Jobless Recovery

Jobless Recovery

By

L.C. Evans

What others are saying about Jobless Recovery:

"Jobless Recovery will push all your buttons as it tells a story that is too close to reality for many of us. It was a real think piece for me and I recommend the book highly. We need to look at the impact of economic changes in terms of the lives of those affected, not textbook platitudes. What are the long term consequences of an international labor market? Of outsourcing? Of an economic system that bails out large institutions, but allows private citizens to go under?"--Sandy Nathan, award-winning author of Numenon and former Economic Analyst, Santa Clara County, California

"A brutally honest look at corporate America's flaws and desperate people caught in the middle, Jobless Recovery is a masterful, gripping piece of fiction that rings true with every word. Candid, suspenseful and moving. Jobless Recovery was a very enjoyable read, one of the best novels I've read in a while. I think it would make an awesome movie." --Cheryl Kaye Tardif, bestselling author

Jobless Recovery

L.C. Evans

Smashwords Edition

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Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

Second Edition

Copyright © 2010 by L.C. Evans

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For those trying to survive and make sense of today’s world.

Chapter One

The radio announcer suggested that listeners enjoy lots of beautiful North Carolina sunshine and have themselves a good one. Dave Griffin maneuvered into an opening in the morning traffic and slotted his car into the right-hand lane. He figured he might be exposed to a bit of sun when he left the Markham-Hook Conglomerate’s Pyramid Building at lunchtime, but he wasn’t sure he’d be having himself a good one or even an okay one. A ton of work lay stacked on his desk in untidy piles that only he could make sense of.

He swung his blood-colored SUV around a corner and joined the line inching into the company’s lot for oversized vehicles. While he waited his turn to rumble down the ramp to the underground garage, he fiddled with the radio dials, trying to find a station that wasn’t broadcasting air quality reports, as if people had any choice over which air to breathe. He’d just driven fifteen miles from his new home in the suburbs. He didn’t need a voice coming out of his dashboard to tell him there was so much haze hanging over the city that the Pyramid on top of Markham-Hook’s tallest building couldn’t be seen from five miles away.

When he emerged from the garage, he squinted up toward the sky. No trouble seeing the building from across the street, though. The Markham-Hook Pyramid Building had won awards for everything except in-your-face audacity, and that one was probably in the works. The structure was fifty stories tall, besting by some thirty stories the next highest building in Avalon. The first five floors--main lobby, banquet hall, service floor, new accounts, and human resources--were all Markham-Hook. Floors six through twenty-four were leased to the most prosperous businessmen, lawyers, and doctors in the city. They--and their clients--rode up from the lobby in glass elevators that looked like miniature space shuttles. All the elevators in the building had been feng shueid, and people from Avalon Bonnie Blooms arrived daily to arrange freshly cut flowers in metal vases attached to the interior elevator walls.

Starting with floor twenty-five and ending with forty-five, Markham-Hook housed its own people--computer programmers, investment counselors, insurance and mortgage brokers, travel planners, administrative staff--all the thousands of workers required to keep the Markham-Hook economy humming. Floors forty-six through fifty were reserved for the top management. CEO John Victor Harris’s office took the place of honor in the point of the pyramid where, it was rumored, he could see for thirty miles in every direction on days when the skies were clear.

Dave worked on twenty-five. He was a programmer with a workstation in the maze of cubicles that stretched across half of the floor space, from the front to the back of the building. He’d been here two years, hired straight out of NC State before he’d even stepped off the stage clutching his computer science degree. But he didn’t rate one of the double-sized cubicles in a window row. In fact, his coat closet-sized cube opened onto the carpeted hallway leading from the elevator, so there was constant traffic scuffing back and forth. Someday, though, he’d move over a few aisles and eventually get a window.

He expected someday to arrive pretty quickly. He’d gotten his yearly review last week and scored above average in everything and superior in a few categories--problem-solving ability, speed and accuracy of his work, and willingness to work overtime when needed.

He wasn’t working over today, though. Out of the question. He rode up to his floor on one of the employee elevators, a half-sized duplicate of the luxury cars provided to clients. The doors slid open to reveal the desk of his team’s admin, Myra Hilton.

