A short story where a corporate takeover and surprise meeting in a medical waiting room leads to lunch, and potentially much, much more…
by: Paul Lewellan
The algorithms at Couples.Com would never pair our names. Friends wouldn’t have set us up for a blind date. If Sharon and I had met in a church singles group, speed dating at the local coffee bar, or in the desperate hour before last call at the Meet Market, we would have gone home disappointed and alone. Duncan, Billups, Henderson, & Bandopadhyay in St. Louis, Missouri, brought us together instead. Even then it took medical assistance.
Sharon was a rising star at the conservative textbook-publishing firm of Duncan, Billups, and Henderson. She was young, bright, assertive, and with an MBA from the Kellogg School of Management at Northwestern University in Chicago. The Boy’s Club at DD&H hired her as the token female fast track officer, but soon realized Sharon was an intuitive, articulate, and outspoken force to be reckoned with. Attempts to neutralize her failed.
My business credentials were more modest. I started working for Devarshi Bandopadhyay when his firm had six employees and the ink wasn’t dry on my BA in Entrepreneurship from Southeast Iowa University.
Dev was a Hindu from the Maharashtra Region of India. He earned his undergraduate degree from Pune University (aka “the Oxford of the East”), but his MBA and PhD in Business were from University of Missouri–St. Louis. He loved Cardinals baseball and St. Louis style BBQ, pork ribs or chicken. No beef. Cows are sacred.
Dev was a publishing mastermind who understood Millennials and Baby Boomers: eBooks. He specializes in tweets, Facebook, fan fiction, and electronic academic textbook publishing. He undercut competitors’ prices while delivering A+ content. As Dev rose in the industry, I floated to the top with him, acquiring as I went, the management acumen that served his firm so well.
By the time Dev bought a controlling interest in Duncan, Billups, and Henderson, he had over eight-hundred employees and turned a profit. DB&H had 13,000 employees and hemorrhaged money. The stockholders couldn’t have been more supportive of the takeover. The only people in the industry surprised by Dev’s move resided in the C-suite at that ossified old firm.
Technically Sharon and I didn’t meet at the firm. I knew who she was, had read her file, but we didn’t connect until that fateful day in my doctor’s office. I watched her approach the receptionist’s desk, lost, distracted, frantic. She’d been in an accident. “Can Dr. Hudson work me in?”
“He’s running late, too. You’ll be fine,” the receptionist said. “Take a seat.”
As Sharon turned toward the waiting area, she stumbled. I caught her. We’d never been formally introduced, but she knew who I was. “Shit!”
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” I said. Dr. Jacob Hudson is a geneticist. That was when his nurse called my name.
“Let’s do lunch later this week. We can talk then.”
She nodded grimly. My reputation at the firm had preceded me. Sharon couldn’t refuse. “I’m free Friday.”
“Freddy my assistant will make it happen.”
The day after Dev acquired DB&D he sold their two corporate jets. Everyone at the firm including Dev would fly coach. As the leases expired on the company cars and limos, they disappeared, too. Dev drove to work in his five-year-old Hyundai Equus. He figured everyone else could do the same.
Dev made me Vice President of Resource Management because he knew I would show no mercy. In my portfolio were budgeting, acquisitions, and human relations. The VPs who used to manage those segments immediately lost VP status and their corner offices. Now they all reported to me.
As head of HR, I offered generous early retirement bonuses for DD&H executives with over thirty years of service. Smart ones took the package, no questions asked. To the ones remaining — basically old white males — I offered training on best practices. Some embraced the opportunity to update their skillset. Everyone else I transferred to our burgeoning branch in Mumbai. As predicted, they all refused the transfer, and so were terminated, much to their surprise. They thought they were irreplaceable. Sharon had no such illusions.
Friday we took an Uber to Bab’s Bitchin’ Barbeque. On the way there she asked if I’d settled in. “Dev made my transfer effortless,” I explained. “As much as we loved St. Louis, for the acquisition to go smoothly, he and I needed to be in Chicago.”
I didn’t mention our lack of trust in the DB&H upper management or Dev’s need to be hands on. Nor did I mention that once we’d rightsized the staff, the old corporate headquarters would be sold to a buyer we’d already found. The work would be transferred out of Chicago or done remotely. Dev and I would return to St. Louis.
Sharon ordered the fried pickle appetizer while I studied the menu. She decided on the Carolina style pulled pork with a side of Bab’s baked beans. When I mentioned my desire to have leftovers to eat for supper since I rarely had time to cook, Sharon suggested the Combo Plate with a half-rack of ribs, six wings, and their 18-hour brisket. I got sides of smokey bacon mac and cheese, and the sriracha coleslaw. To drink I ordered a pint of 3 Floyds Zombie Dust.
