The Diary of James Eggleton: Deep Shit, Arkansas
Photographer - Tobi Brun
The Diary of James Eggleton: Deep Shit, Arkansas
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
New Year, new job, thank God. Start tomorrow at Brobdingnagian Corp's H.Q. on Madison Avenue. After all these months stuck at home, it'll be great to get out of the apartment. If nothing else, Emily will be pleased now that I have something to do.
I don't think she'll ever understand why I left the last one, I had to resign. It was the moral thing to do. Anyway, Brobdingnagian is steeped in integrity, so I should be OK on that front. Maybe I can do some good in this world.
The job's incumbent sent me this email today:
James,
Congrats on your new gig on the borrowing desk. It should be a dream. These last six months have been so quiet that I've managed to read five novels a week.
Best/Henry.
P.S. Don't call your boss Fruit Bat to his face. The last guy who did that got sent to Argentina.
Wednesday, January 6
As I left for work, Emily said: “Good luck, and don't screw this one up.”
Spent the day arranging my desk – no one has an office. My new boss Darren seems a little surly. Barely spoke to me, except when he explained the bonus plan. If I do well, we could afford a house in Connecticut like the one that Emily's wanted for the past two years.
Discovered the company is in loads of different businesses – everything from aircraft manufacturing to supermarkets. Who knew?
Thursday, January 7
Predecessor Henry was correct: Nothing much happens in the office. Forgot to bring books. Ordered a slew online.
Back home received a hand-written invitation to an Adventurers’ Club event later this month. It’s mostly climbers who get invited and I qualify on account of being the former president of the Princeton Mountaineering Club. A Ranulph Fiennes-type person is scheduled to expound on his latest expedition. I expect he'll flog some books too. I'll take Charlotte. She and I love talks by adventurers. Emily says she's too busy with friends, which is weird since she used to enjoy such gatherings.
Still puzzles me why Emily didn't go back to practicing law after she had Charlotte. I know better than to mention it these days.
Friday, January 8
Heard not a peep out of Darren today, other than a sound that resembled something between a grunt and the word “morning,” as he passed my desk. Today he wore the same ill-fitting, crumpled grey suit that he had on yesterday.
Read Mikhail Lermontov's “A Hero of Our Time.” I like his theme: What is the role of the unnecessary man? Good question.
Charlotte's thrilled about the Adventurers' Club event. Hope they serve soft drinks. We can't have her going to school hungover.
Saturday, January 9
My turn to make Saturday brunch. I decided on Charlotte's favorite: Eggs Benedict. She toasted the muffins while I showed her how to poach the eggs. First, I put a few drops of vinegar in the boiling water, then stirred the water-vinegar mix into a vortex to drop the eggs into. The result produced near perfect artisanal poached eggs ready for the muffins and a coating of homemade Hollandaise sauce that I put together before she woke up. I skipped the bacon for health reasons. Yum!
Monday January 11
Started the morning reading Charles Bukowski's “Ham on Rye.” Great book about the rough side of town.
Late-morning got jolted into office-mode by the sound of Darren shouting “Motherfuckers” down the phone line, then throwing the same phone to the floor and kicking his desk. After that, he jumped over to me and spoke a complete sentence.
“Jason isn't it?” he asked. I readied the words “James, actually,” but I couldn't get them out in time. He was on a roll, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. This was not the time to take issue with him.
“Well, whatever your name is, we are now officially living in Deep Shit, Arkansas,” he said. I could see swollen blood vessels pulsating in his neck. He's quite a character swearing like that in the office. I don't think he's an Ivy Leaguer.
The story has nothing to do with Arkansas. Must be slang. Anyway, this morning the union went from hissy fit to full-on strike with a picket line at the Ohio factory gates. It's about who can or cannot unload trucks. This factory makes aircraft brake pads as well as vital widgets we supply to all our other factories. As a result of the latter, all of our factories are shut.
The bottom line: I must borrow $200 million every workday to keep the company going. Called our banking contact, then two hours later got an email confirming a $195 million loan. Spent an hour completing the paperwork. Darren didn't seem too bothered that I was $5 million short of the requested $200 million.
Worked late into the night writing code to automate the borrowing process. From now on I’ll just enter how much I want and then click a button.
Arrived home at 10.30 PM to find Emily asleep.
Tuesday, January 12
Borrowed $250 million.
Read more Bukowski.
Wednesday, January 13
Borrowed $400 million.