Morning, Dave. She waved him to a stop, red-painted talons flashing, and looked at him over the top of her half glasses. Ken wants to see you when you get a chance.

Sure. Tell our esteemed supervisor I live to keep him happy. Dave monkey-grinned at her and prepared to move on.

Just run by his office at some point in the next fifteen minutes, okay? Otherwise he’ll think I forgot to tell you.

Dave rolled his eyes. Half the time Ken acted like he was too important to relay his own messages and the rest of the time he micromanaged the team. Dave thumped the top of Myra’s desk as he strode past to peek around the corner. No sign of Ken. He turned and made a dash for his cubicle, bobbing and weaving between co-workers like a courier on his way to the CEO with the latest stock figures.

Mentally patting himself on the back after the narrow escape, Dave pulled out his desk chair. His triumph didn’t last long. Thumping footsteps sounded behind him as if a troll had escaped from under a bridge and was loose in the building. Dave hunched his shoulders and tried to blend in with the gray walls.

Dave, got a minute?

With a sigh of resignation, he turned and pasted on a look of polite inquiry. Ken, the picture of a man with nothing but lard in his arteries, had clomped into Dave’s cube breathing like a porn star in the middle of a hot scene. He stopped in front of Dave and pushed a piece of paper into his hand.

You were supposed to come by my office. So this was one of the micromanage days. Knew you’d forget to check your email yesterday, so I printed this off for you.

Dave hadn’t forgotten, he just hadn’t bothered with his email because anything Ken had to say wasn’t all that important. Knowing it would annoy Ken, he read out loud in a voice he copied from his favorite doom and gloom newscaster. Departmental meeting Friday morning in Conference Room 25. Nine AM. Mandatory. Major company announcement for all personnel. Cheers. Ken G. Archer, Team B Supervisor.

He crumpled the paper and pushed it into the breast pocket of Ken’s wrinkled sport coat and patted the pocket. He wished his boss would let the coat die. It had long ago lost any ability to recover its shape after cleaning and hung from his shoulders like an old towel.

Rumors were flying yesterday. I’d have to be brain dead not to know about the meeting.

Dave, this isn’t a regular announcement.

Is it a surprise party for your birthday or something? Dave held his watch up close to his eyes and pretended to be startled at the lateness of the hour.

Ken edged toward the hallway. Just enjoy the day. You’ll find out the bad news tomorrow.

Sure. Now that Ken had promised dire tidings, Dave was supposed to cheerfully knock out a pile of work and go home at the end of the day so he could curl up with a good book. Ken would probably recommend a nice success story--such as a biography of Bill Gates--that Dave could read while he munched on leftover pizza amid all the trappings of comfortable middle class life he’d managed to acquire in the last year.

Mandatory meeting. Bad news. Normally such meetings occurred so the CEO could announce another merger. Rah-rah. More profits for Markham-Hook Conglomerate. More job security for Dave.

But this was different. Even if Ken hadn’t come out and told him, Dave would have known by his lost dog expression. Probably a dip in the company stock prices. The party, after all, couldn’t last forever, even though Markham-Hook had marched along making record profits while the rest of the economy staggered.

But Dave didn’t have time to sit around wondering if the sky was going to fall on the company. He and his girlfriend Beth were going out to lunch later. And tonight they were having dinner to celebrate their one-month anniversary. Dave didn’t have a clue as to what day he and Beth first went out, but Beth said it was one month ago today and a celebration was important to her. Dave would not disappoint. He put the thought of tomorrow’s meeting out of his mind and picked up a work order.

***

Dave had made reservations a week ago at Pierre’s Paris Cuisine, one of Avalon’s finest restaurants. He didn’t really care for the place, where private conversation with Beth was next to impossible because of constant interruptions from people she knew, people she was related to, people she thought she knew. But Beth had specified that only Pierre’s would do for their celebration.

At exactly five-thirty he left work, barreled home through rush hour traffic, made himself presentable for an evening out, and reversed course back toward town to pick up Beth.

