I sit at my desk thinking, What the hell is she doing to me?
I take a pen and a piece of scratch paper and scribble, “Something special.” And I stare at the words. It’s like the music of my mind (lots of organ pipes and circusy flutes) grinds to a halt. It’s like Audrey knew this would be something I just naturally cannot do, not unlike telling a raccoon he can eat all the crawfish he wants . . . so long as he writes and choreographs an opera.
Does she simply enjoy teasing me?
And then it hits me, and I sit up and clap my hands.
Mama. I throw a fist into the air. Mama knows a dude.
A minute later, I have Mama on the phone.
“Dickie,” she chirps, her squeaky old-lady voice more fragile than ever. “Finally decided to come back to me and the boys?”
“Mama-babe. You know I can’t do that.”
“Dickie. C’mon, honey. Don’t talk that way.”
“You and me? We’re like fire and gas,” I say. “It wouldn’t be good for the boys.”
Here’s the thing about Mama: She is not my ex, nor did we ever mate and have children, no matter how much she might argue otherwise. But she is a friend. And she’s cool. And she’s lonely—an elderly empty nester who can’t seem to fully accept that her husband (perhaps a guy named Dick, perhaps not) left her with two boys some thirty or forty years ago. She insists I am her Dickie, the prick who abandoned her so long ago, but I don’t think she’s really that senile. I think she just likes screwing with me, teasing me for looking like Dick Rayborne, the head of Human Resources at my own Robards International—and I admit that I kinda do, unfortunately.
My resemblance to Dick is the only reason I ever met Mama.
It was about a year ago, and I had pulled a Bob Watson to embark on one of my find-me missions, meaning I was putting myself “out there,” physically, in hopes that maybe the woman who will change my life—and I have to believe she’s out there—would discover me. Because maybe I’m not supposed to find my girl. Maybe she’s supposed to find me. This fantasy girl who will light me up just like Audrey does. This girl who makes me feel that way, who will take away all my pain. But unlike Audrey, this girl who will at least give me a shot.
So I decided to go to Menlo Park and sit near the fountain outside Cafe Borrone and Kepler’s Books and Magazines. Lots of cool women there. And good energy, too, if you’re into that kind of thing—and I am. So I sat there sipping a vanilla latte and enjoying the people watching, the sun and water fountain medicating my soul, a smile spreading as I looked around and enjoyed everyone talking and reading and eating. And I closed my eyes and resolved to make myself open to this woman, this woman who just has to be out there.
“Dickie,” a frail voice warbled. “There you are, you little . . . shit.”
I jolted and opened my eyes. Standing before me was a tiny old lady, oily hair pulled into a gray ponytail, her body twisted into a permanent hunch, her shoulders turned in. She looked about eighty, with long, frail limbs, a heavy midsection, and yellow polyester pants revealing a massive “camel toe.” Blue-veined hands worked slowly as they reached into a giant blue fanny pack that hung off her hip. She lifted her chin to inspect me through low-riding eyeglasses, her eyes enormous behind the thick lenses.
“Sorry, sweetie.” I smiled and showed her my palms, gave her my innocent eyes. “But I’m not Dickie.”
“Like hell you aren’t,” she snapped. “I’ve been to the library, coverboy. I’ve looked you up in the trade periodicals. And I’ve seen your pictures in there, read the articles, saw the covers.”
“Covers?”
“Headcount. I’ve read it all, mister. Both spreads. Saw all those stupid pictures of you in your mansion. Saw you in the office with your ‘conployees.’ We all know exactly who you are, Mr. Paperwork.”
Headcount?
Conployees?
“And plus . . .” She nearly said it to herself as she gazed into space. “You think I wouldn’t recognize my own husband?”
I studied her face, looking for clues. “Are you okay?” I asked gently. “Are you lost?”
“Lost?” she snapped and glared at me. She reached into her fanny pack and pulled out a folded set of papers. “I followed you all the way from that shithole you call work.” She unfolded the papers and tossed them onto my lap. “Take a look at these, Dickie, and let me know if you think I am lost.”
I looked down at my lap and saw my face staring back at me. It was a color photocopy of a magazine cover—Headcount, its masthead slogan declaring, the premier journal for human resources professionals worldwide.
What is this? A joke?
And then I realized it was actually a photo of my workplace twin, Dick Rayborne, executive vice president of Human Resources at my very own Robards International. I gazed at the cover shot of Rayborne and sighed, defeated. God, I did look like him. That puffy face, those brown, narrow-set eyes. That receding hairline with the pronounced widow’s peak. That same weak chin.