Mid-afternoon saw Darren at his desk looking worried in a way that said his stress level had surpassed “Deep Shit, Arkansas” status. He wasn't wearing a jacket, so everyone could see the sweat stains under his armpits that went down to his elbows. His face looks more ashen each day.
He called my telephone even though he sits 10 feet away. He wanted ideas to fix the strike situation fast. “Look genius, I need a solution,” he said. I didn't have a clue what to suggest.
Read “A Time to Keep Silence” by Patrick Leigh Fermor.
Thursday, January 14
Borrowed $500 million. Figured that the more I borrow the better and Darren hasn't mentioned anything so it can't be a problem.
This evening took Charlotte to the Adventurers’ Club. It's in a swanky townhouse just off 5th Avenue at 80th Street. I was shocked to find a stuffed grizzly bear on the second-floor landing. Judging by the bald patches, the creature died long ago.
In the main hall, they served canapés and drinks: deviled eggs, miniature Beef Wellington’s, and top-class Martinis. The bartender made Charlotte a Shirley Temple alcohol-free cocktail. She beamed when he handed it to her.
The talk by Edgar Henley-Bruton was inspiring. He's climbed most of Asia's peaks, including K2, and discovered new animal species. I bought two signed copies of his book – one for me, one for Charlotte – and he also gave me his business card. He's a fascinating man, and I wish we could have chatted longer.
“Why don't you do something like Mr. Henley-Bruton, Daddy?” asked Charlotte as we walked the few blocks home. “You could be an adventurer.” I smiled, remembering the expeditions I’d led as a youthful student. Maybe I could have been an explorer, but life is so different now.
After Charlotte was in bed, I mentioned the explorer idea to Emily. She looked at me as if I'd gone mad.
Friday, January 15
Borrowed $700 million.
In the afternoon, Darren told me his idea to fix the strike. “We'll starve these fuckers,” he said. His foul language is starting to grate on me, and his idea is uncivilized.
The detail went like so. Brobdingnagian ran all the supermarkets in a 20-mile radius of the Ohio factory, so he'd close them and leave our workers with nowhere to buy food. Darren didn't ask if we should, he merely stated that we would take this action. To my shame, I said nothing. At the time, thoughts of mountain climbing filled my mind.
Read Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness.”
At home, when I mentioned starving the workers to Emily, she shrugged and said they were probably communists, so what did it matter if some had to tighten their belts? I decided now wasn't the time for a conversation about human rights and common decency.
Emily said she’d spent most of the day with her girlfriends at the Coffee House club in Midtown.
Saturday, January 16
Went for a run in Central Park. Darren's strike-stopping idea is still irking me. The idea of pursuing my dream and becoming a full-time explorer looks more appealing each minute. At the very least I can’t go on with this job for long.
I checked out the websites of the British Antarctic Survey and the U.S. equivalent at McMurdo Station. Both organizations need loads of people, but there was nothing suitable for me.
Still, that didn't stop me writing a letter to both. Sent some emails to my Princeton mountaineering buddies, plus one to Henley-Bruton. Figured Henley-Bruton might remember me favorably.
Sunday, January 17
Charlotte's 11th birthday. Took her for afternoon tea at the Waldorf Astoria, which she loved. Scones with jam and cream are her favorite. Then we had fun wandering around St. Bartholomew's Church, next door to the hotel. The time passed quickly, and I was surprised it was dark when we left the building. Again, Emily was too busy to join us.
After dinner, read Charlotte J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” until she was asleep with her toy bunny under her arm. She loves that story. It’s the fifth time I’ve read it for her. As always, she was asleep in 10 minutes.
Monday, January 18
Public Holiday. Charlotte made me a surprise breakfast of Eggs Benedict – double yum. She learned well.
No sign of Emily or any replies from Princeton buddies.
Started reading Ranulph Fiennes’ “Living Dangerously.” He's said to be the world's greatest living explorer.
Tuesday January 19
Borrowed $800 million.
Darren shut down the supermarkets today. He said it in the same matter-of-fact way you'd describe ordering an extra-large-double-frappe-mochaccino-with-sprinkles at a coffee shop. I can now understand why colleagues called him fruit bat. Some might say, he’s “batshit crazy.”
Spent the rest of the day reading P.G. Wodehouse’s “A Pelican at Blandings.” It’s one of his best farces, but still the book's absurd plot looks sane compared to what we are doing.
At home, thoughts of starving our employees and their families continued to dog me. This would mean children going without food -- lots of hungry Charlottes because of what we were doing. Felt sick.
