Derek
“SO WALK me through this,” I demand, glaring at the phone in the Tiki conference room Dimi and I have commandeered. “Because I don’t understand how none of our performers can be available today.”
“It’s not none,” Mandy in the entertainment office says, her voice tearful. “There are thirty-seven of them who are fit to go.”
“Thirty-seven!” Fuck, this is not good. “Mandy—” I stop and take a deep breath. This is not her fault. I’m not going to be the asshole who yells at her for something that’s not her fault. “Okay, tell me what happened.”
“Well, last night after the last performance, they all decided to go out for sushi.”
I close my eyes. Yeah, I know where this is going. “All of them?” We have nearly one hundred and fifty performers working in the park on any given day, between all the official stage shows and “impromptu” performances.
“Yeah. They even called the people who’d already gone off-shift or weren’t working yesterday. It was going to be a fun bonding thing for them.”
More like a fucking circus.
“How did they even find somewhere that would feed them all?” Dimi asks. “That’s a lot of people to serve at once without any notice.”
I can almost hear Mandy’s shrug. “They drove out to the coast. There’s a sushi festival going on, apparently.”
Is she for real? The coast is a two-hour drive. How can I be this unlucky, that all my performers decided at nine at night to drive for two hours so they could have sushi from fucking food trucks?
“Right. And then they were all struck by food poisoning? I assume we’re talking food poisoning here, and not that giant aliens landed on the road and crushed all their cars as they were driving back?” Irritation colors my tone, and I force myself to sit back and take another deep breath. Dimi, across from me, glances up from where he’s been tapping at his tablet. He turns it to me, displaying the headline on a news site:
SUSHI FESTIVAL STRUCK BY SALMONELLA
Of course.
“Never mind,” I interrupt Mandy, who’s telling me all about the horrific salmonella outbreak that has hospitals at the coast overflowing with victims. “Did all our people make it back here, and are any of them in need of medical assistance?” I assume that since it’s made headlines, the relevant government departments are aware.
“HR is checking into that now,” she assures me. “But I think everyone got back well before symptoms started—we only got the first call an hour and a half ago.”
I glance at the clock. We’re in big trouble; the park opens in twenty minutes, and the first show is scheduled for thirty minutes after that. “We’ll talk later about why I’m only hearing about this now,” I say grimly. “What are our options?”
“You were dealing with a murder!” she exclaims. “I thought I should—”
“Mandy, our options?” Yes, I sound like a dickhead, but you can’t imagine the disaster it will be if we have to cancel all the stage shows for even one day, much less until everyone is back on their feet. How long does salmonella poisoning last, anyway? Please be just a few hours.
I don’t like my chances.
“Okay, so the absolute minimum number of people needed to run all the performances is one-twenty,” Mandy says. “You have thirty-seven, which is why I’ve been scrambling to find another eighty-three. We’ve decided to cut entertainment personnel across all four parks to the bare minimum, which means we can lend performers from the other parks to you until this is over.”
The massive weight on my chest eases. “Phew. Wow, okay, great. Why didn’t you just lead with that?” We’ll still need to cancel a couple of shows this morning while everyone goes over the choreography and other shit, but that’s waaaay better than canceling everything for days. I smile at Dimi, then stop when I see he still looks somber.
“Because some of the performers from the other parks also went to the festival,” Mandy tells me. “Not many, but some. So that only gives us sixty-one. We’re still twenty-two performers short.” She hesitates, and I get the feeling this is the part she really doesn’t want to tell me. “I think we need to cancel the impromptu performances,” she says in a rush.
I shake my head, even though she can’t see it. “No. No way.” What the hell? Is she crazy? Part of the magic of visiting Planet Joy is seeing Joy and her friends racing through the park as they chase after the space bandits who stole what-the-fuck-ever from who-the-hell-cares. Or the evil supersoldiers from Galactic Wars herding prisoners, who then break free and fight back. And most of all, not knowing when or where it’s going to happen. We get the best feedback about the impromptu performances, and they’re the cheapest to run—no sets, no crew, no staging, minimal crowd management.
“Derek, it’s the only option,” Mandy pleads. “It’s just for today and tomorrow. I’ve already spoken to agencies in Jacksonville and Atlanta, and they’ve promised I’ll have dancers here by noon tomorrow. They can be up and running for Wednesday morning, but I just don’t see how we can run all the shows until then.”
“Think outside the box,” I tell her firmly. “There are dance schools in town, right? Call them and see if they have any senior students who want a couple days’ work and a golden résumé opportunity. Make it clear that we only want skilled dancers.” Fuck, even to me that sounds lame. Joyville is not a big town; we might get three or four dancers out of it, if we’re lucky. This is when being in the middle of nowhere really sucks. Where the hell am I going to find twenty-some professional dancers—
“Fuck me!”
“That goes against corporate policy,” Dimi says dryly, but he’s smiling. “You’ve had an idea.”
“The village has how many shows playing right now? Six?” I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier.
