ONE DAY, CARRIÈRE entered my office, wearing her usual tweed skirt, curled hair to her shoulders. Bucolic and sophisticated somebody had written in the firm newsletter. Whatever that meant. A cutting-edge quality control administrator. Nothing wrong with her you could pin down. Nothing right either. She was holding a piece of paper at the corner between her thumb and forefinger.
“What’s this?” she asked. Quiz time.
“I dunno. You tell me.”
“It’s a JPS.”
“Silly me. Of course. It’s a JPS.”
“Job performance sheet.”
She dangled it in the air in front of me.
“Fine, leave it with me.”
“There’s nothing to leave; you’ve already filled it out.”
“Excellent.”
“I can’t use it.”
“Don’t use it then.”
“If we use it, we’ll have to fire Guylaine.”
Guylaine was my secretary.
“Funny you should mention Guylaine. See her around in the last day or so? Tell her to drop by sometime to say hello.”
“She’s unable. You’re too intimidating.”
“Must be my towering aura of invincibility.”
“You see?”
“Of course. She’s invisible because I can’t see things her way.”
“It’s all the dictation.”
“Too many dictators in the world.”
“I’m glad you understand,” she said, smiling, tearing up the sheet, and then adding: “Here, this is for you. A TSR.”
“TSR?”
“Time sheet re-calibrator.”
“That’s a TSRC.”
“The left side of the form is detachable. Along the dotted line. You fill in the right-hand side and give it to me.”
“How can I read the left-hand side if it hasn’t been filled in.”
“You don’t. You fill in the TS. I fill in the TSR. And don’t worry. No-one will know the contents of this. No-one. Your confidential name for your file will be Tarzan. When you want to see your file, just say: ‘Where’s Jane?’ Got it?”
“Got it.”
The next morning, I had a special TSR seminar in Conference Room B led by Gingras, the new HR consultant. Pointing to the flow chart.
“Here’s your new lexicon. With acronyms. Each hour is divided into twelve parts. Units of .05. To help you time allocate, please keep your TC Time Codes taped to lower left side of your desk. Column I is worker’s name. Column II, file name. Column III NBT. Non-billable Time. Column IV HNBT. Home non-billable time. Column V. HBT. Home Billable Time. MAD — Maximum allowable Downtime. Check sheet two. Performance gradient. MAD must not exceed 2.0 in week 1, 1.25 in week 2, enzoforth, enzoforth.”
Coulombe, the Dove, senior tax lawyer, entered the room.
“Remember everyone, as far as I’m concerned, you’re all cheap labour, heh heh.”
Bilodeau chimed in.
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re cheap labour, sir!”
“Not me, you blathering idiot. You.”
“Not me, you blathering idiot.”
Coulombe stared at Bilodeau. Then back at the rest of us.
“Now first question, what are you doing in the shower at home?”
“No shower at home, sir!”
“What do you think about, Bilodeau?”
“I think we should invade Poland, sir!”
I knew Bilodeau was taking private acting lessons with Louise Marleau, a beautiful and great Quebec actress and in-thick with the oulipo crowd. He came from a family of twelve kids, all in media, theatre, showbiz, and he truly didn’t give a shit. One day during lunch, he’d mentioned that they were so poor his father read them out “In case of Fire” instructions at night instead of nursery rhymes.
“Tell me, Bilodeau, where do you see this firm going in the future?”
“Firm has a great future behind it, sir!”
Carrière was passing out PGs, Performance Gradients, where we were to predict our future with the firm.
“Sir,” said Bilodeau enthusiastically, “turnover is low, especially in my Apple!”
Later I asked Bilodeau about these new systems.
“Where did Carrière come from, anyways? She came out of nowhere.”
“She’s part Japanese,” he responded by way of explanation.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Good question, Tarzan.”
“Wait a minute. Tarzan’s the secret password for my desk station.”
“MacKinnon, where does Carrière get her acronyms?”
Bilodeau staring at me: Don’t you get it?
“Are you even aware of VID? Voluntary Input Data? We can make suggestions, and Carrière likes my ideas.”
“Your ideas.”
“Here’s the next one. YOBs.”
“YOBs.”
“Sure, I get it.”
“It’s like subcontracting to yourself. Your own business. The idea is you can bill as long as you’re thinking about a problem.”
“Even if you’re not thinking about it.”
“Look.”
He threw a file on my desk. Quilbor vs. Quebec Medical Association. Quebec Superior Court. File No: 500-05-23324-777.
“It’s an AIDS case. Class Action. A friend of patient zero. Another flight attendant with a dozen venereal diseases.”
“So what. I’m working on a half dozen Quilbors.”
“I bill five hours per day on Quilbor.”
“You’re Quilboring me.”
“Quilbor was here.”
“What do you do in the evening, come to think of it?”
“Studying to be an actor.”
I looked at his timesheet.
“You got two hours here, “sitting on the bidet. Serious?”
“Once a week I do it.”
“What’s TT?”
“Turd Time.”
“Turd time. So, NBTT is lemme guess, non-billable turd time.”
That grin.
“What’s X2?”
“You bill double because TTs are QRs. Quality reflections.”
“How do they collect on Quilbor?”
“They don’t.”
“How’s that work?”
“I refer the accounts to Collections. Then they figure out Quilbor can’t be traced, so they call up Equifax. Equifax does their gig. No sign of Quilbor after six months, so it’s a writeoff. No questions asked.”