X. Dave Meets the Boss
In the last episode, Dave Devoran, also known as Dave the Dude, had an awkward date with a lawyer. What follows is Episode X.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
If I lean back in my chair at the office, close my left eye, hold my hand out at arm’s length and spread my fingers just right, I can cover most of the letters of the word “dolgozik” on my 1949 tool‑and‑dye calendar, so that it looks like the word “dog.” If I hold my fingers differently, and scramble the letters around in my mind, I can spell out words like “log,” “logo,” “zoo,” “gold” and “dick” (with the “c” missing). I found out somewhere that “dolgozik” is Hungarian for “work,” which is something I don’t do much of in my office.
Ever since I joined HungaroAmerTechImpexConsult Kft. about a month ago, I've been without any assignment. I’m waiting for my boss, whose name I won't try to pronounce, to return from his long journey. Until then, no one knows what to do with me. I sit here, letting my talents go to waste and playing word games with the weird Hungarian sentences printed on my wall calendar.
But I get to work by 9 am every day, and don't leave until 5 pm. When the boss does come back, I want him to know that I'm eager to get cracking. After all, I'm Dave Devoran, also known as Dave the Dude, and I'm a free‑market ambassador. I came here to teach by example, to show the former communists of Hungary that if they really try, they can have a healthy economy run by cut‑throat money‑worshipping capitalists.
Today I almost didn't make it in on time. I had a wild night with this brainy, busty lawyer named Amy. I thought she was working for gun runners. She said she wasn't, and that she came to my office trying to get my company to sponsor a seminar series. She also said she'd have me arrested if I came near her again. I'm not sure what Amy's game really is, but I swear I'll get at the bottom of that mystery. While I'm at it, I hope I get at her bottom, too ...
Jeez, this calendar bores me. In America, tool‑and‑dye calendars are decorated with pictures of nude women. In Hungary they're decorated with pictures of tools‑—and dyes. Why did it take these people 40 years to realize that capitalism is the better system?
Anyway, the word game has helped a half hour of my working day creep past. It's time to shoot staples at the trash can. Ever since I took the stapler apart and stretched the spring, I've been able to fire off about one third more shots per minute, but the range of my weapon remains disappointingly short. After I empty a whole stapler's worth, I'll clean up and reload for tomorrow. Then it's time for a special treat: I brought a mirror and some nail scissors today, to break up the routine a little. Later I'll take them out and trim my nose hairs. But I should put off that activity until after lunch. It gives me something to look forward to.
I'm doing well—firing off two staples per second and hitting the trash can with an accuracy rate approaching 60 percent—when Maria, the chief assistant in charge of roaming the halls and looking busy, knocks on my door. She's cute, in an absent‑minded sort of way, but bright as a box of rocks. As always, I receive her curtly:
"What is it? I'm busy."
"Um, uh .... Duhveed?"
"That's Dude! Call me Dave the Dude!"
"Yes, Mr. Doo‑Ed. I have to tell you that Mr. Something Something is here and he would like to speak with you."
Something Something? The name is impossible to understand, but I find its incomprehensibility strangely familiar. ... Of course! It's my boss! He's finally arrived, my boredom is over and my conquest of the Hungarian economy can get underway.
I follow Maria down the hall, moving so fast that she has to jog to keep from being run over. We go through a large office filled with secretarys and assistants who are reading newspapers and drinking coffee. Behind that is another office, where a woman sits stiffly, staring resolutely into the space in front of her. When we enter the room, only her eyes move to meet us.
"Yes Maria," she says. "Who is this?"
"It is Mr. Doo‑Ed."
"Good. We are expecting him. Send him in."
Mr. Something Something is a tall man in a gray suit with gray hair, styled in a hideous crew cut, and a mustache, which fortunately is also gray or else it would look a hell of a lot like Adolf Hitler's. He shows me a smile that could probably kill a small child and croons in a Dracula voice: "Hello Mr. Deberen. I understand you have not had very much work to do."
It's my moment: "That's right Mr. uh, um ... Sir. I've been down‑right idle. And if you look around you'll see I'm not the only one. In the month since I've arrived, I have observed incredible inefficiencies here. I was also shocked to find that there was no one here capable of delegating any responsibilities to me. Now in America ..."
"Good. Gooood." He interrupts me with that spooky voice of his. I half expect him to say: "Look deep into my eyes. You are getting sleepy." Instead he says: "I am glad that you have not done much work. It would be a bad idea to start too fast. No?"
Before I can say anything, he cuts in again: “The reason I called you here today was to discuss this report that came to my desk.”
“I’ll get right on it sir,” I say reaching for the file.
But he pulls it away, frowns deeply and continues: “This report is about a box of paper clips which you used without giving any explanation.”
What? He must be talking about the quarrel I had with the woman from “supply control,” when I first got here. I’ve got a lot to say on that topic: “Well sir, that’s just the sort of thing I want to change around this office. I mean you have people who are afraid to get anything done because they have to explain every action in triplicate. This kind of bureaucracy is exactly what is keeping this company—”
“Enough!” he cuts me off, practically shouting. “It is too late for explanations. You are fired.”
This must be a dream—a Kafka dream. “You‑you can't do this,” I stammer. “My father has blackmail on your boss ... Er ah, I mean ...”
“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “You must go now. Your paycheck will be mailed to you after we take a full inventory of your office and deduct the cost of the paper clips and any other supplies that are missing.”