“Seven, I think,” Mandy says. “We’d have to check with events. Why—” She breaks off abruptly. “Derek, I don’t think that will work. Those dancers are committed to their shows. Plus, we have no authority over them.”
“So let’s ask nicely.” Really, what the hell? For someone who’s in charge of the entertainers, she doesn’t seem to have a creative bone in her body. “It’s Monday, right? Most of the shows don’t have performances on Mondays. So we have a bunch of dancers with a day off who might be interested in earning some extra cash and two free lifetime park passes each.” Mandy still hesitates, and I throw an annoyed look in Dimi’s direction. He shrugs. “Mandy, I’ll handle this myself. You make sure the—” I pause to do some fast addition. Mental math was never my strong point. “—ninety-eight performers we have are at the park and rehearsing ASAP. I’ll cancel this morning’s shows, but they’ll be starting again at noon. I’ll get you the extra twenty-two dancers for today and tomorrow—make sure there’s someone ready to show them the ropes.”
“Derek, I really don’t think—”
“Make it happen, Mandy. I’m not canceling the impromptus for two days.” I put extra steel in my voice, even though I’m not actually sure I can pull off my side of the bargain.
She sighs. “Fine. I’ll let you know if we run into any other problems.” She ends the call, and I grab my phone.
“Dimi, find me some dance schools in town.” I scroll through my contacts for Toby from events. “And follow up with HR to make sure all our people are okay.”
“Got it.” He’s working away on his tablet—I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already found the dance school information.
“Toby speaking,” a voice says in my ear, and I switch my attention to the call.
“Derek, Toby. Listen, I need—”
“You want to postpone this morning’s meeting,” he interrupts. “I’m not surprised, with the murder and all, but, Derek, we needed to have this meeting yesterday. We can’t—”
“Nope, not why I’m calling.” I interrupt him in turn. “Although it’s something we might need to consider. I’ve got another issue.” I run down the details quickly and explain my plan. To say he’s dubious is putting a positive spin on it. In the end I break into his hemming and hawing.
“Toby, I’m working against the clock here. All I need is for you to present my offer to the director or stage manager or whoever of each show and ask them to pass it on—urgently—to their performers. I’m offering triple the usual rate”—which is pretty damn good—“plus two lifetime park passes to every dancer who’s willing to work today and tomorrow. I guarantee they can have the easiest roles too. Whatever it takes to get them to agree.”
“They might be able to help you today,” he concedes, “since none of the shows are running tonight. But tomorrow will be a problem. There’s no matinees on a Tuesday, but the first show is at seven thirty. The performers would need to be cut loose by late afternoon.”
“I will make sure they are.” We’ll do split shifts or something and make sure we have enough staff performers for the evening shows. I make a note of it in the JU app, and send it to Dimi’s inbox.
Toby sighs. What the fuck is it with everyone and sighing? “Okay, I’ll call around.”
“Great! Thanks, Toby. Tell anyone who’s interested to call Dimi—you got his number, right?”
“Yeah, I got it. Listen, Derek, don’t get your hopes up, yeah?”
God, what is with all the Debbie Downers today?
“I won’t,” I lie. “Hey, just in case, make it quadruple the usual rate, and four lifetime passes each.” It’s gonna cost me a fuckton, but the important part is that guests never know there was a crisis.
He sounds shocked as he agrees and says goodbye. I look at Dimi as I hang up—he’s just ending a call himself. “You good to manage this?”
“No problem,” he says confidently. “Sometime this morning, can you come down to the park and meet them? Show them how important they are.”
See, this is why I happily approve massive bonuses for Dimi every quarter. He thinks three steps ahead, and he’s always on his game. Not like some of the other people I’ve spoken to today. “Sure, good idea. Any luck with the dance studios?”
He nods. “There are three in town. One woman said her students are all too young and inexperienced, but the other two seemed keen. They promised to call their students now, and if anyone’s interested, I should hear soon.”
“Good.” I stop and take a deep breath. I do that a lot, you’ll have noticed. It’s because the act of taking in a breath and letting it out gives my mind time to settle and releases tension. Another trick I learned in a management seminar. “So we have a new plan for today. I’m going to call Don”—the Planet Joy park manager—“because he’s been trying to reach me for the last fifteen minutes, probably to freak out, and let him know what’s going on. He can handle the logistics around canceling this morning’s shows. Let’s do a giveaway of some kind to distract people—he can sort that out too, something free to every pass holder.” Dimi and I both make notes, him on his tablet, me on my phone. “Then I’m going to talk to Link and make sure he has everything under control here. I’ll go check in with the cops and call Kim back, see if she has any news for me, check in with legal, and then I’ll run back to the office and see if there’s anything important happening there—and get the team up to date and delegate out the stuff we were supposed to be doing this morning.” More notes. “In the meantime, you get the dancers sorted and follow up with HR and medical about our performers and Maya. I’ll meet you at the park, in the rehearsal studio, at ten forty-five to meet the dancers, and then we should have just enough time to make it to the events and marketing meeting at eleven thirty. I’ll revise the schedule for the afternoon as we go.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Dimi says, and his phone rings.