“I’ll have an iced tea.” Sharon asked, “How are things going with the merger?”
“Acquisition.”
She stiffened her back. “People at Corporate prefer to call it a merger. We were the larger of the two firms. Our share of the market was bigger.”
I leaned back in my chair. “DB&H had lower margins, declining sales, and an ancient inventory, but who’s keeping score?”
“Well, apparently, you are.” Our drinks arrived.
“I studied the analytics. I knew your firm inside and out before I set foot in the building. I talked with our clients who’d once been your clients. I knew what your firm offered and what it lacked.”
Recognition appeared on Sharron’s face. “So when you came to us ‘to explore options,’ you’d already decided to acquire the firm.”
“My ‘fact finding’ tour taught me what I needed to know about staffing, attitudes, work ethic, corporate loyalty. I wanted a feel for the culture.”
The appetizer arrived, and she used the fried pickles to stall while she considered her options. “People called you Mr. Rodgers because you were always smiling and attentive.”
“You learn more from listening than from speaking.” I reached for my beer. “When I asked where the bodies were buried, some people provided maps.”
“My male colleagues hate your diversity workshops.”
“Of course, they do. DB&H was the whitest and most testosterone burdened firm in the industry. Misogyny wasn’t tolerated. It was encouraged. You know that better than anyone.” We worked our way through the fried pickles. Dipped in ranch dressing they were sinfully good.
“Mr. Bandopadhyay’s methods remind me of the InBev takeover of Anheuser-Busch.”
“There are similarities.”
“He sold the corporate jets and eliminated a lot of perks like the InBev chief executive Carlos Brito.”
“Both men are notoriously frugal.”
“Britos eliminated the entire marketing department in St. Louis,” she said cautiously.
“AB lost good people.”
“Don’t be patronizing.” She picked up a pickle. “Is that what you’re going to do with our marketing department? With me?”
“I am not.” I picked up another pickle. “Did you know anyone who’d worked at AB?”
“No, but I’d heard stories.”
“Would you like to meet some?”
Sharon stopped, the pickle poised at her mouth. “What do you mean?”
“Dev hired a half dozen of them, ones who were still hungry, not yet ossified or become attached to the Clydesdales. They formed the nucleus of our marketing department. At AB, they might have languished for years before they got a chance to prove themselves, much like you are doing here.”
“DB&H did alright before the acquisition.”
“Yes. That’s why Dev has retained the marketing department until now.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wanted to find out why the firm had some notable successes while the bulk of your marketing was trapped in Twentieth Century practices.”
“And what did he discover?”
I pointed a pickle at her. “You. Each move he admired, you initiated, even though others took credit for it. Sometimes you prevented a disaster. You were a second tier creative, embarrassingly underpaid, and shuffled to the side, but your impact was real and impressive.”
“I didn’t see that coming.” The food arrived.
As we ate we shared biographies. I started. “I come from a large family. My father had five siblings. I have four.”
“I was an only child.”
“In my case, the numbers are problematic.”
“Is that why you are seeing Dr. Hudson?” I nodded. “Me, too.” She lifted the bun of her pulled pork sandwich and slathered it with Carolina sauce, tangy and yellow from the mustard base. Finally Sharon asked, “Does Mr. Bandopadhyay know you go to a geneticist?”
“I share my calendar with him.” I shrugged, then instantly regretted it. “I’m being disingenuous. Dev knows about Dr. Hudson.” She waited for me to continue. “Three of my father’s sisters were diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s. A brother died from it at thirty-five.”
“That’s too young for Alzheimer’s.”
“It is for the most common type, but there’s a generic form of the disease, maybe a few hundred families worldwide.” I tried to read her reaction as she heard this. “People with early onset can show symptoms in their 20s and 30s, and it’s more likely with the familial form of the disease.”
“So you went to see Dr. Hudson?”
“Technically I didn’t go to see him. He learned I was in town and asked for a blood sample. My family’s genes are in demand for researchers.”
“So you have the disease?”
“There’s a genetic marker. My brothers and sisters and I have all been tested. The researchers know who has the gene and who doesn’t. The statistical probability is four of the five of us. If we want to know, all we have to do is ask.”
“But you haven’t asked?”
“None of us has.” I toyed with the last of my sweet potato fries, then pushed the plate aside. “What would be the point? What would I do any differently? I already live my life as though I have limited time. Each day of normalcy is a gift.”
“I’m the same way. People tell me to slow down. I can’t.” Sharon reached for the dessert menu. “You probably want to know why I was seeing the doctor–”
“If some time I need to know, I trust you’ll tell me.”
“Fair enough.” She saw me glance at the time. “Do you like German food?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “There’s a restaurant in my neighborhood. I get takeout sometimes. Sauerbraten, Königsberger Klopse, German potato salad, Schnitzel, spaetzle, Black Forest cake. Would you like to have dinner at my apartment tonight?”
