. He decided to bypass his usual Cambodian restaurant. The last few times they had skimped on the portions, and besides, he didn’t like the vibes he was picking up there. Instead he pulled up to a newer restaurant that he had noticed a few months back.
A young Asian girl sat bored behind the cash register. As Gordon approached, she glanced up and gave him a slight smile.
“Very hot weather we’ve been having,” Gordon said.
“Yes it is,” she said softly. “Very hot, muggy.”
“No air conditioning in here?” Gordon asked.
“No, not now. Later we’ll turn it on.”
“I guess it’s too early for dinner and too late for lunch. Normally I get takeout at a Cambodian restaurant a few blocks from here, but I noticed that you had opened last time I drove by.”
“Thank you. I am sure you will like our food.”
“I certainly hope so. What do you recommend?”
“Everything is good here. The shrimp is very good.”
Gordon looked at the menu. “I notice your shrimp dishes are your most expensive,” he said.
“They’re very good,” she said, her slight smile weakening.
“Well, in that case, why don’t I order this shrimp dish, the one with peanuts and spicy lemon grass sauce.”
“I will have the kitchen rush your order,” she said. “No more than five minutes.”
Gordon watched as she walked towards the kitchen. The girl was tiny, slender, with long black hair reaching almost all the way down her back. The tight green skirt she wore outlined her hips and legs. He felt a drying in his mouth as he watched her walk away. When she came back, she smiled politely at him before turning to the magazine in front of her.
“Are you Cambodian?” Gordon asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, it’s not so obvious. You could be Vietnamese. I do know Vietnamese who work in Cambodian restaurants.”
“I am Cambodian.”
“What happened in Cambodia under Pol Pot was simply awful,” Gordon said. “People wearing eyeglasses shot for being intellectuals. Can you imagine that?”
“I only know what I have read. That was well before my time.”
“I’m sorry, of course. I have to say your English is very good. How long have you been in this country?”
“I was born here.”
“Really? I wasn’t trying to imply anything. Only that your English is really quite good. Much better than what I hear at other Cambodian restaurants that I go to.”
“I guess I should thank you.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Gordon said. She looked a bit flustered as she turned towards him, her smile now completely gone.
Gordon put his hands on his hips and stuck his chin out as he posed for her. “How old would you guess I am?” he asked.
“I – I don’t know. I will be right back.”
She turned and hurried away. Gordon dropped his pose. He felt like getting the hell out of there, but he had already ordered his food. A couple of minutes later a Cambodian man wearing a suit came out of the kitchen. He headed straight towards Gordon. When he got to him, he handed Gordon a takeout bag.
“Food today is free,” he said. “I am the owner. Please do not come back here.”
“Why not?”
“You were making the girl working here very uncomfortable.”
“How was I doing that?” Gordon asked. “Jeez, all I was trying to do was be friendly.”
“That is not what she said.”
“What did she say? That I was hitting on her? Come on, I was only trying to make conversation while waiting for my food.”
“Please leave here.”
“Because I asked her to guess my age? Jeez almighty. I only asked her that because I wanted to know if she thought I could pass for under fifty.”
“Your age? I will guess your age. You are dirty old man. That is my guess for your age. Now please do not come back here.”
Gordon stared into the other man’s eyes. He resisted his initial impulse to punch the man in the face. Instead, he dropped the bag, stepped on it, then turned and left the restaurant.
3
Carol Wilson felt like crying. The firm’s senior law partner, Tom Harrold, had scheduled a meeting with the paralegal group for three thirty, and she couldn’t stop worrying that she was going to lose her job. The lawyers weren’t that friendly to begin with, and the last week they had been more brusque than usual. One of them, Bob Thorton, couldn’t even look her in the eye when he gave her her last assignment. And then there was Charlie Bishop. He did all the computer work for the law firm, and the last few days he had been giving Carol and the rest of the paralegals an almost apologetic smile.
She picked up one of the liability cases that she needed to read, but she couldn’t concentrate on it and after a while the words just started blurring together. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Nancy Goldberg standing next to her.
“We’ve got that meeting in a few minutes,” Nancy said. “Let’s go get some coffee.”