Wednesday, January 20
Borrowed $1 billion. The bank says investors are asking why we need to borrow so much? I just said I was new in the job, and they accepted that as an explanation.
Read Evelyn Waugh’s “Decline and Fall.”
Thursday, January 21
Borrowed another $1 billion.
Spent rest of day reading Colin Wilson’s “The Outsider.” Spoke to no one, but I pondered whether Brobdingnagian was right for me and how best to pursue my goal of becoming an explorer. It’s clear I can’t last long in this job. Either I’ll be fired, or I’ll have a nervous breakdown.
Friday January 22
Lots of bad press about the strike. “Brobdingnagian’s New Year’s Gift: No Food!” screamed one newspaper headline.
Darren told me to stop borrowing for a few days.
Read “Girl, Interrupted” by Susanna Kaysen. Spoke to no one in the office. Lack of good conversation is driving me batty.
Sunday January 24
Took Charlotte out for brunch at Penelope’s Bistro on Lexington Ave. at 60th Street, followed by ice skating in Central Park. She’s getting really good. Quite an improvement since last January. When we finished, the daylight was over. Emily stayed in bed all day, claimed she was sick.
Monday, January 25
At noon Darren announced that the union had ended their strike. He did so while standing on a desk and screaming: "Another win for the good guys." People could hear him at the other end of the room 30 yards away. "We beat those assholes in record time," he said and beamed as if he was now undisputed World Heavyweight Boxing Champion. But underneath the outward bravado, he also looked tired, drained by stress, and as mentally crumpled as his suit.
I wasn't sure he'd hit the nail on the head with his victory comments. Yes, we beat the union, but I couldn’t shake the repulsive idea that he was prepared to starve children to achieve that.
Read “The Heart of a Dog” by Mikhail Bulgakov, a satire of Soviet life.
Tuesday, January 26
Read Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.”
Still no reply from Antarctic Survey, or McMurdo, or Henley-Bruton, or anyone.
Made dinner with Charlotte – shepherd’s pie.
Wednesday, January 27
This morning, before I could choose which book to read, Darren walked to my desk and leaned over. “Hey genius, how are you feeling today?” he said right into my ear. “I’m feeling like we're all living in Double Deep Shit Arkansas, especially you.”
Had I let a herd of hogs run wild in the building? Had I forgotten to wear pants? Or was it a discrepancy on my resume? Nothing of the kind!
The problem was I’d been too good at borrowing money, and I should have stuck to getting $200 million a day. Apparently, I’d doubled Brobdingnagian’s debt load, and the interest costs were now taking a large bite of the company’s profits.
That wasn’t the worst of it. Darren said we would now cut costs and I'd have to go to Hamburg to fire 3,000 workers. He said he’d been looking for an excuse to close the factory there for years and ordered me to leave tomorrow.
I asked if there was another way, but he looked at me the same way Emily did when I told her I wanted to become an explorer.
Spent the rest of the day looking through a spreadsheet full of workers names, each with age, length of their service with the company, and the amount of redundancy money we would pay them.
Tedious, yes. But these are real people. Heinz Schweitzer, Rolfe Penk, Andrea Schulz… the list went on and on. I couldn't help thinking of all those families that would lose their income, and how they would cope, or even if they would.
But my job wasn’t to worry about that. It was to ensure we knew how much it would cost. In practical terms it isn’t feasible to check 3,000 individual calculations, but you can review randomly selected ones. If those few checks are all correct, then probably everything is ok – at least that's what they taught me at business school.
Packed for Hamburg.
No time for a novel.
Thursday January 28
At 5.30 AM, I received a text from the airline while the taxi took me to JFK Airport. “No flights are running today,” it read. The reason: Lack of brake pads for the airplanes, due to our recent Ohio strike. At least that’s what the airline staff told me.
Got to the office at 6.15. Darren glared when he saw me. When I explained about the brake pads, he put his left-hand palm to his forehead and then walked away. Five minutes later he was back. “Let me show you how we do things round here,” he said.
He put my phone on speaker setting and dialed our Hamburg office. “Rudolf, it’s Darren here with the genius boy-wonder,” he said. “We’ve gotta close your factory. Just lock them out of the facility tomorrow morning and tell them they’ll receive a letter shortly. Don’t worry, I’ll get you another gig here.”
