Bread and Butter

They call me into HR: One of Costello’s proposals was tagged, a scenario for the training manual. Elise asks me to sit. She offers a slice of cucumber, which I accept, and slides me her laptop. Costello’s scenario is queued:

Your supervisor is coming to work unclean. He wears the same clothes five days in a row, pants and shirt stained. He has not shaved for a week, his smell indicating he hasn’t showered, either. He has burped in your face on multiple occasions, smelling of onions and butterscotch. You want to inform management, but fear retribution in your quarterly evaluation. When this supervisor asks you to write scenarios for a training manual, which his supervisor will see, you see your opportunity for an anonymous report.

WHAT DO YOU DO?

Elise’s face combines pity and concern. She points out how my clothes are clean, I am shaven. She saw me yesterday in the cafeteria, remembers a different shirt-and-slacks combo. I shouldn’t worry about what Costello wrote. I’m not in trouble. She states the obvious, how the company would rather not include Costello’s scenario in the manual. I should ask him to try again.

After lunch, I tell Costello one of his scenarios was rejected and he’ll have to compose another. He asks which one and I lie, tell him I don’t know. He finishes quickly, but as he’s about to hit SEND, I stop him, offer a slice of cucumber, ask if I can see. He rolls backward in his chair, looking away as I read his screen:

You find out your employee has made false accusations against you. You feel uncomfortable in addressing him, as you are meek and cowardly. Instead, you make him do an assignment again. He makes another accusation, this time for trafficking children. This employee swears you’ve shown him images of kids in cages, asking him if he’d like to buy a child, claiming you have a good variety—and payment plans. The authorities would be contacted. You could serve hard time.

WHAT DO YOU DO?

I tell Costello good job and take a printout of the new scenario upstairs. Elise reads it. She instructs me to shut the door. “What did you do to piss this guy off?” I tell Elise I don’t know. She asks if she should ask about the trafficking. I tell her she should not. She says she’ll keep this between her and I, this one time, offering me a slice of cucumber from the minifridge under her desk. I eat it on the way back to my office. I decide it wise not to bother Elise again with Costello problems.

During quarterly evals, I grade Costello higher than he deserves; he deserves to be fired. I will be evaluated this quarter, too, and an upper management position has opened, a position I desire. A glitch on my record, even if unfounded, could hinder that goal. I rank Costello as the best employee I’ve ever supervised. I can picture myself moving up, Costello my replacement’s problem. I would then have the power to remove him without fear of retribution. 

The company fills the open position with Costello, making Costello my boss. The branch VP, in a speech, says that no employee in the history of the company has ever been more highly rated than Costello. They are pleased to hire from within. She thanks everyone involved—I think she might mention me by name but doesn’t. Everyone eats cucumber slices—the kind with the striped edges—and congratulates Costello. He smiles widely.

After, I see Costello packing his personal items into a box. We glance at each other as I pass. When I’m halfway down the hall, he calls to me, “Maggio!” and I backtrack. He produces a paper bag from his box and a paring knife from the sheath on his belt. He begins slicing. “Wanted to thank you for that evaluation. I couldn’t have done it without you.” He hands me a cucumber slice, cut and folded like a rose, charcuterie trim. It’s breath-taking. “Good luck,” I say, biting down.

Months later, the company is on TV. Funds have disappeared. Stockholders demand answers. FBI agents bull through our records, interviewing each employee. They seem to be circling me. I don’t sleep and have become disheveled. My projects get rerouted. Coworkers whisper behind my back. During my meeting, Elise sits across the conference table from me, next to the investigators. In the middle of the table sits a jar of pickles. Next to it, a pair of tongs on a white plate.

Despite his efforts, the investigators are onto Costello, not me. They do ask, “Why’d you rate him so high?” I look at Elise, who nods. “He made up stories, threatened to blackmail me.” An investigator writes this down. They ask why I didn’t come to them. I say I was afraid they’d believe Costello over me. They write this down. When my interview ends, I tong a pickle—bread and butter—but drop it in the trash back in my cubicle.

Costello is indicted for fraud, blackmail, child trafficking, and violating the Lacey Act. He is terminated immediately. I am called into the VP’s office and asked to step into Costello’s shoes while they run the search. I ask to be considered for the permanent position, if I interim well. The VP considers. She tells me to write up a description of my long-term plan. She picks at a massive relish tray but offers me nothing. 

In my cubicle, I compose the following scenario:

You do not promote me immediately, permanently. I quit.

WHAT DO YOU DO?

I take a printout to Elise. I ask if can buy her lunch, perhaps a salad, tell her it’s my treat. She says I look awful, like I haven’t showered or shaved all week. I confirm I haven’t. I say, “Costello was right, in that original scenario.” Elise, closing her eyes, says, “Yeah. He was a prophet.”