To See the Future, Stand on the Edge of Dreaming

No meeting should last longer than one hour, that was a rule Russell had followed throughout his whole career. So it was like sitting on sandpaper to be in Mr. Eric Emerson's office for more than two and half hours, even if it was really sitting on a butter soft leather sofa while listening to the weasel weasel on and on about what had to be done. What had to be done, of course, at the holidays, is let people go. He hated the words "letting people go', it sounded like you were doing them a favor when you were about to start them down a road filled with uncertainty.

He had in his hand a list of fourteen names. He had had the list now for over two hours, all that time had been spent listening to Emerson bloviate on 1) why a letter would be better than breaking the news in person (Weaseling 101), 2) what might be seen as the future of the company once the current crisis had been dealt with, or at least, enough "fat had been trimmed from the bones" (he had said that fat phrase too many times to count) and 3) describe in detail his weekend of putting up the boats for the winter. Russell just wanted to get on with it, He wanted to go out into the office and start telling people, but Emerson wanted him to draft that letter and to have it to him by Friday morning, which was tomorrow. I know, he said, short notice, quick action, got to be done though, then it has to go to legal, and so on and so on, so have to get on this, be efficient, be sharp, get on it,
quick, quick, quick. He loved talking that way, he made it sound like that Christmas carol, what was that song anyway?

Looking out the window, he could see the day fading, getting grayer with cold, across the room Emerson was droning on about how he had not known how much water there was in gasoline. He was the worst kind of boss to have, the kind that everyone knows is an idiot except for his boss who hired him and thinks he is a wonder. Wonder, winter wonder, winter wonderland, Russell felt himself starting to drift off into some other state of being, he was thinking about rooftops. He had to stick a finger in his right ear to bring himself back. The droning from the behind the desk had stopped. He feared for just a moment that he had been asked a question, but when he looked up it was just Emerson standing there, offering him his hand to shake. He shook the hand and Emerson started off again about how no one was really secure these days, not much tidings of joy, he knew that.

Russell headed back to his office. He sat down at his desk and clicked the blinking New Mail icon on his monitor. His ex had sent him a Christmas card. Doves. Falling snow. A pair of deer under an arching banner that read “Peace on Earth.” He noted she had not added anything about goodwill towards men, especially towards him. There was a little note pad there in front of him and he wrote: There is no easy way to put this: our company has decided to ..... No, that's awful. He started again, this time on the computer screen. Emerson had said he wanted it to be professional yet personal. There's nothing more personal then firing a person, he thought, and here it was, just ten days to Christmas, Chanukah already started. He typed Dear Fill in Employee Name and then stared at the cursor waiting for it to tell him the rest.

It was no good. Nothing came to him. It was getting towards six o'clock and he thought he would go home, have dinner, write the letter, email to himself and Emerson and then go to bed. He crossed the big room filled with cubicles; computer screens all blank and dead-eyed, chairs and tables holding down the floor, a little Christmas tree on the receptionist's desk still had it's red and green LEDs shimmering in the darkness.

On the subway ride home he looked at all the people jammed together. Bundled up for the cold outside, they now had to open their coats and jackets in the heated car. What would it be like for any of them to get the letter he was about to write? No, that wasn't the way to think about this. All these people here, the guy trying to hog the whole middle pole, the woman with the huge hoops earrings and the hissing-shhishing earphones, the three fellows pressed next to each other in the doorway talking about whether there would ever be another Yankee World Series win, they were all strangers, the fourteen people on the list he had known for years. He had hired more than half of them, trained and re-trained all of them to work as part of his team. Several of them he had known for years, the new guy had only been there six weeks.” We are your neighbor’s children that you have seen before. Love and joy come to you.” Dear Blank, he thought, Despite all your hard work, the company says "Screw you very much."

The cursor on his home computer was even less informative than the one at the office. He spooned up the last of the lamb stew he had made on Sunday, drank a glass of wine, watched the first half of the ten o'clock news, set the clock for 5AM and climbed into bed.

