The Alamo

October 06, 2005 | Category: On The Job

My stomach turned sour as I picked up the phone. The hatchetman answered after one ring.

He asked about my son, as though he cared. He made a little smalltalk like we were friends. I swallowed back the bile.

The dust on my desk lays thick and I swirled my finger through it. Whenever he said anything that sounded like real words , I would grab my pen - the inkgel one that glides with thick black ink - and jot it down. "I don't want to put words in anyone's mouth," he said. "But I can speculate..."

I folded my paper, and carefully drew lines under each of his sounds bites as I captured them.

"Some stakeholders have voiced their feelings..." he said. I dutifully nodded, although he couldn't see me 1000 miles away. "Project needs to be successful..." he reminded me. I nodded again. I continued writing.

"The project is green," I reminded him. "So what is the problem?"

"No problem, we just want to accomodate the customer's concerns. Bring in a little management support over you. Someone to help direct your efforts. Provide you some cover..."

"Demote me," I translated. I have directed projects totalling nearly $100Million over the last few years. I can translate corporate doublespeak perfectly.

"No, not officially," he carefully responded. "In fact, this kind of flexibility is important in our assessments of ...."

We both knew he was lying.

But I nodded, and wrote it all down.

He never asked me my opinion. Hatchetmen don't. He talked right around me. He counseled me to go with the flow, and not push it. He whipped me with words and then offered a little carrot that somehow this would end up being great for me.

I nodded to myself, and breathed little, shallow puffs.

Inside I knew that I could turn this all around, and end up stronger than before. I've done it in the past. Bumps in the road? Oh, I've been a steamroller, baby.

Pushing my way to the executive washroom, a seat at the even bigger table...

No. Wait. Not this time.

He told me that my misunderstanding would not reflect badly on me. That he was counting on me, now that I was no longer distracted by my family, to put aside my bias and work closely for the guy who stalked me while I was on leave.

It hurt, and I winced, and twisted, and wanted to strike back at his clipped, cold pomposity.

He was so aggravating that I wanted to pound the phone on my dusty desk and roar. Uncoil the wave of emotions and logic and outrage inside me. Shake him with my strength and confidence.

But I didn't.

In the deep dark of the night, under a taupe blanket with my husband, the strategy had been mapped. I reminded myself of the long plan. Of the leap of faith I had decided to make.

My hand shaking, I put down my pen.

No. This is my Alamo, I reminded myself.

He told me that this was a temporary gesture, meant to build success for everyone.

Temporary? Ha! Little did the hatchetman know.

This is the last stand of my corporate life.

I see it coming, and know how it will end.

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