“I don’t think that would look good. Why don’t we wait until three-thirty and get some on the way?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Have you heard anything?”
“Why don’t we get some coffee?”
Carol felt light-headed as she stood up. She had to lean against her chair for a moment before she trusted herself to move. At forty-four, she was still very attractive. Slender and petite, with shoulder-length blond hair, and girl-next-door type features. The stress of the last year, though, had started showing around her eyes and mouth, making her look somewhat worn out. When Dan lost his job a year and a half ago, she had started looking for work. Before having kids she had been a paralegal for seven years. Finding a job was harder for her than she’d expected, with firms clearly wanting younger paralegals, and it took her five months to find this position. Nancy, while only twenty-six, was a five-year veteran, having worked at the law firm since college.
The light-headedness passed. She caught up with Nancy, and the two of them walked silently to the break room. Nancy poured two cups of coffee and handed one of them to Carol.
“What did you hear?” Carol asked.
Nancy took a sip of her coffee. The muscles along her jaw hardened as she faced her co-worker. “That they’ve added a bunch of new email accounts,” she said. “Charlie Bishop told me an hour ago.”
“What do you think that means?”
“It’s not good.”
“Oh, God.” Carol had to sit down. “I can’t lose this job now.”
“Maybe I’m wrong. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll find another one if you need to. Me, I’ve decided to join the bastards and go to law school.”
“Why would adding new email accounts mean they’re going to get rid of us?”
“Maybe I’m wrong,” Nancy said without much conviction.
Carol had to bite her tongue to keep from crying.
“I’m sorry, Carol. I didn’t want to upset you, I guess I wanted to give you some advance warning. Or maybe I’m just in a lousy mood. Anyway, I’m probably reading stuff into things.”
The two of them sipped their coffee. To Carol it was tasteless.
“We’d better get to that meeting,” Nancy said.
The rest of the paralegal staff were already waiting in the conference room. Most of them looked concerned, a couple of them bored. Tom Harrold, short, balding, sixtyish, with a round head and small, almost baby-like ears, stood by his chair at the head of the table with his hands clasped behind his back. He peered through thick glasses at Nancy and Carol as they made their way to their seats. Tapping his foot impatiently, he waited for them both to sit down before checking his watch. Then he looked back up at his audience and cleared his throat.
“I called this meeting to dispel any rumors that we are planning a layoff,” he said. “Nobody here is going to lose their job.”
He waited for a reaction. There were a couple of sighs. Another paralegal a few years younger than Carol, Charlotte Henry, clapped her hands. Carol found herself breaking into a smile. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Nancy smirking.
“We are, however, going to take advantage of a unique opportunity,” Harrold continued. “Many of you may or may not know this, but India has a similar jurisprudence to us. We are in the process of hiring legal assistants in that country—”
“At one fifth of the cost,” Nancy whispered to Carol.
“…who can research issues for us at night. What this means—”
“We will be your cutting your hours so we can pay ourselves bigger bonuses,” Nancy said under her breath.
“…is that all of the lawyers here at this firm, including myself, will be able to work more effectively. Issues raised late in the day will be able to be researched and resolved by morning. This will result, initially anyway, in a smaller workload for all of you and, unfortunately, we will have to ask for a reduction in hours.”
Nancy burst out with a short laugh.
“Excuse me, miss, do you have a question?” Harrold asked, glaring.
“No, sorry, just choked on something.”
“Drink some water then,” Harrold said. He glared at Nancy for another few moments before turning his attention back to the rest of the paralegals.
“As I was saying,” he said. “This may result in a hardship for some of you. We apologize for that, but our hope is that this will increase our productivity and, most likely, this reduction will only be temporary. I will have my secretary notify each of you by the end of the week as to your new hours. That is all.”
Carol looked around the room and saw a mix of different emotions on her colleagues’ faces. Some were relieved, some crestfallen. She felt a little of both. With Dan out of work they weren’t making ends meet as it was. She didn’t know how they could possibly manage with less money. As she was getting out of her chair, Nancy leaned over and whispered, “Temporary is right. If their outsourcing experiment works out, we’re all out on the street.”