Scientists know a lot, but they don't know why we sleep. They know we do it and they know that during sleep we dream. Hundreds of thousands of images flow through our dreaming brain, but we haven't any real sense of why it happens the way it does. We know more about the bottom of the Pacific's Mariana Trench than we do about what goes on just two inches inside our own skulls. So, here was Russell Freeman standing on the edge of dreaming, not awake and not yet asleep. He waited. Sleep would come. Sleep in heavenly peace, he sighed. But it didn’t come. Or maybe it did but it didn’t feel like sleep. Russell started to see things, to think thoughts. Faces swam by, he saw hallways, a doorway, he guessed that next he would hear chains rattling, but instead he thought he heard the ding of an elevator stopping in his bedroom. His mind couldn’t figure out if he was awake or dreaming or someplace in between. Voices spoke – and now what for you? one asked over and over. Quick, quick, quick. He stayed like that for an hour, maybe two hours, the thoughts of the coming day banging in his head and then quieting, then banging in his head again. There is no rest on the edge of sleep. He turned on his side, he turned on his belly, and he turned on his other side, that’s when he saw someone coming towards him. A man, dressed in a blue suit and tie, holding in his hands two stacks of envelopes. On one stack was written: From Russell, Open Now, he couldn’t see what was written on the other stack.

Freeman raised his head and looked around in the dark surprised not to see the blue suit heading out the door. He looked for the envelopes. He turned his pillow over; it was as cold as a snow bank. I know what’s written, Russell said to himself and he fell deeply into sleep.

The weasel's letter was done before the espresso had to be steamed.
"Dear Employee:
Despite every effort, yours included, to maintain the financial stability of our company; we have regretfully come to the decision to cutback on this office's personnel. .... ."

The second letters had taken a little longer. Each of the fourteen was slightly different, he included individual memories of each person’s triumphs and growth, he wished them the very best of everything and assured each one that they could depend on him recommending them for any job in the future. He printed them out as he took his shower. He took each one and put it in an envelope and wrote on it, From Russell, Open Now.

Emerson loved his letter. He clapped Russell on the back as they left his office together. Now it was Legal’s turn to have a look at it. It didn’t look like he had exposed the company to any ramifications, he said, that would be messy, so it should all be ready by this afternoon. Russell nodded and headed back down the hall to his office. His stack of letters was in his desk drawer. He went straight to his work, he had to think about what it would be like to work with the smaller staff; who would have to take over what sections, how to partner and re-partner the teams. It was bitter work, tasting ashy and without satisfaction, except for the one extra deletion he made. He saved the file and attached it to an email for Emerson. He didn’t hit send. He ordered in lunch as he normally did and he waited for word.

Emerson came in his office right about one thirty PM, looking just a little pale and, Russell thought, a little excited. He placed a folder onto Russell’s desk and said “Here they are. You can pass them out whenever.” Then he left. It was just after three when Russell started making the rounds, early enough, he thought, for people to gather their thoughts and the majority of their things, late enough not to have lost the entire day’s work effort. He went quickly from desk to desk, handing the envelopes to the people who were there, leaving the others for the recipient to find when they returned. No one said anything.

He returned to his office and sat down. There, in the middle of his desk, was an envelope addressed to him from Mr. Eric Emerson, Senior Vice President:
Dear Russell:
Despite every effort, yours included….. .
There was an addendum at the bottom requesting that Russell stay long enough to figure out the new staffing arrangements. Now he hit Send. Emerson would get his new team chart without Russell’s name on it only three seconds after Russell got his letter. That ought to be quick, quick quick enough.

Russell looked out his window. Flakes were falling in that dreamy slow motion way you see in the movies and email cards. There were no noises coming up from the street, all was calm and bright. He shut his computer off, turned off his office lights and headed out into the big room to say his good lucks and goodbyes and give a few hugs, a few tidings of comfort and joy.