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Landry Sinclair has a story to tell. Listen carefully. I played the outgoing, strong professional career woman. Beneath the façade, I was lonely and ashamed. My plans for upward mobility were squashed when I fell into the hands of a ruthless serial killer. I became entangled in his rich web of heinous acts. When he slipped a date-rape drug in my drink, then brutally tortured me, I awakened to an inescapable nightmarish realm on the wrong side of the mirror, and I was not alone. Will I be forced to idle here for an eternity, peering through the mirror into my former world, helplessly watching as a homicidal monster butchers woman after woman? We see life through windows, mirrors, and revolving doors. Pay close attention. I know because I sing the lullaby of the dead. |
Just Another Day at Work
Chapter 1
The elevator ascending to my floor was empty. The night before, I had worked into early morning and overslept. Resolving to skip the team meeting without apology, I wove through the intricate pattern of cubicles with employees at each small desk. In Beckenworth Electronics Corporation upper management nomenclature, we referred to those workers as cube-ies— or QBs for short. They were tapping at keyboards with fervor due to the recent rumor of pending mass layoffs.
These were the days we trained for in college while earning our MBAs and in a slew of tedious workshops. A psychological consultant was on duty in case someone went “postal” upon being given the news that they were unemployed. A security guard stood in the narrow entrance of a cube waiting for the QB, Sandra Gaspari, to stop blubbering and gather her belongings. With his keen eyes fixed on her every move, she would not dare attempt to slip a stapler or laptop into her bag. IT’s computer lockdown would prevent her from jumping on to send herself files and documents belonging to Beckenworth’s. Theft was not an uncommon occurrence, hence, the sentry. She was leaving with the clothes she walked in with, the ridiculous knick-knacks she brought from home to cheer up the drab temporary walls, and the tears streaming down her cheeks.
She spotted me as soon as I walked onto the floor. “Just in time to see your handiwork, Landry? I know you’re behind this. You didn’t bother getting here on time today? Something horrible will happen to you someday, and you’ll find out what it feels like to have everything fall apart! I hope I get to watch you go through the devastation of your life. I confided in you about my problems, my money, my son. You knew how desperately I needed this job. You’re a soulless monster!” she screeched.
She charged at me, fists clenched and raised. Paulo from Security stepped in front of Sandra before she reached me, one large arm encompassing her entire torso, clamping her own arms against her sides, disabling the attack, her heels lifting to knee-height as he hauled her back. She struggled with him for a few seconds before dropping to the ground, shrieking, then sobbing.
Sandra’s high drama stood in stark contrast to the calm demeanor of Martin Frank. Working at the same desk for sixteen years, Martin’s worn-out look had always complemented his quiet and careful determination to stay under the radar. He was not one of my choices, but it had come down from the top. I was not surprised since his retirement was approaching, so I did not protest it. The company often offered severance packages to those who would pull expensive resources from the profit margin when they went off to enjoy their “golden years.”
Martin’s trembling was more pronounced than usual. The prospect of losing his health insurance must have concerned him. He would find it difficult to get new work at his age. His Parkinson’s disease was impossible to hide, and he would never make it past a first interview. When he saw me approach, he turned away sharply, but not in time to conceal his red eyes.
I picked up my pace to shelter in my office to escape the whispers and accusing stares of my staff. They knew well who decided whether their lives would crumble apart without their customary income, and knew who significantly increased the remaining employee workloads when the others were gone. There was no winning.
Elle Simmons, Vice President of Product Development and my immediate superior, came out of her office, sped to keep up with my stride and shut my office door behind us. “This is a horrible, horrible day. I know you worked late, but I need you alert for QBs falling apart. Morale is low enough as it is, and the domino effect could derail today’s productivity.”
I made a habit of sending emails out to the key players right before I powered down on late nights. They loved to see how dedicated their salaried employees were, and a 2:00 AM timestamp from a computer elated them.
“I’ll make a point of it,” I lied. I had no interest in babysitting a gaggle of useless wrecks. Layoffs came at least twice a year, often after low quarterlies, and everyone was aware of what to expect. I controlled an emerging eye roll as Elle feigned remorse for the afflicted, but she knew the corporate atmosphere better than anyone. The more people she dumped the more valuable she was to the Executive Board. If it appeared she was ignoring the pain and suffering of those poor people in “the maze,” she would be considered ruthless. The maze was the popular terminology for the labyrinth of cubicles with cute street names like Elm and Main. She would walk the slums once—ST. Charles Place and States Avenue—wringing her hands and sighing to show her deep sorrow for the less fortunate.
She left with a swift breeze of my office door shutting and a sad guttural noise—almost a moan. She did her solo sweep of the floor before scurrying into her office where she would hide until the close of business.