Beth lived uptown in a luxury condo her parents had given her for graduating from UNC Chapel Hill with a business degree. Dave liked his home in the suburbs, but he thought it might be nice to be so close to everything the way Beth was. Maybe he’d decided to sell his house and move closer to the action in a year or so after he’d gotten another raise. Avalon wasn’t a huge city, but it boasted a fair number of decent restaurants, a symphony, and a venue for live performances.

Right on time, Beth said, giving him a kiss at the door. She was wearing a short red dress made out of some kind of silky material that hugged her curves like a second skin. Her blond hair was straight and hung just past her shoulders and her perfect makeup was so subtle as to be almost invisible. You look nice.

So do you. Dave escorted her to the elevator and then to the front of the building where the valet brought his car to him.

He parked the SUV a couple of blocks away from the restaurant and walked with Beth through the city’s Harris Park. Dave couldn’t help wondering how many millions of dollars had been spent on the park back in the days when the city had more tax money to spread around. The park could have been a miniature replica of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Masses of greenery, some of it festooned with blooms in exotic hues of purple, cascaded over the sides of retaining walls. A solid mass of yellow tulips bloomed in huge concrete pots and in well-tended beds edging the walking paths meandering between patches of lush spring grass and circling a pond filled with giant goldfish. Wooden benches offered seating every few yards. Trees, mostly oaks, provided shade for strategically placed street vendors.

Dave paused to draw in an especially deep breath. The smell of popcorn mixed in with cotton candy hung in the air and drew customers who swarmed to the vendors’ carts like bees around fresh flowers.

Beth raised a questioning eyebrow. What? You look like you’ve forgotten where we are.

Nothing. He didn’t want to tell her he was just thinking that if a person didn’t know better, they’d conclude Harris Park was a movie set representing the center of some ideal town that could never exist in the real world. She might take his statement the wrong way, maybe accuse him of being jealous of John Victor Harris who’d donated half the building costs for the park when the city ran short in the middle of construction.

They moved on, and he tried not to breathe in any more tempting snack smells. They walked past a popcorn cart parked next to group of street entertainers gathered near the raised concrete platform that formed a stage. He’d read something in the paper about funding for the community theater being cut to almost nothing. Local talent had been given permission to perform at the park a few nights a week. He shook his head. Sad when people couldn’t earn a living in their chosen field. The economy was down, but he figured it would bounce back the way it always did.

At the corner they crossed the street to Pierre’s. He opened the door, and Beth slipped inside, trailing the scent of a perfume that reminded him of springtime in the mountains--sweet flowers and freshly mown grass. At a table near the door a squirrely guy with prominent teeth stared openly at Beth until the woman across from him frowned and rapped his hand with her menu.

Dave felt an inner glow of satisfaction. A couple of years ago he couldn’t have imagined having a girlfriend like Beth--a beautiful, sophisticated, blonde goddess willing to go out with a guy who sometimes felt like an orange in a basket of apples. But that was one of the great things about his job. It supplied money, as well as a certain confidence that had given him the nerve to ask her out to begin with.

The restaurant’s string quartet, which provided bland arrangements of pop music intended to promote pleasant moods and good digestion among the restaurant’s patrons, launched their version of a Bruce Springsteen hit. Beth leaned lightly against him while they waited for the hostess, and Dave slid his arm around her waist.

As soon as Jason, their server for the evening, had escorted them to their favorite table, Dave ordered designer waters and then picked up his menu.

Dave? Beth pushed the menu down. She drew a gift-wrapped box out of her purse and placed it next to the vase of white roses on their table. I was going to wait until after dinner to give you this, but I can’t stand the suspense.

A faint alarm buzzed in Dave’s head. Did one month of dating bliss come with a special significance attached? Why hadn’t he read some of the relationship books she’d recommended?

