Gary V. Powell, Author

Fire Old Dan

By

Gary V. Powell

(Copyright Gary V. Powell 2005)

They wanted to fire Old Dan, considered him dead wood, just another high salary the company could no longer afford. Ashworth looked down his long nose at Fawley. “He’s your boy. Handle it however you want."

Fawley considered the drab landscape of Des Moines, Iowa. It filled the large window behind his boss’s desk. Beyond the gray buildings, brown cornfields crowded one against the other all the way to North Platte, Nebraska.

It was true—although Dan had not functioned as a Senior VP since the reorganization that had elevated both Fawley and Ashworth to their current positions, he continued to occupy prime office space, continued to draw high-end pay. Still it didn’t seem right. The man had forgotten more than the young guys who reported to Fawley knew. He was recognized throughout the industry for his expertise and experience.

“He’s been here thirty years,” Fawley said. “He does everything I ask him to. Maybe we can cut a deal."

“No special deals,” Ashworth said. “We’ll give him the usual severance—a week for each year to a max of twelve weeks, but that’s it. I don’t want to set a precedent with special deals.”

Fawley nodded. Midwestern Mutual had brought him in from another company as part of their Big E reorganization. Big E for Excellence. Get Lean and Mean. Work Smarter not Harder. Make More out of Less. Fawley was part of the New Regime, younger, quicker on their feet. Except now that they’d been in power for a few months, Fawley, Ashworth, and the rest of the New Regime found themselves struggling with the same problems that had stymied the Old Regime—high expenses, limited resources, and a decrepit info systems infrastructure. When Ashworth’s boss turned up the heat, his solution had been effective, but not all that innovative—cut costs by downsizing even further.

“He’ll probably sue,” Fawley said. “Up to now his performance reports have been solid, if not glowing. He’s got a pretty good case.”

Ashworth shrugged. “A potential lawsuit doesn’t show up on our financial statements. Dan’s salary does. Besides, the sooner we get rid of him, the lower his pension. That helps our numbers too.”

As usual, Ashworth was right. The way the company’s pension worked, monthly benefits were based on your last five years’ average pay. In the old days, it was common to give long-time employees a bump in salary those last few years, so retirement went a little smoother. Those days were gone for good.

“I suppose I could assign him a project he’s bound to fail on. You know, set him up,” Fawley said.

“It’s your call.”

“Yeah,” Fawley said.

The sunlight was beginning to fail. Darkness fell quickly on the plain. The two men sat in silence for the few moments it took the pinkish-orange glow to fade and the street lights to come up. “Just let me know if you hit a snag with HR,” Ashworth told him. “I’ll run interference.”

Fawley realized he was being dismissed. Ashworth was already on to something else. He picked up a spreadsheet from a pile on his desk and began to go over the numbers.

“Yeah, sure,” Fawley said.

He walked the long hallway to the elevator. The Executive Suites were mostly deserted by now. Only a few hushed conversations continued behind the heavy doors. He rode from the 8th to the 3rd floor, alone inside the mahogany and brass-plated capsule, except for the heinous act he’d been asked to perform. Fire Old Dan. He supposed he could justify it in the name of enhanced policy owner value, an increased return on equity, responsible corporate citizenship. Excellence. But he knew that next year none of that would matter, because there would be new goals, new agendas, and new corporate mantras.

He was shaking by the time he reached his own floor.

He made his way past row upon row of silent cubicles, empty as a deserted bee colony. His staff had called it a day. Everyone except Old Dan, who had developed a habit of arriving early and working late over the years. While Fawley stood at his desk and packed up for the evening, fluorescent lighting leaked from Dan’s corner office and illuminated a patch of carpet in front of his Admin’s cube. Fawley could hear Dan shuffling papers, zipping his well-worn canvas brief case. They met back at the elevator.

No question about it, Old Dan had lost a step or two. In just the last few months, his face had become more lined, his hair had turned completely white. Dan lifted his chin when he saw his boss, “Hey, Mitch,” he said to Fawley.

“Hey Dan. Big plans for the evening?”

Dan gave him that laconic smile. “Not much. Dinner and a movie with Shelly. How about you?”

“We’ve got an open house at school. You remember the routine.”

“It’s been a few years, since I had little ones at home, but I still remember. How are Maggie and the girls?”

“Fine. They’re just fine.”

The elevator descended and the two men walked through the lobby and out the large granite doors together. Fawley started one way, while Dan set off in the other direction.

“Have a good one,” Dan called over his shoulder.

"You too,” Fawley said.

He paused briefly and watched the older man shamble down the darkened street, before moving on again. A sudden blast of cold air, colder than it should have been for this time of year, struck his face. It carried a barnyard odor and something else. A sickly sweet scent of death and dying. He had no doubt, if he didn’t fire Old Dan, they’d replace him with someone who would. Fawley turned up his collar and leaned into the wind.

By the time he reached the Executive Parking Garage, only a few cars remained. He unlocked his Ford Explorer and slipped his briefcase inside. Not five spaces away, Ashworth’s new BMW gleamed in the overhead lights. Its shiny chrome grillwork grinned remorselessly.

Fawley walked over to the car, the heels of his wingtips echoing in the emptiness. A glance around the parking garage told him he was alone, save for a few last autumn leaves. He studied the sleek lines, the plush leather interior. Then, without thinking, he raked his key across the Beamer’s body, leaving an ugly wound along the front fender and across the door. The nails-on-a-chalkboard creak sent goose bumps up his spine. He backed away, surprised and embarrassed by what immediately seemed like a cowardly and adolescent act.

He sank behind the wheel of the Explorer, his heart pounding in his throat, the fog of his breath forming ice crystals on the windshield. When he was calm enough to drive, he backed out, wheeled down the ramps and headed west on Grand. Flecks of snow darted in his headlights. Half-way home, his tires spun at a stoplight and he fishtailed briefly before regaining control. The snow was falling harder by the time he reached his cul de sac. Great flakes fluttered to the ground like wounded pigeons.

He wanted dinner with his family and a fire in the fireplace. He wanted to make love to his wife and fall into a long, deep sleep.

When he stepped onto his driveway, he looked back from where he’d come. Here on the prairie, everything lay out in the open, like settings on a table. Through the gathering storm, he could make out the lights of the Midwestern Mutual tower ten miles to the east. The lights never went out.