My auto-timed espresso maker wheezed and spat as a stream of dark brown liquid poured into the exquisitely petite white cup. The team did not need to know of my tardiness, so I muted my side of the call as I listened in on the last twenty minutes of the meeting. It was not necessary to see the worried faces; the concern for their fates was obvious. It was clear from the tone in their voices and it hung as a dark cloud over my head.
The exception was the confident, cocky speech of Ashton Ivey. According to HR, Ashton’s real name was Norberto Nevarez, or so went the rumor. He had a legal name change to ensure that he was not stereotyped as a “lazy Mexican.” Humorous, as none of the Hispanic personnel at the company had that reputation. But it was undeniable that Ashton was lazy, loud, and often inept. He made such a show of being the victim to the folks in HR when first asked to improve his performance, no one felt safe correcting his behavior anymore. He weaseled his way into the perfect position of untouchability before he landed in my lap. Having heard about Señor Ivey, I vehemently argued my case as to why he was not fit to be on my team, but in the end I lost. Today he knew that he was safe from the mass layoffs. Too bad he was right.
“When the numbers are in, I’m certain that my statistical evaluation is the only correct one.” Ashton’s drone came over the intercom’s speakers as I poured my second cup of espresso.
When the clock struck ten, I turned off the mute button and interjected myself into the meeting no one knew I was a part of. “Thank you, team. If anyone needs to speak to me concerning the new corporate restructuring, I will be available from two to three.”
My carpet to ceiling office windows looked over downtown Los Angeles. The eighth floor was below the layers of gritty smog that colored the atmosphere of Southern California. The scurrying beings below were not concerned about the happenings in the billion-dollar electronics company looming over them. We supplied their cell phones with the minuscule parts that fed their social media addictions. That meant nothing to the average Joe. And I cared little about the lives of the people seen through my privileged windows. Being self-aware did not equate to being compassionate.
∞
My online schedule as product manager reflected a day packed with imperatives, unquestionable activities. Time spent contriving it was part of the reason I had worked late the prior evening.
I sat behind my computer monitor ticking off my choices of those who were taking their leave as the loudspeaker sounded throughout the building to call them into HR. In a way, I envied them.
“Landry,” said my administrative assistant, Nika, as she meekly poked her head through the ajar door. “You have three appointments: Ivey, Rossi, and Horton.”
Two of those names were justified in their nervousness over the pending threat of termination. They were gone by the end of the day.
Ashton pushed past Nika and took a seat in front of my desk.
“What can I do for you today, Ashton?”
Nika unobtrusively closed the door behind her leaving Ashton Ivey alone with me. The smell of ammonia wafted from his head―recognizable, as it was the same scent I smelled every two weeks at the salon for my root touchup. Ashton’s blondish locks were similar to mine. Dark hair being concealed has an unnatural appearance. However, in Los Angeles it was the norm for both men and women to primp excessively in a city where looks equaled success. The frumpy, mousy types never climbed the ladders.
In addition to our bleached tresses, Ashton had something else in common with me. We both had imperfections, but we did everything possible to maintain the façade and mimic the highly-attractive people of LA. I spent hours in the gym on the stair stepper, swimming countless laps, and Pilate-sizing my ass into a sculpted masterpiece. It was obvious he did the same. A hint of foundation on his face covered a trace of acne scars.
“I was thinking we should round up everyone from the maze tonight and celebrate not being fired. You know, a survivors’ party. That is, if I don’t get the ax.”
Suppressing a sigh, I resolved to keep my outward show of feelings in check. That was an essential skill to have in my position. He knew he would be safe from this and all rounds of budget cuts. “Thank you, Ashton, but celebration today could be perceived as a lack of empathy.”
“If I may be so bold, Landry, there has been talk around the break room that you are out of touch with your team. It might do you some good to connect with your subordinates outside the office setting.”
“Ashton, that is a bold statement. I appreciate your concern for me and my group, but this isn’t the time for a party. Perhaps in a few weeks we can have a tasteful after work get-together. Now, if you don’t mind, I have several more appointments today.”
He stood and stared at me in a peculiar way. Discomfort pierced my spine. I wiggled in my chair and hoped he did not notice my minor moment of discomposure. Men like Ashton love to intimidate their female superiors. An ever-so-slight twitch at the corner of his mouth revealed his pleasure. “I will leave you to your empathy for those less fortunate than we.”
The tilt of his head and the glint in his eyes spoke volumes. He reveled in his upper hand. Summoning all the confidence I could muster, I stood and walked him out the door. A sea of heads popped up over makeshift walls, every eye casting a glance in our direction. No matter how well we acted, they knew it was just that—a play. Management were the actors, untouchable from the harm that could fall upon them at any moment. There was a mixture of distrust and disgust on their faces.
