Your Unequivocal Right

 Jack knew I was staring at him. I knew that by the way in which his eyes would drift my way, as if he were looking at something further upriver. I knew he was scrutinizing me from his periphery. I’m sure that he knew my curiosity would feed my patience. I could sense that he was measuring me, assessing our situation, trying to determine his next move. Could it be that his tongue had trapped him into one of those awkward situations that a gentleman tries to avoid, or could it be that he was truly looking for help?

His folded arms came undone as they followed his elbows leaving the flimsy two-by-four rail. He stiffened into his excessively larger-than-life upright position before he turned his face in my direction. Cheeks flushed, lips tight, and a jaw set in such an alarming manner that I didn’t know whether to get ready to duck or prepare to catch a falling body. Although I couldn’t feel his pain, I knew it was there by the pathetic supplication in his eyes that held me mesmerized, unflinching, staring, waiting.

He spoke; his words cut through the morning tranquility every bit as grating as that bodacious diesel roaring over the San Juan River Bridge. I recoiled, but held, trying to make sense of his fiery outburst.

He thundered again, “You wouldn’t do it! Nobody in his right mind would do it! Damn it; I won’t do it either! I don’t care how much they pay! I’ve had it!”

His pleading eyes pierced my psyche, searching for a lifeline; grasping, demanding help—any help—as if to save his soul.

“You’ve had what, Mr. Gordon? You haven’t told me what it is that you do or what it is that you are fed up doing! I have no idea what you are talking about! I don’t know what to say, Mr. Gordon!”

I followed Mr. Gordon’s eyes down to my shaking mug, coffee dripping off the bottom, splashing on my shoes. The spell was broken. I quickly rested both elbows on the rail saving what was left of my liquid breakfast and attempting to shield myself from Gordon’s onslaught.

There was a momentary quiet before Mr. Gordon attempted an apology, “I’m sorry!”

I did not bother to respond. I deliberately stared down at the river. I deliberately stood as intractably motionless as a jilted lover.

“Please Mr. Preston, I really want to apologize. Of course, you couldn’t know what I do for a living! No one can know!”

“Why, is it a secret or is it something that you’re ashamed of?” I asked, my curiosity piquing again.

“Yes, and yes, Mr. Preston! The fact is, I’m known by some as the mechanic, the repairman, or the renovator. Some even call me Mr. Fixit! There are those who have other, less flattering, names for me. There are parts to my work that leave nothing to brag about, that bear elements of embarrassment, that garners a great deal of personal animosity, hatred, risk and even threats. I’ve done every job assigned to me. Up until now, I’ve been able to rationalize every dirty job. But this… this… this is just too much! It’s too damned close to home, too close to family, my friends, my neighbors, even my own community. No sir, I won’t do it! It’s not…”

“Mister Gordon!” I interposed myself calmly but forcefully. “You still haven’t said what you do!”

“I do chapter eleven!” He exclaimed as if I should have known. “It’s up to me to clean up the mess that others have made of otherwise potentially healthy companies. I come into a company as its champion, its savior, someone that everyone hopes will painlessly set things right, save jobs, and protect the financial motor of the community. You see, Mr. Preston, I have saved companies that are the prime and sometimes the only employer of a community!”

“Isn’t that good?” I asked incredulously.

“Oh, sure, but that’s the good part! To do what I have to do, I’m forced to become the fox in the hen house, the weasel in the woodshed, the one who has to covertly determine who of the ever-abundant management to keep—if there are any worth keeping—and of course, who, of the whole profligate pack to fire. I’m the one who has to figure out how many, and which, employees to chop. I’m the one who must ferret out and eradicate favored suppliers, expunge prejudiced purchases, and above all else, clean up accounts receivable. I even have to coerce the accounts receivable of our suppliers to accept less than what they are entitled or have already earned! Not a very endearing activity, Mr. Preston. I understand the sentiments of those who lose. I understand what they think of me. I understand what they would like to do to me. Can you understand the embarrassment, the secrecy, the repulsion?”

By now he sounded a little more businesslike, a bit calmer, although I could sense that the volcano was still simmering. At least, he had returned to leaning his full, upper body weight on my scrawny rail.

“Does it pay well? I asked.

“Very well. It would have to, don’t you think?” he asked in return.

