Monday
Ken Armadillo summons me to a 6:00 a.m. breakfast at the Charles Hotel. I'm thinking it's like old times, but quickly see that something's up. The big prickly one is not picking at his traditional fruit plate and wheat toast. He's guzzling black coffee and is unshaven. Frankly, he could use a haircut, too. And he's graying. Odd, I've never noticed this before. (Am I graying? Must remember to check.) Anyway, the Kenster delivers his bombshell: The Armadillo group is insolvent! Technically. I ask him what "technically" means, and he clatters down his cup. "It means, Rayne, that we can't meet payroll next month and I expect you to fire 20 people in the Strategic Synthesis group beneath you." I order black coffee, too, and we sit there staring over each other's shoulders. "Can I fire Pippa Pecker?" I ask him. "Off limits!" he snaps. I walk to the office wondering if the rumor about Ken and Pippa is true. Dark days.
Tuesday
My "Hit List" is a terrible task. The first name I write is pure reflex: John Bonanza. Former charlatans turned monk don't count. So I end up making one list based purely on gut feel and a second list based on performance appraisals. Almost no overlap. Annoyingly, my list of jerks are all superior performers. My hunch: These are people who are adept at tweaking the review system, acting successful, claiming credit.
Lunch with Donny Drucker, who is blissfully unaware that he's on melting ice. Costly Partner, minimal clients of his own, always taking leave to work on "thought leadership." If there's one thing I learned this past year, it's that creating a novel methodology for segmentation analysis is a fool's errand. Unfathomable conceptual diagrams don't pay the rent unless you're a Porter type. Better to be selling efficiency studies to Du Rite (I have three ongoing). I even gave Donny my original client, Ed Spanks at Old Wally Brewery, but he's supping with Deloitte these days. Feeling guilty, I pick up the tab.
Wednesday
Weekly day-trip to Doctor & Handle for denture fixative work sessions. Now that we're over our teething troubles (as it were) and Pippa has left us in peace, this case is fun. My team has sold the client on launching a new "fighting line" alongside their flagship, and we're working with the ad agency on brand personality. They're even using my old Barcalounger-with-Popcorn target demographic, which I only made up to amuse my wife! Divisional CEO Fang and I are now big buddies. Once I realized Fang liked abusive, withering sarcasm, it's been plain sailing. I rant on about how all his doofus managers obviously unplug their brains every morning at the door, and he's all giggles. He even caved on my massive market research invoice for those saliva viscosity tests. Fortunate, since Ken said it would have come out of my bonus otherwise.
Thursday
Today was axe-day. Nancy Nebraska — axed. (Perky, organized, long-winded, much perspiration, little inspiration — sad.) Alain Protecteur — axed. (Doesn't matter how intellectual you are if you stink.) Donny Drucker — axed. ($5 million sales target, $0 million closed.) And get this: Pippa Pecker — axed! So much for office scuttlebutt. My analysis: self-promoter, one-trick pony. Should never have acquired her firm. If I had a nickel for every time Ken overruled me when I was right all along, I'd have a stack of nickels that would stretch from here to the top of my coffee mug. Except that the stack would probably have fallen over by now.
Friday
Am coming down with some bug. Stayed in bed all morning, although Theo unexpectedly jumping on me hardly helped my recovery. Toyed with going in after lunch but frankly, little enthusiasm. Today's the day they're clearing out their desks. Midafternoon, Donny actually called me to say good-bye. Start to feel really lousy. Started blathering mixed-up platitude about cream always finding its own level and wishing him luck, when he cut in to tell me that he's going to take a year off in France to write a book about Great Dictators. "You're the one who's going to need luck, Rayne," he tells me. Really? To be honest, I feel pretty impregnable at Armadillo these days. "Yeah, Nancy and Alain are suing you for wrongful dismissal and discrimination — race, sex, age, the works. And then there's Pippa." What's she suing us for?, I ask warily. "Nothing. She's been arrested. Turns out she had a key to Ken's Ferrari. Someone saw her drive it to the top of the ramp in the parking lot and give it a nudge. It went under a garbage truck. Squashed flat."
For the first time, I feel a little sympathy for Pippa Pecker. Actually it's more than that. Trashing Ken Armadillo's Ferrari (vanity plate: GOKENGO) has been my secret dark fantasy. Thank God I keep this diary safely locked away.
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