Thanks, honey. Instead of opening the gift, he rubbed his chin, seeking enlightenment. When none came, he stuck the menu back in front of his eyes, though he’d already determined to order the freshly steamed vegetables with broiled salmon, which seemed a safe choice, guaranteed to steer him clear of unfamiliar dishes such as escargot and artichokes. He wondered if he could get away with telling Beth he’d ordered her a gift from some far away, exotic emporium and it hadn’t arrived yet, due to the inefficiency of some underpaid clerk. Probably not. That ploy was too obvious and Beth wasn’t stupid.

Before his racing thoughts could hit on a solution, the first of the evening’s visitors stopped by their table to exchange air kisses and to remark on how beautiful Beth looked tonight. The visitor was someone whom Dave vaguely remembered had gone to college with Beth. The rest of the Beth fan club passed by in a blur, except for Oxford DeWinters, who was too important to escape notice. DeWinters was Markham-Hook’s second in command, a CEO understudy in case anything ever happened to John Victor Harris.

Dave stood and shook DeWinters’ hand, noting that his grip was firm and dry and his eye contact was intimidating. He’d met the under-CEO once before at a banquet for the programming staff, a formal affair where the drinks had flowed as if someone had uncorked a bottomless bottle.

DeWinters didn’t look older than thirty-five, though Dave had heard he was forty-six. He always dressed as if he were on his way to pose for a photo shoot for the cover of a business magazine. His expression was unreadable, but Dave knew that was a good trait for a man in power. And Oxford DeWinters radiated power like a tanning bed.

Good evening. Dave Griffin, right?

Dave hoped he successfully hid his surprise that DeWinters had remembered his name. He was so low on the company depth chart that even his supervisor’s boss didn’t recognize him when they passed each other in the hall. Nice to see you again, sir.

Dave had paid a lot of money for the coat he wore tonight, but now his fingers involuntarily slid over the dark material, smoothing imaginary wrinkles and checking for snags or a dry cleaning tag left hanging.

DeWinters leaned down and brushed a kiss across Beth’s cheek. You look wonderful as always, Beth. His rich baritone sounded mellow notes like an aged cello.

Thank you. Care to join us, Oxford? We haven’t ordered yet. She rested her hand on the back of a chair as if to reserve it for him.

I’m just on my way out, but thank you for your offer. You two enjoy your meal. With a quick nod, he turned to exit.

Dave watched him leave before he sat back down. He wondered if he would ever develop such polish and charm. Probably not--if such a feat were possible, he likely would have shown promise by now.

I didn’t know you were so tight with Oxford DeWinters, Beth.

He’s been a friend of my family for years. I’m sure I told you.

She probably had. Dave didn’t always remember everything Beth said. He redirected his attention to the table. Beth chose that moment to blind-side him, picking up the gift box and thrusting it so close to his face he had to lean back to focus.

Aren’t you going to open it?

He shifted in his chair, his mind searching for the right comment. He could tell Beth he wanted to wait until later to exchange gifts. Then, while she was in the powder room, he could use his cell phone to call a jeweler or a florist and order something to be delivered to the restaurant STAT. But he had a vague memory that Beth had said she didn’t like receiving flowers because that meant the giver had no imagination to figure out what she really wanted and besides flowers looked ugly when they died. And she said choosing jewelry for someone always worked out better if you quizzed the recipient’s friends and family for clues as to their tastes. It wouldn’t do, for example, to give someone a ruby if they hated red or if they really wanted an emerald.

He pulled his face muscles into a smile. What’s this? I’m sure it isn’t my birthday.

Silly. Open it.

Was it his imagination, or did Beth’s gaze shift briefly to his coat pockets? Dave took his time tearing the paper off the box, waiting for inspiration to cry out to him, to say anything that would get him out of this without hurting Beth’s feelings. Inspiration remained silent. Eventually the last bit of tape and paper fell free.

Dave lifted the box lid and peered inside. Thank God. He’d been worried she might be giving him something elaborate or costly that he’d be hard-pressed to match on the spur of the moment. But the gift was a small book, one of those faddish paperbacks touting a set of rules that supposedly anyone could follow for a sure path to self-improvement and lasting enlightenment. This one was called, Grab Yourself A CEO Spot. Ten Simple Rules. Beth had penned in purple ink inside the front cover, With me helping you up the ladder, you’re sure to succeed. Love, Beth.

