Richard Mathers shifted uncomfortably in the small chair in front of Albert Monk’s large desk. Albert Monk was staring at him.
Richard was staring at the alabaster bookends—Roman soldiers pushing heroically against either end of the conspicuously displayed volumes of literature and philosophy that dominated Monk’s desk.
Albert Monk was the editor of the Washington Tribune. The paper had done pretty well in the fifties and sixties and had held its own against the older and better financed dailies, the Post and the Times. Circulation had dropped during the late seventies and in 1979 Albert Monk and the Tribune board had relocated the editorial offices from their expensive real estate in D.C. to cheaper digs in Manassas, Virginia, close to the Tribune’s printing plant and distribution center.
The waning fortunes of the Tribune had probably been a good thing for Richard Mathers—he didn’t think he would have gotten a job working for the Tribune during its heyday, and he certainly wouldn’t have kept the job he had gotten for as long as he had. But, as Albert Monk’s solemn stare clearly indicated, his days of keeping that job were over.
“I don’t like doing this,” Albert said slowly, breaking the uncomfortable silence with what was, for Richard, an even more uncomfortable lack of silence. “But . . . I’m not moving you anywhere else. Not this time.”
“Monk,” Richard started.
“Look, Rich, I know you’ve had some tough times and I’m sorry about your problems—good Lord knows, I’m sympathetic, my first wife couldn’t keep her pants on either—”
Richard bristled. He could feel his face flush.
“—and don’t you even think about punching me. I may be old, but I’m a black belt in Judo and I’ll kick your ass.”
“Jeeze, I wasn’t going to throw a goddamned punch, Albert—”
Monk picked up a copy sheet. “Rich, let me read to you from your latest submission, covering Wednesday night’s city council meeting. Simple reportage. Take a pencil, write down what you see happen in complete sentences. Come in under three hundred words. Easy enough, right?” He cleared his throat. “‘Councilwoman Deandra McNealy argued against any easing of zoning restrictions, all the while clearly not wearing a bra, which might make one wonder if her own display of flesh, as her nipples were clearly visible, might not violate current city ordinances—’ I mean, seriously, Richard. I can’t print this. Even if I edited the stuff about not wearing bras and which councilmen you think put ‘socks in their pants’, what you’re turning in is too incoherent to print.”
“Albert, look, I’m sorry, maybe I was editorializing too much, but—”
Monk shook his head. “No buts. I know you can do good work, but the fact is you haven’t done good work. You haven’t done good work for six months. Maybe a year. You clearly don’t want this job—”
“Albert, I do, I just—”
“—and I don’t want people here who don’t want to work here. So you are out. End of discussion. Grab a box, pack up your stuff, and stop by personnel on the way out. You get two weeks severance pay. The check will be waiting.”
Richard sighed. He looked at Monk. He had blown it, he knew he had blown it. It was a good opportunity, but he had not been able to keep himself together. Too much had gone wrong in his life. And, when it came down to it, Monk was right. He didn’t like his job. He needed money. He had to pay rent. He had to pay alimony. But he didn’t want the job and it had become impossible for him to even keep up the pretense.
“Go on,” Monk said. “I wish you the best, Rich, I really do. But I’ve got a paper to run.”
Richard stood up. “Do you try to look like the editor in All The Presidents Men on purpose? You know, the real guy doesn’t look like that.”
Richard was staring at the alabaster bookends—Roman soldiers pushing heroically against either end of the conspicuously displayed volumes of literature and philosophy that dominated Monk’s desk.
Albert Monk was the editor of the Washington Tribune. The paper had done pretty well in the fifties and sixties and had held its own against the older and better financed dailies, the Post and the Times. Circulation had dropped during the late seventies and in 1979 Albert Monk and the Tribune board had relocated the editorial offices from their expensive real estate in D.C. to cheaper digs in Manassas, Virginia, close to the Tribune’s printing plant and distribution center.
The waning fortunes of the Tribune had probably been a good thing for Richard Mathers—he didn’t think he would have gotten a job working for the Tribune during its heyday, and he certainly wouldn’t have kept the job he had gotten for as long as he had. But, as Albert Monk’s solemn stare clearly indicated, his days of keeping that job were over.
“I don’t like doing this,” Albert said slowly, breaking the uncomfortable silence with what was, for Richard, an even more uncomfortable lack of silence. “But . . . I’m not moving you anywhere else. Not this time.”
“Monk,” Richard started.
“Look, Rich, I know you’ve had some tough times and I’m sorry about your problems—good Lord knows, I’m sympathetic, my first wife couldn’t keep her pants on either—”
Richard bristled. He could feel his face flush.
“—and don’t you even think about punching me. I may be old, but I’m a black belt in Judo and I’ll kick your ass.”
“Jeeze, I wasn’t going to throw a goddamned punch, Albert—”
Monk picked up a copy sheet. “Rich, let me read to you from your latest submission, covering Wednesday night’s city council meeting. Simple reportage. Take a pencil, write down what you see happen in complete sentences. Come in under three hundred words. Easy enough, right?” He cleared his throat. “‘Councilwoman Deandra McNealy argued against any easing of zoning restrictions, all the while clearly not wearing a bra, which might make one wonder if her own display of flesh, as her nipples were clearly visible, might not violate current city ordinances—’ I mean, seriously, Richard. I can’t print this. Even if I edited the stuff about not wearing bras and which councilmen you think put ‘socks in their pants’, what you’re turning in is too incoherent to print.”