After the call, he said I was lucky to have a job, but because he liked me, he'd give me another go. My new project was to distribute $1 billion of executive bonuses to be calculated individually using a near-incomprehensible formula that he scribbled on a note pad. He explained that these bonuses were based on last year’s profits and had nothing to do with the borrowing mess I’d just made.
Spent the rest of the day doing calculations for the bonuses and sent Darren the spreadsheet.
Took a bath at home, followed by some Valium. If ever there was a day for medication, this was it. Then went to bed and began reading “Fight Club” by Chuck Palahniuk before drifting into a deep, tumultuous sleep.
Friday January 29
Woke up at 4 AM. Not sure when Emily got home. Watched some T.V. The news of our factory closure had broken, and the media was showing scenes of enraged workers in Hamburg. Some of the people were throwing rocks at the company building.
Turned off the T.V. and opened my laptop. Rechecked the bonus numbers. The calculations were wrong. Overspent by $1 million. I envisioned Darren having a fit. I closed the laptop. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Perhaps I could explain the error once I got to the office. My left eye twitched. I settled on fessing up in person.
Went for a walk at 6.30 AM with a view to returning home and calling in sick. On the way out the doorman gave me a hand delivered letter. Red sealing wax stamped with the initials EHB held together the envelope.
Dear James,
Please accept my apologies for not writing sooner.
Our plans are for a trip to a remote part of Nepal where we think we can locate the striped Shapi, which some say is extinct.
The expedition’s bursar has fallen sick and so we now have a vacancy that would seem to fit your skills.
If you can ready yourself over the next few weeks, we’d love to have you manage the expedition’s finances and we would benefit from your mountaineering expertise. Please call to discuss.
Yours/Edgar Henley-Bruton
Sweet news. I pocketed the letter and sauntered down Madison Avenue with a view to doing some window shopping. But quickly ended up at Headquarters where I offered my resignation to Darren.
His response was to shake his head. “Let’s step into my office,” he said, which is weird because no one has an office. He read my thoughts and told me to follow him and soon enough we were sipping pints of Lagunitas IPA at Langan’s bar.
“Cheers,” Darren said. “Look, I can’t in good conscience accept your resignation. The truth is I found out last night we are both getting laid off.” He then explained the current cost cutting would hit the charities that the company supported as well as the work force. However, he and I would still get a load of money to go quietly on our way – two years of salary plus bonus and healthcare. “We’ll send your mini library of Congress to your apartment by limo later today,” he said.
“Not bad,” I said. Now I could get new climbing equipment for Nepal trip.
Darren continued: He said I shouldn’t take any of his rants to heart, and that he really loved working with me. “A lot of folks in that role just get too fussy,” he said. “And don’t worry about overspending the bonus pool – nobody will notice.”
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by fussy, but I was touched by his sentiment.
We kept drinking until 3 PM then I walked home and ordered some mountaineering equipment before taking a nap.
Saturday, January 30
Slept from 6 PM last night through to 5AM and got up to make some breakfast and watch the T.V. The news had gotten worse. Brobdingnagian’s share price had gone into freefall and Germany’s government as well as the senior Senator from Ohio wanted an inquiry into what was fast becoming a disaster.
As a laid off employee with a golden goodbye I wasn’t too worried. I switched off the T.V. and pondered how to tell Emily I was off to Nepal shortly. She hadn’t come home last night and hadn’t told me where she was.
Around 8 AM the climbing equipment arrived which I unpacked in the living room before making some more coffee in the kitchen.
It was then that Emily walked into the room. “Morning,” she said. “I want a divorce and you’ll look after Charlotte.” As she marched away, I called after her, but I got drowned out as she successively slammed first the kitchen door then the front door.
I went to the bathroom for some Valium, and then pondered what to do. How could I simultaneously go to Nepal and look after Charlotte? Not possible. And then which would I rather do? That had started becoming clear over the last few weeks – look after Charlotte, by a country mile.
After that self-revelation I wondered how to tell EHB, but just as I did the phone rang. “Edgar here. Look I have some bad news. Our major corporate donor Brobdingnagian has pulled out. The Nepal trip is postponed for a while.”
I was relieved.
Received text from Emily. She’s moving in with her billionaire boyfriend in Greenwich.
Later Charlotte entered the living room. “Are you OK, Daddy?”
“Couldn’t be better darling,” I said. “We are going to have such fun together.”
Max Peña spent the best part of a quarter century working in corporate jobs in New York City. These experiences have inspired his creative work. He also holds a master's degree in creative writing from Edinburgh Napier University. He now lives in the south of France with his wife, dog, and cat.