Thank you. I don’t know what to say. Dave got up and kissed her and then plunked himself back in his chair.

He picked up the book and flipped through the pages. It shouldn’t take long to grab a CEO spot. Be alert for every promotion opportunity. Sell yourself. Don’t let pushy co-workers take credit for your successes. Every other page contained either a list or a flow chart.

He thought Beth should have known better than to try to give him a personality makeover, though. Dave’s college professors had consistently referred to him as a creative and innovative programmer with a gift for problem solving. But he’d never once heard any of them express the opinion that Dave Griffin was headed for stardom as a company manager or a corporate CEO.

Even so, he figured it was sweet of her to give him something, although she was destined to be disappointed if their relationship eventually progressed to marriage, and he was still sitting in a programmer’s chair ten years from now. Especially if she’d spent those years prodding him from behind, and he hadn’t moved up the ladder more than a rung or two.

He reached for her hand. Beth, I know you’re expecting me to give you a gift right now, but I’m not going to do that.

Disappointment flickered across her face. She was already launching her, Silly, you didn’t have to get me anything, response when the notes of the stringed quartet drifted across the room along with the garlicky scent of escargot at the next table. In that moment the inspiration that had eluded him all evening rose up to goad Dave somewhere deep in the get-a-clue center of his brain.

Your gift is a surprise. You’ll find out after we finish eating.

Her eyes sparkled. She leaned toward him and put her hand on his arm. What is it? Tell me now.

I said you’ll have to wait.

You’re so mean. I hate surprises. She crossed her arms over her chest and pretended to pout. When I was growing up, I used to bribe my sister to find out what I was getting for Christmas and then she had to tell me.

But you know I’m too stubborn to give in, so you’ll wait.

Beth kept up the pout even after their salads arrived. Dave made faces until she finally laughed.

An hour later, their multi-course meal consumed and Jason their server well-tipped, Dave led her out of the restaurant. Arm in arm they wended their way back to Harris Park. The night was warm and a silver moon was visible low in the sky. He supposed a million stars would be visible, too, if the park weren’t so well-lit that it had turned the sky from black to dusky lavender, but that was the price you paid for safety in the city. He stopped at a front row bench in front of the stage. He bowed from the waist and kissed her hand.

Mademoiselle, please take a seat and enjoy the evening’s entertainment planned especially for you by the man of your sexiest dreams.

Corny, but Beth laughed. She pulled him down beside her on the bench. What, no program? she whispered.

That would spoil the suspense.

A trio of folk singers finished a sad number about a man losing his hound dog on a lonely mountain where darkness told no tales. Polite applause followed from the sparse audience and then a man wearing a tux and a blond wig, and a young woman with long, black hair and dark, expressive eyes, stepped forward. Another actor introduced them as Benson and Lark.

The duo performed skits and told jokes. They finished with a scene supposedly taking place between a woman and her cheapskate husband.

Beth squeezed Dave’s hand. I never in a million years would have guessed my gift was a street performance. But I love it.

Dave released his breath in a sigh. Once again, he had come up with an innovative solution to a problem.

Benson and Lark finished their act and then Lark, accompanied by a guitarist, sang a medley of Broadway hits. The crowd had doubled in size since Beth’s and Dave’s arrival. When the last song ended, Lark went to work collecting donations in a top hat. Dave fumbled for his wallet. He found two twenties tucked behind his credit cards, waiting like reserve units to be called in for special duty. He dropped both bills into the hat. Lark’s dark eyes widened, and she mouthed a quick, thank you, before she skipped away to the next bench.

Dave felt a pleasant warmth spread across his chest. He hadn’t let Ken’s warning spoil his evening. And who knew? Beth’s book about CEO’s might somehow provide a magical power transfusion to lift him from the twenty-fifth floor to the top five floors, the executive office suites of the Markham-Hook Pyramid Building.

***

Lark recited the lines out loud while she struggled to fit the last of the props into the trunk of her car. "What, you bought me a battery operated hairbrush for my birthday? Hey, I love it. Next time my hand gets tired from not lugging