∞
When everyone safe from the cuts had left for the day, I made my way out of the downtown headquarters of Beckenworth Electronics, the sun descending, the usual green tinge of smog on the horizon casting a filthy shadow, snaking through the tall buildings.
I had witnessed and taken part in at least a half-dozen mass layoffs since being scouted by a headhunter and recruited to my management position. This one—although almost identical—felt different.
It was affecting my not-good, not-bad, conscience.
© No part of this text may be used without prior consent from the author, Lynn Lamb.
These were the days we trained for in college while earning our MBAs and in a slew of tedious workshops. A psychological consultant was on duty in case someone went “postal” upon being given the news that they were unemployed. A security guard stood in the narrow entrance of a cube waiting for the QB, Sandra Gaspari, to stop blubbering and gather her belongings. With his keen eyes fixed on her every move, she would not dare attempt to slip a stapler or laptop into her bag. IT’s computer lockdown would prevent her from jumping on to send herself files and documents belonging to Beckenworth’s. Theft was not an uncommon occurrence, hence, the sentry. She was leaving with the clothes she walked in with, the ridiculous knick-knacks she brought from home to cheer up the drab temporary walls, and the tears streaming down her cheeks.
She spotted me as soon as I walked onto the floor. “Just in time to see your handiwork, Landry? I know you’re behind this. You didn’t bother getting here on time today? Something horrible will happen to you someday, and you’ll find out what it feels like to have everything fall apart! I hope I get to watch you go through the devastation of your life. I confided in you about my problems, my money, my son. You knew how desperately I needed this job. You’re a soulless monster!” she screeched.
She charged at me, fists clenched and raised. Paulo from Security stepped in front of Sandra before she reached me, one large arm encompassing her entire torso, clamping her own arms against her sides, disabling the attack, her heels lifting to knee-height as he hauled her back. She struggled with him for a few seconds before dropping to the ground, shrieking, then sobbing.
Sandra’s high drama stood in stark contrast to the calm demeanor of Martin Frank. Working at the same desk for sixteen years, Martin’s worn-out look had always complemented his quiet and careful determination to stay under the radar. He was not one of my choices, but it had come down from the top. I was not surprised since his retirement was approaching, so I did not protest it. The company often offered severance packages to those who would pull expensive resources from the profit margin when they went off to enjoy their “golden years.”
Martin’s trembling was more pronounced than usual. The prospect of losing his health insurance must have concerned him. He would find it difficult to get new work at his age. His Parkinson’s disease was impossible to hide, and he would never make it past a first interview. When he saw me approach, he turned away sharply, but not in time to conceal his red eyes.
I picked up my pace to shelter in my office to escape the whispers and accusing stares of my staff. They knew well who decided whether their lives would crumble apart without their customary income, and knew who significantly increased the remaining employee workloads when the others were gone. There was no winning.
Elle Simmons, Vice President of Product Development and my immediate superior, came out of her office, sped to keep up with my stride and shut my office door behind us. “This is a horrible, horrible day. I know you worked late, but I need you alert for QBs falling apart. Morale is low enough as it is, and the domino effect could derail today’s productivity.”
I made a habit of sending emails out to the key players right before I powered down on late nights. They loved to see how dedicated their salaried employees were, and a 2:00 AM timestamp from a computer elated them.
“I’ll make a point of it,” I lied. I had no interest in babysitting a gaggle of useless wrecks. Layoffs came at least twice a year, often after low quarterlies, and everyone was aware of what to expect. I controlled an emerging eye roll as Elle feigned remorse for the afflicted, but she knew the corporate atmosphere better than anyone. The more people she dumped the more valuable she was to the Executive Board. If it appeared she was ignoring the pain and suffering of those poor people in “the maze,” she would be considered ruthless. The maze was the popular terminology for the labyrinth of cubicles with cute street names like Elm and Main. She would walk the slums once—ST. Charles Place and States Avenue—wringing her hands and sighing to show her deep sorrow for the less fortunate.
She left with a swift breeze of my office door shutting and a sad guttural noise—almost a moan. She did her solo sweep of the floor before scurrying into her office where she would hide until the close of business.
My auto-timed espresso maker wheezed and spat as a stream of dark brown liquid poured into the exquisitely petite white cup. The team did not need to know of my tardiness, so I muted my side of the call as I listened in on the last twenty minutes of the meeting. It was not necessary to see the worried faces; the concern for their fates was obvious. It was clear from the tone in their voices and it hung as a dark cloud over my head.