“I would. But we shouldn’t mention that at the meeting.”
“What meeting?”
“The one that’s going to be announced in fifteen minutes.”
“A meeting on a Friday afternoon?”
“For the Marketing Department. Mandatory.”
Sharon put down the dessert menu and sighed. “You’re eliminating the marketing department in Chicago, aren’t you? So dinner with someone you supervise won’t be an issue.” She was pissed.
“Technically, I’m not your supervisor. You don’t directly report to me. If a social relationship should develop, we’d need to notify HR, but it wouldn’t violate any policy.”
“But it would better for you if I don’t have a job.”
“Oh, you have a job. We are shutting down the Chicago branch, but offering transfers to other branches. Marco, Chandra, and you will be offered transfers to corporate in St. Louis. That will require that you relocate. The firm will cover all your expenses, of course, plus a cash incentive to take the transfer.”
“What about everyone else?”
“Some to the Philippines, some to India, Mexico, and a couple to the new office we’re opening in Estonia. Tallinn is a beautiful city.”
“Most of the men in the department have lived in Chicago their entire lives.”
“Maybe it’s time for them to see the world, learn a language.”
“They’re not about to do that.” She put down the dessert menu. “You’re really quite heartless.”
“Your coworkers have marginalized anyone who doesn’t follow the traditional line, including you. They insisted on releasing new editions, even when there was no justification.”
“We can charge more for new editions.”
“Exactly. On average they cost 12 percent more than the prior release. The price of your textbooks rose four times faster than the rate of inflation. You were slow to develop cheaper digital content, unwilling to phase out popular but archaic titles. Your firm rejected publication on demand even though the practice eliminates warehousing and inventory expenses, and allows firms to deliver books to students at lower prices.”
“You’re very passionate about this?”
“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. It’s just you’ve never been in a position to do anything about it.”
“Is why you asked me to lunch?”
“I wanted to know if you’re willing to join the team in St. Louis.”
“Why?”
“DD&H has an extensive inventory. You know the titles. You know how they’ve been marketed. You’ve shared with your supervisors suggestions, which they’ve largely ignored. The team in St. Louis can learn a lot from you, even as you learn from them.”
“So I’m being offered the transfer because of my knowledge, not because of any attraction?”
“Actually the attraction is a recent thing. It developed over lunch, and then blossomed after the invitation for German food.”
“I see.” Her face flushed. “Chandra won’t take the transfer. She’s engaged. Her fiancé works in the Loop.”
“Is there someone else you’d suggest? I could adjust the offers when I get back from lunch.”
“I’ll give you some names on the ride back to the office.”
“Why not give them to me now?”
“Because you still need to buy me dessert.”
“Fair enough.”
“Dr. Hudson is testing for Huntington’s disease,” she blurted out. I picked up the dessert menu. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
“What would I say?”
“Well, most men when faced with the prospect of dating a woman with a debilitating illness that will destroy their fine motor skills and lead to early death would say something like, ‘I’m out of here.’”
“Why would I do that? Why would I leave the table before I even got the chance to know you? Plus, I’m not a genetic prize winner myself.”
“True.”
“Dev is Hindu. His first name Devarshi means sage of the gods. His last name Bandopadhyay translates as respected teacher. He’s spent some time explaining karma to me, that unique blend of destiny and free will. When he heard about my potential diagnosis he assured me that life was a cycle of birth, death and rebirth, action and reaction. Reincarnation is like exchanging old clothes for new.”
“Which means what?”
“While our server packs up the leftovers, and we share dessert—”
“Perhaps the New York style cheesecake?”
“We work out the details of the transfer offers, and then this evening, after the dust has settled from the meeting, we get to know each other over German food. I’ll bring a craft beer or two.”
“Then we can decide—”
“—if the other person if worth the risk.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“I’ll show you my diagnosis if you show me yours.”
“I’ll be in St. Louis. You’ll be here in Chicago.”
“I’m only here for six months tops. Then I’ll turn off the lights and lock the corporate doors and move back.”
“You have it all planned out?”
“No. Dev and I have a corporate strategy. Life, though, doesn’t follow plans. For example, I’d planned to have a pizza delivered tonight and look over the projected earnings statements.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen.” Sharon put down the dessert menu. “And you’re right, we should keep our supper arrangements to ourselves.”
“Should I bring a toothbrush?”
“Wouldn’t hurt. But if things go well, you won’t need pajamas.”
Paul Lewellan lives, writes, and gardens on the banks of the Mississippi River along with his wife Pamela, who is also his best friend and accountant. They’re raising a rescue kitten called Caitlin Cat and an ancient Maltese named Buddy. Find archives of his work at paullewellan.com.