Harrold had walked up to them. He stood staring at Nancy, his small mouth working as if he were chewing gum.
“Miss, what is your name?” he demanded.
She turned to face him, somewhat taken aback. “Nancy Goldberg. I’ve been here five years.”
“Well, Miss Goldberg, do you have any expectation of being here another five years?”
Reluctantly, she nodded.
“This is a law office, Miss Goldberg. We expect a more professional attitude. Understood?”
She stood blankly for a moment, then a funny look came over her face. “I’m sorry. I guess you want me to smile while I’m being screwed. But you know, if I’m going to do that I might as well work in a whorehouse – at least I’ll be in a more professional environment. Don’t even bother saying it, I quit.”
She gave Carol a weak smile as she walked away. Harrold watched her for a moment, his body stiff, his small ears turning a bright pink. He noticed Carol and shifted to face her. “Do you have anything you’d like to add?” he asked, his voice strained.
Carol shook her head.
“And we expect you to be punctual for all meetings. Three minutes late is as bad as thirty. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
When Carol got back to her desk she started to cry. She couldn’t help herself. Still sobbing, she picked up one of the liability cases and forced herself to read through it, being careful to keep the paperwork from getting wet.
4
Dan arrived at Bristol, New Hampshire a little after four thirty and still had a fifteen-minute drive over a dirt road to get to Joel’s sprawling ranch, which looked more like army barracks than a home. The building was an eyesore. Not that it mattered. Not too many people were ever going to look at it. Joel’s nearest neighbor lived six miles away.
Dan walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Joel bragged to him once that he had a steel reinforced front door installed and that no one, especially not the Feds, were ever going to kick it down. Within seconds of ringing the bell, the door opened and Joel popped out.
“Well, well, look who drove up all the way from Taxachusetts,” he said, a big shit-eating grin in place. “You’re twenty minutes late.”
“Nice to see you, too. If you didn’t live so far up in the boondocks—”
“Fuck you, don’t give me your excuses, and I’m happy right where I am. You can have your Taxachusetts with all that liberal scum.” Joel scrunched his face into an exaggerated display of disgust as he sniffed the air. “What’s that stench? Ah, yes, the smell of liberal scum all over you.”
He broke into a short laugh and held out his hand. “So how are you doing, pal?”
“Could be better.” Dan took the hand and felt like he was being squeezed in a vise.
Joel Kasner stood like a rooster with his chest puffed out. With big ears, small glassy eyes, and hair that was mostly thinning, he resembled an animated cartoon character more than anything else. He pointed to the briefcase Dan was carrying. “What you got there?” he asked. “All the money you’re going to be losing to me in backgammon?”
“I’ll show you later. So how things going?”
“How do you think? They suck. How ’bout you?”
“Probably suck even worse.”
“Yeah, I know,” Joel said, his shit-eating grin fading. “It’s got to be hard. I feel for you, pal. At least in my case I’ve got my expenses under control and I don’t have kids living at home like you. Mine are all over eighteen and I don’t have to support their lazy asses anymore. Come on in, I’ve got the ’gammon board set up. Time to take some money off you.”
Dan followed Joel into the house. The place looked like it had been decorated from garage sales. None of the furniture matched, and the individual pieces looked worn and tired. A couple of gun magazines lay scattered on the sofa.
“You beat off with those?” Dan asked, pointing at the magazines.
“Fuck you. Let’s get the game going.”
A backgammon board was set up on a small Formica table in the kitchen. Joel opened the refrigerator and took out two bottles of Bud. “You want one?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“A buck,” Joel demanded, his hand held out.
“You’re gonna charge me for that?”
“Why not? That’s what it cost me. And you could’ve brought your own beer, asshole.”
Dan swallowed back a crack he wanted to make on what Joel could do with his beer, instead reminded himself what he was there for, handed Joel a dollar and took one of the bottles. They both sat at the table, each rolling a die to determine who would make the first move. Midway through the game Joel missed a roll he needed. He stared up at the ceiling and shook his fist. “Motherfucking cunt,” he swore. “You can’t give me one goddamn roll, can you?”