“How long have you been doing it—the job, I mean?” I asked.

“Too damned long!” He exclaimed.

“And you’re just getting around to rebelling now? When the hell did you decide you couldn’t handle it?” I asked brazenly as I picked up my cup and turned to leave, because frankly, I had had enough! I felt more like telling him where to go, where to get off, go away, or better yet, go away myself. Suddenly his left hand was firmly attached to my left arm.

“Listen, Mr. Preston, it’s not the job that I’ve done all my life that I’m rebelling against! I’ve reconciled myself to that equation. I’ve rationalized every single job I’ve been assigned, but I cannot rationalize or reconcile this new assignment they’re piling on. I don’t believe there is a man alive that could do it!”

“What do they want you to do?” I asked while thinking of myself as some kind of fool for not just clearing the hell out of there.

“They want me to do a municipality! They want…”

“Interesting! I’ve never heard of such a thing! So, they want you to do a municipality! So what? What’s the big deal?”

He stood there quietly for a moment, studying me through eyes that appeared to be ready to cry. I’m sure that I will never again witness such dry supplication or a man in such intellectual torment. Now, it was too late to leave. Now, I would have to hear it, whatever it was.

“It may not seem like a big deal to you or to anyone else, but I can’t do it. There is just no way that I can do my own community! My family, my friends, acquaintances, everyone! It has made me realize how deep nepotism runs, palsy-wellsy, the bubba system, the whole damned, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours! Now I understand why it takes someone like me to do what management cannot, or will not, do! When the chips are down, Mr. Preston, I won’t do it either. I cannot!”

He ended on a quiet note. His eyes had moderated significantly. I thought that his whole person sagged a little, relaxed as if the only thing he needed was the simple treasure of having someone to hear, what to him was, his greatest problem, to dump his troubles, to lighten his load, maybe even, to confess. There was sadness in the thought that he had to turn to a stranger for support.

“You’re obviously good at what you do! That’s why they want you to do this job! Sometimes, downsizing by cutting costs and services just has to be done!”

“You’re partly right, Mr. Preston. Where you’re going wrong is following the popular assumption that downsizing means cutting services. I never downsize service! I downsize service providers! I cut out the deadwood! I clean out the feather-bedders! I unload the helpers of the helpers of the helpers, the assistants of the assistants that only serve to muddy up the waters, cloud issues, and skew the enterprise’s ability, retard its capacity, and eventually force bankrup…”

“Mr. Gordon…”

“Jack, just call me Jack!”

“Well, Jack, I have to go, but I would like to tell you one thing,”

“What’s that?”

“Go ahead and quit! If it bothers you that much, then don’t do it! If they cannot find the decency to send someone else to do your community, then quit! You have nothing to be ashamed of! Cleaning house for a company or a community might be the right thing to do, but in this case, it is not the right thing for you to do! You have one power left; one right that no one can take away from you; one course of action that is yours and yours alone.”

He stared at me waiting to hear the answer that he already knew. He looked tense as if to hear the answer spoken out load might be a painful or even an unbearable relief.

“That’s right Jack, you can quit! So, do the right thing! Go home and put your feet up, go fishing, do all the things you’ve never had time to do! Visit your kids; play with your grandchildren; live a little for crying out loud! Exercise your right to the pursuit of happiness and stop selling your life for a dollar bill!”

I paused; I suppose to see the ramifications of my rhetoric.

“Jack!”

He said nothing.

“Jack! You are doing the right thing!”

As I strolled across the lane toward room ‘four,’ I heard Jack fairly whisper as if he suddenly realized that he might wake somebody, “I think you’re probably right Mr. Preston. Thanks!”

He didn’t have to thank me. I didn’t do anything but listen. Or did I? Did I just listen or did I actually hear his plaintiff and lonely cry, the shameful secrets of his occupation, his innermost pain that he could not reveal, even-or-especially, to those closest and dearest to him. My hearing his plea had the effect of simply assisting Mr. Gordon in cementing his previous convictions, his forgone conclusions, his prior knowledge of what he had to do. Just needed a little support, a sounding board, someone who would not simply listen, but could also hear; that’s all!

Paraphrase of actual conversation extracted from Preston Haskell's book titled 'An unpredictable Place' beyond hand-me-downs.

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