“Albert, look, I’m sorry, maybe I was editorializing too much, but—”
Monk shook his head. “No buts. I know you can do good work, but the fact is you haven’t done good work. You haven’t done good work for six months. Maybe a year. You clearly don’t want this job—”
“Albert, I do, I just—”
“—and I don’t want people here who don’t want to work here. So you are out. End of discussion. Grab a box, pack up your stuff, and stop by personnel on the way out. You get two weeks severance pay. The check will be waiting.”
Richard sighed. He looked at Monk. He had blown it, he knew he had blown it. It was a good opportunity, but he had not been able to keep himself together. Too much had gone wrong in his life. And, when it came down to it, Monk was right. He didn’t like his job. He needed money. He had to pay rent. He had to pay alimony. But he didn’t want the job and it had become impossible for him to even keep up the pretense.
“Go on,” Monk said. “I wish you the best, Rich, I really do. But I’ve got a paper to run.”
Richard stood up. “Do you try to look like the editor in All The Presidents Men on purpose? You know, the real guy doesn’t look like that.”
Albert just barely cracked a smiled. “Maybe Ben will give you a job.” He exhaled, and stood up, looking at Richard pointedly. “Your check is waiting. I’ve got work to do. I hope you get it together. Now go, before I call security.”
Richard walked out of Monk’s office. He went to the supply room and found a box that looked like it would be large enough to hold most of his belongings, and went back to his cubicle. Someone had already found a box for him, it seemed. People could be so helpful, when they were getting rid of you. He decided to use the one he had gotten for himself, instead, and started putting his personal items away. Coffee mug, paperweight, stapler, pen and pencil set, a few reference books . . . it was depressing to see how few personal things he even had to pack up.
Richard sighed. He stopped by a few desks and said a few goodbyes. A few people weren’t around to say goodbye to, but Richard figured they’d hear the good news soon enough.
At the front desk, he stopped one last time. The woman behind the desk smiled sweetly. “We’ll miss you, Richard,” she said.
“Ah. The word has already reached the front line, I see.”
“Yeah. Most of us figured you were going to get canned pretty soon, though.”
“Oh. Nice. Rachel, is Deb here?”
“Sorry, dear, no. She’s in DC interviewing some house members about the increases in federal spending under Reagan. Reagan promised a balanced budget, after all. You know, spending was lower under Carter.”
“She’s making house calls?”
Richard walked out of Monk’s office. He went to the supply room and found a box that looked like it would be large enough to hold most of his belongings, and went back to his cubicle. Someone had already found a box for him, it seemed. People could be so helpful, when they were getting rid of you. He decided to use the one he had gotten for himself, instead, and started putting his personal items away. Coffee mug, paperweight, stapler, pen and pencil set, a few reference books . . . it was depressing to see how few personal things he even had to pack up.
Richard sighed. He stopped by a few desks and said a few goodbyes. A few people weren’t around to say goodbye to, but Richard figured they’d hear the good news soon enough.
At the front desk, he stopped one last time. The woman behind the desk smiled sweetly. “We’ll miss you, Richard,” she said.
“Ah. The word has already reached the front line, I see.”
“Yeah. Most of us figured you were going to get canned pretty soon, though.”
“Oh. Nice. Rachel, is Deb here?”
“Sorry, dear, no. She’s in DC interviewing some house members about the increases in federal spending under Reagan. Reagan promised a balanced budget, after all. You know, spending was lower under Carter.”
“She’s making house calls?”
Rachel smiled. “Now, you know Debi always gets more dirt when she shows up in person. Can’t imagine why, in Washington, being a gorgeous girl around all those amoral, unprincipled men.”
“Yeah. Well, when she gets back, tell her I was fired.”
“I will, sweety. Did you remember your check?”
Richard looked back blankly at Rachel. He had forgotten. The thing he needed most in the world—money—and he had forgotten to get his severance check.
Rachel smiled, apparently unsurprised. “I’d go back up and get it if I were you. I don’t suspect security is going to let you back in after you leave.” Rachel cocked her head to the security guard at the door who, indeed, was eyeing Richard very closely.
Richard sighed. “Thanks, Rachel. Don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”
She smiled again. She was a good receptionist. She was always smiling. “You’ll suffer,” she said sweetly. “Go on now.”
“Yeah. Well, when she gets back, tell her I was fired.”
“I will, sweety. Did you remember your check?”
Richard looked back blankly at Rachel. He had forgotten. The thing he needed most in the world—money—and he had forgotten to get his severance check.
Rachel smiled, apparently unsurprised. “I’d go back up and get it if I were you. I don’t suspect security is going to let you back in after you leave.” Rachel cocked her head to the security guard at the door who, indeed, was eyeing Richard very closely.
Richard sighed. “Thanks, Rachel. Don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”
She smiled again. She was a good receptionist. She was always smiling. “You’ll suffer,” she said sweetly. “Go on now.”
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