Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch by Richard Hine Page A

plastic cutlery.
    I’m squeezing two packets of ketchup onto my burger when Roger Jones wheezes into my office, angles himself through the turns of my office obstacle course, perches unhappily on my guest chair and places a large plastic cup of soda on my desk.
    Roger is the smartest and fattest guy I know. If there were a contest to find the employee with the highest weight-plus-IQ total, Roger would win hands down. I brought him over from my former company as soon as Henry promoted me to director. Between my old company and this one, Roger and I have worked together for more than seven years.
    “Hey,” I say. I put the top half of my bun back on the burger, mushing it down to soak up some ketchup. But I don’t pick it up.
    “Well,” he says, “I’m finally fucking doing it.”
    “I heard,” I say. “When the fuck were you going to tell me?”
    “I wanted to make sure it was a hundred percent. I called the surgeon’s office this morning. They can take me two weeks on Wednesday.”
    “That soon?”
    “I’ve been sitting on a pre-approval for weeks. I don’t think I can wait any longer. Who knows what’s going on around here? Henry’s brought in a new fucking consultant. Everyone’s shit-scared there are more layoffs coming. I’ve got to do this while I still have the coverage.”
    “How long will you be out?”
    “Six weeks max. Four if the doctor says I can come back sooner.”
    “Jeez,” I say. “This is hardly the best time.”
    “There’s never a best time. So you didn’t deny it. I guess there are going to be layoffs.”
    I look into Roger’s intelligent eyes long enough to confirm his suspicion without saying anything. If he survives his operation, I’ll do all I can to protect his job. I’m sure he’s researched this gastric bypass procedure as thoroughly as anyone can. In one recent study, two percent of people were dead within a month of the surgery.
    “You don’t have anything to worry about,” I say.
    “That’s reassuring.”
    “Can you at least get that Tiffany proposal out before you go?” I say. “I don’t want you to leave that for Cindy.”
    “Fucking Cindy,” he says with a snort. “Will you make sure she’s the first to go? Anyway, don’t worry. She didn’t go near Tiffany’s. The whole thing’s done. I emailed it to Georgina and Randy yesterday. I’m just waiting for comments.”
    “OK. Well, fuck. Good luck, man.” I stand up.
    “No fucking hugs.”
    “OK.” I sit back down.
    Roger stands, waves his soda cup at me. “This was diet, by the way.”
    “I didn’t say anything.” I take a second to select a french fry and pop it into my mouth.
    “You know what? I’m just sick of all the fucking looks I get.”
    “I keep telling you. The mustache doesn’t help.”
    “Well maybe I’ll fucking lose that too.”
    I chew and swallow my fry as he wades to the door.
    “Roger,” I say, and he turns back to me, still scowling. “I’m giving you a mental hug right now.”
    “Whatever,” he says and walks off down the hall.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    At three o’clock Susan, Martin, Ben and I gather again in the small conference room. Judd’s not here. But Jeanie is now sitting on Henry’s right.
    I glance around the room again, wondering if the others were also given advance word that budget cuts were coming. Henry and Jeanie often confide these things to each of us individually to cut down on the possibility of surprise or dissent being shown in group meetings.
    Henry never likes to deliver bad news directly. As soon as we’re all seated, he suggests we “get right into it” and hands off to Jeanie.
    “Given the revenue picture, corporate finance is asking everyone to reduce controllable expenses,” says Jeanie, staring straight at Henry as she speaks. “They asked us to cut as deep as possible. But Henry and I really pushed back. We told them we could only squeeze out another three million.”
    “How are we expected to find that?” says Susan.