The exception was the confident, cocky speech of Ashton Ivey. According to HR, Ashton’s real name was Norberto Nevarez, or so went the rumor. He had a legal name change to ensure that he was not stereotyped as a “lazy Mexican.” Humorous, as none of the Hispanic personnel at the company had that reputation. But it was undeniable that Ashton was lazy, loud, and often inept. He made such a show of being the victim to the folks in HR when first asked to improve his performance, no one felt safe correcting his behavior anymore. He weaseled his way into the perfect position of untouchability before he landed in my lap. Having heard about Señor Ivey, I vehemently argued my case as to why he was not fit to be on my team, but in the end I lost. Today he knew that he was safe from the mass layoffs. Too bad he was right.
“When the numbers are in, I’m certain that my statistical evaluation is the only correct one.” Ashton’s drone came over the intercom’s speakers as I poured my second cup of espresso.
When the clock struck ten, I turned off the mute button and interjected myself into the meeting no one knew I was a part of. “Thank you, team. If anyone needs to speak to me concerning the new corporate restructuring, I will be available from two to three.”
My carpet to ceiling office windows looked over downtown Los Angeles. The eighth floor was below the layers of gritty smog that colored the atmosphere of Southern California. The scurrying beings below were not concerned about the happenings in the billion-dollar electronics company looming over them. We supplied their cell phones with the minuscule parts that fed their social media addictions. That meant nothing to the average Joe. And I cared little about the lives of the people seen through my privileged windows. Being self-aware did not equate to being compassionate.
∞
My online schedule as product manager reflected a day packed with imperatives, unquestionable activities. Time spent contriving it was part of the reason I had worked late the prior evening.
I sat behind my computer monitor ticking off my choices of those who were taking their leave as the loudspeaker sounded throughout the building to call them into HR. In a way, I envied them.
“Landry,” said my administrative assistant, Nika, as she meekly poked her head through the ajar door. “You have three appointments: Ivey, Rossi, and Horton.”
Two of those names were justified in their nervousness over the pending threat of termination. They were gone by the end of the day.
Ashton pushed past Nika and took a seat in front of my desk.
“What can I do for you today, Ashton?”
Nika unobtrusively closed the door behind her leaving Ashton Ivey alone with me. The smell of ammonia wafted from his head―recognizable, as it was the same scent I smelled every two weeks at the salon for my root touchup. Ashton’s blondish locks were similar to mine. Dark hair being concealed has an unnatural appearance. However, in Los Angeles it was the norm for both men and women to primp excessively in a city where looks equaled success. The frumpy, mousy types never climbed the ladders.
In addition to our bleached tresses, Ashton had something else in common with me. We both had imperfections, but we did everything possible to maintain the façade and mimic the highly-attractive people of LA. I spent hours in the gym on the stair stepper, swimming countless laps, and Pilate-sizing my ass into a sculpted masterpiece. It was obvious he did the same. A hint of foundation on his face covered a trace of acne scars.
“I was thinking we should round up everyone from the maze tonight and celebrate not being fired. You know, a survivors’ party. That is, if I don’t get the ax.”
Suppressing a sigh, I resolved to keep my outward show of feelings in check. That was an essential skill to have in my position. He knew he would be safe from this and all rounds of budget cuts. “Thank you, Ashton, but celebration today could be perceived as a lack of empathy.”
“If I may be so bold, Landry, there has been talk around the break room that you are out of touch with your team. It might do you some good to connect with your subordinates outside the office setting.”
“Ashton, that is a bold statement. I appreciate your concern for me and my group, but this isn’t the time for a party. Perhaps in a few weeks we can have a tasteful after work get-together. Now, if you don’t mind, I have several more appointments today.”
He stood and stared at me in a peculiar way. Discomfort pierced my spine. I wiggled in my chair and hoped he did not notice my minor moment of discomposure. Men like Ashton love to intimidate their female superiors. An ever-so-slight twitch at the corner of his mouth revealed his pleasure. “I will leave you to your empathy for those less fortunate than we.”
The tilt of his head and the glint in his eyes spoke volumes. He reveled in his upper hand. Summoning all the confidence I could muster, I stood and walked him out the door. A sea of heads popped up over makeshift walls, every eye casting a glance in our direction. No matter how well we acted, they knew it was just that—a play. Management were the actors, untouchable from the harm that could fall upon them at any moment. There was a mixture of distrust and disgust on their faces.
∞
When everyone safe from the cuts had left for the day, I made my way out of the downtown headquarters of Beckenworth Electronics, the sun descending, the usual green tinge of smog on the horizon casting a filthy shadow, snaking through the tall buildings.
I had witnessed and taken part in at least a half-dozen mass layoffs since being scouted by a headhunter and recruited to my management position. This one—although almost identical—felt different.
It was affecting my not-good, not-bad, conscience.
© No part of this text may be used without prior consent from the author, Lynn Lamb.
© Lynn Lamb. All rights reserved, 2024.