And yet in this photo he looked a lot happier than me. He had this sly grin—this look that seemed to say, I’ve got it all figured out, bub—as he posed for the camera, standing in the center of a large, tightly clustered group of “conployees,” his deep blue, pin-striped suit popping against the backdrop of their seafoam-green jumpsuits. The headline announced, the father of consourcing. I began to finger through the photocopies and discovered yet another Headcount cover featuring Dick Rayborne—his eyes nearly crossed, a forced smile revealing an enormous set of teeth as he tried to seem casual in the ornate living room of his peninsula mansion. The headline proclaims, dick rayborne’s new target: the bloated u.s. salary.
I pulled away from the articles and looked up at her. “Who exactly are you?”
“You can call me Mama.”
“And why do you have a problem with me?”
“Don’t play games with me, Dickie.”
I looked around the plaza. Is this a prank? But all I saw were dozens of people eating, reading, and chatting. No one was even looking at us. She pointed to the fanned-out pages on my lap. “Two Headcount covers in five months? You’re their little douchebag darling.”
I put my palms out again. “Listen, ma’am. My name is Rick Blanco.”
She shuffled closer, panting, and took the seat beside me. “Do an old lady a favor and just read those stories.”
I looked over at her, and I could see the sincerity in her tired, moist eyes. I imagined how hard it must have been for her to follow me, park, and find me here by the fountain. She looked like maybe no one really checked in on her—her clothes a little too dirty, her hair a little too oily, her breathing a little too labored. Worried eyes. And I found myself saying, “Okay. Fine. You want me to read these?”
She nodded, still panting.
“And would you like a bowl of soup or something?”
She seemed embarrassed. “That would be nice.”
And so I got her a bowl of chicken soup and read the Headcount articles. The first cover story, from September, told how Dick Rayborne had turned his dream of “consourcing” into a very real and profitable practice at Robards. It was Dick’s “trailblazing idea” to hire ex-cons, parolees, and furloughed criminals into low-paying jobs at Robards, where he stationed them in a “maximum-security” building on campus. By laying off 37 percent of the regular workforce and consolidating the survivors into “ultrahigh-density work environments,” Dick was able to vacate one of the buildings on campus, equip it with new security features, and locate the incoming conployees there.
Yet as Headcount noted, the real genius of Dick’s plan was that he rejected the widely held belief that all convicts are low-skilled, high-risk employees. It turned out a substantial number of skilled ex-cons were eager to work; the problem was, employers didn’t want them because they were criminals. That made them “bargain-basement cheap,” Dick told Headcount, “and willing to work for lower wages and fewer benefits.” The result? Dick had reduced payroll costs at Robards by 22 percent, and he was planning to open a new “cell block” within the next ten months, thanks to a fresh round of layoffs targeting employees with clean records. “We’ve found that offshoring is problematic,” Dick told Headcount. “The labor supply can be unreliable, because other companies can—and will—hire away your headcount with better salaries and benefits. Outsourcing is no different. But with consourcing, there is no competition for my labor. And that allows us to really squeeze our human capital for maximum ROI.”
Mama seemed to enjoy watching me absorb the articles. “You’re a real swell guy, Dickie. Is that why you come here? So no one will recognize you?”
“You’re right, I do like it that no one will recognize me here. But not for the reasons you think.”
“You don’t want anyone to recognize you and pour a hot coffee over your head.”
“It’s a childhood-memory thing,” I snapped. “I don’t like people staring and pointing, like I’m some community charity case. I’m done with that shit.”
Her face softened, as if she knew what I meant. “Fair enough. Keep reading.”
There were so many nuggets in these stories. Like how the pocketless jumpsuits worn by conployees not only prevented workplace theft but also soothed nerves and made the ex-cons feel at home. Like how seafoam green had been proven to reduce violent anxiety better than any other color. Like how Dick branded his consourcing project the “Invitation to Cooperate Program at Robards International,” which had landed him a stack of public-service awards.
“Had enough, Dickie?”
I flipped the pages and scanned quickly. There were details about typical conployee jobs—everything from customer service to the always-empty Robards International day-care facility, which Rayborne kept open for the sake of PR. There was even talk of forming a conployee strategic advisory council. “Our conployees have a vitality—a passion—for getting ahead, for finding new ways to make money,” Dick told Headcount. “They’re creative, and they’re eager to meet new people, make new connections. We want to capture and funnel that energy.”
Mama spooned soup into her shaky mouth, swallowed. “It’s funny, though. They didn’t mention the spike in ‘incidents,’ did they? You know, the repeated cases of ‘unwanted touching’ across the street at Peet’s Coffee and Tea. Or the rash of car battery thefts in your parking lot. Or the employee stalking cases. Or the string of lunchtime home burglaries in the neighborhood. Or that nut who got loose on the roof with a crossbow.”
I peeked at the second Headcount story. It was about Dick “attacking” U.S. salaries with “the predatory zeal of a wolf.” I didn’t need to read any more; I had the idea.
Anyways, it’s taken a while, but Mama has accepted that I am not Dick Rayborne—even though she still calls me Dick. That’s okay with me. I really think Mama’s just bored and feisty, and definitely a little lonely. So every few weeks I meet her for lunch at Cafe Borrone, and we’ll hang out. And we’ll chat about the news—stories of trapped miners and rogue congressmen and rich people who “screw the little guy.” Sometimes she tells me how her sons never call or visit, that her house is “too empty and dead.” And she cries. I’ll put an arm around her and ask, “So tell me about this CEO who was taped kicking a dog.” And she’ll stop, sniffle, and say, “Oh, this guy’s a class-A puss bucket. Listen to this.”
Today, on the phone with Mama, I ask for a favor.
“I’m an old lady, Dickie. Old ladies don’t do favors; they receive favors.”
“It’s about Audrey—the one I’ve told you about.”
“That little tramp you’ve been chasing right under my nose?”
“Exactly. Well, she finally said yes.”
“To a date? Or a fuck session?” She says it so sweetly. “I knew she was a tramp.”
“So here’s the thing, Mama. I need to do something special for my nephew—and I need to do it today—or the date with Audrey is off.”
Mama pauses. “She’s a kinky little game player, isn’t she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You like that, Dickie? Kinky mind games with sweet-looking tramps? You filthy animal.”
I look away and think about it. “Maybe. But that’s not why I’m telling you this.”
“How could I help you with a game-playing home wrecker?” She adopts this syrupy old-lady voice. “I’m just a sweet little grandma.”
I tell Mama about Audrey’s challenge, and my idea to take Collin on a Neanderthal adventure.
“What the fuck is a Neanderthal adventure?” Mama says. “God, you’re an odd bird.”
“It’s this thing we do. The kid is eight, Mama. Enormous imagination.”
“I don’t know anything about Neanderthals,” Mama says.
“But you can introduce me to someone who does.”
Long pause. “My friend at Stanford?”
“I think you said he’s in the anthropology department.”
“Paleoanthropology,” she snaps. “And it’s a ‘she.’ You’re not one for details, are you, Dickie?”
“The one who studies prehistoric humans. The one you met on jury duty?”
“Sabine?” she says. “Sabine Rorgstardt?” She laughs. “One of the world’s top experts on cavemen? You think I’m going to introduce you to Sabine Rorgstardt so she can help you dry hump some home wrecker behind my back?”
“It’s not like that, Mama. You know I like this girl.” I stop myself, decide to take another tack. “Plus, you know we had our run. You know it wouldn’t be good for the kids if we lived under the same roof again. Acrimony. Instability. Projectiles. You and me? The passions run too deep, the emotions are too raw.”
She chuckles, enjoying the role playing.
“And let’s face it, Mama. You deserve more than anything I could ever give you.”
Now she’s laughing. “Okay, okay.”
“You’re gonna help me?”
“You want me to introduce you to Sabine Rorgstardt?”
“Please, Mama.”
“You want her to meet your runt nephew?”
“Exactly, Mama. That’s it. But it needs to happen today. You have her phone number?”
“Of course I have her phone number. She takes me food shopping.”
“And you can introduce us today?”
“Yes, yes.” She sighs. “God, you’re needy.”
I’m gushing. “Thank you, Mama. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“Of course, of course.” Mama adopts this breezy tone. “And are you ready to fight the system?”
“Okay, time’s of the essence here, Mama. How do we do this?”
There’s a long pause. “We do this by you doing what I say.”
“Whatever you say, baby.”
“And that starts with you meeting me in the bushes located between—now, listen to me—the north and south parking lots. You understand me?”
I feel my brows crinkle. “Bushes?”
“Do you understand English? I want you to meet me inside the large stand of bushes that separates the north and south parking lots of Robards International.”
“I don’t—”
“Dickie, do you want this girl?”
“Audrey?” I stammer. “Yes, I want her.”
“How bad do you want her?”
I think of cuddling with Audrey. “Really very badly.”
“Do you want to impress her with a caveman adventure for the ages?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“So you can take her out and be a . . .” Her voice slips to a geriatric purr. “. . . filthy animal with her?”
I like the way Audrey makes me feel, and I want her in a big, meaningful relationship way. But now that Mama mentions it, yes, I also would like to be a filthy animal with Audrey. Without thinking, my throat releases a telling moan of want.
“Is she gonna let you take her, Dickie? Tonight? Finally?”
“I don’t—”
“You want that?”
“Yes,” I yell. “Yes.” I gather myself, take a deep breath. “I want her so bad.”
“Then meet me in those bushes in thirty minutes.”