Eventually, Pat began to actually believe in the myth of Pat and he became a mockery of himself. It was, after all, a lofty image to uphold, and Pat felt the need to live up to it at all times. The aphorisms fell into overuse; they became hackneyed and tired. The projects associates had to run by Pat soon were of less and less significance. And eventually, Pat just became some weird guy spouting nonsense to the team determining what brand of coffee to serve in the break rooms. This was my direct report.
Pat fittingly chose to sit on the counter and not the formal chair. There was a forced casualness to the decision. “I was up in Washington in May,” he began. I pulled a chair up and gave him my full attention. One learned to be wary of “shootin’ the breeze” conversations in Corporate America — those often were the most lethal. “You know I have a cabin on the Columbia?” he asked, and my stomach fell out. He was about to give me the salmon story.
“Sockeye are running this week,” he started. “The river was just boiling with fish. You don’t have to be an angler to land a twenty pounder, you just need a line and a hook and maybe not even that!”
“That’s terrific,” I commented but couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to match the word. “Must have been quite a time.”
Pat didn’t acknowledge my comment. There was a story to tell and by god he was going to tell it.
“My last day there I went off the main river and followed one of the feeders deep into the woods. I can’t tell you how far I hiked, must have been a few miles. I was exhausted like them sockeye in the river. We were one at that moment.”
“I bet,” I said.
“Onwards, I drove. And the deeper into the woods I went, the greater the number of sockeye that couldn’t make it grew. Remember, these beasts came from Alaska. It was the journey of a lifetime, thousands of miles. You’d see them in the eddies hiding in the shadows of the rocks. You figure they were resting, getting their bearings, but the majority were just giving up. Some didn’t have what it takes to make it. Quitters didn’t want to go on and finish the run.”
Pat looked up at me, and I knew exactly what he was talking about. The salmon run was his on-the-nose metaphor for our collective corporate careers. We were all on the journey from Alaska to the Puget Sound, into the mouth of the mighty Columbia, ten million strong. Up the river we went, promoting our way from one tributary to the next until the run has thinned to just a few, determined sockeye who would finally lay that retirement nest egg that ensures their stock will continue for future generations. Humans have an enduring capacity to attach grand meaning to meaningless things. What Pat neglected to say was that after the salmon lays its egg, it dies before it’s able to enjoy it.
Within the narrative of the Great Sockeye Run was a not-so-subtle message questioning my commitment. It was just the nature of things that anyone who made it to the finish line naturally believed everyone else sought what they fought so hard to get. And thus the idea that some people didn’t want that same glory was wholly unpalatable. He looked at me like I was one of those scared quitters circling peacefully in the cool, dark waters of the eddy until the game was over. And he couldn’t have been more accurate.
I never wanted the career. This salmon had wanted to turn back at the mouth of the Columbia. But at a certain point it becomes too late to retrace my steps. A modicum of competence had gotten me to a certain level, at which point I pulled off to the side of the great journey and bided my time. I was safe and happy and out of the spotlight until Bob Gershon retired. That changed everything. Suddenly, there was an opening in the department for a senior leader, and they wanted to see if I would go for it. I had no choice.
“I’m glad you stopped by, Pat.”
“Oh?”
“This morning I asked my admin to find some time on your calendar,” I lied.
“Is that right? What did you want to discuss?”
“Pat,” I said and choked down the faint taste of bile in the back of my throat, “I’m the man to run the group.”
A MAN AND HIS PIGS
Hector checked his watch with a slightly annoyed look as I approached the town car. I ignored him and gave the address for Sheila Lansing’s house in Pacoima.
We pulled onto the 101 and fell into a brisk 20 mph pace. My mind immediately went to the conversation with Pat. Now that I was committed to getting the lead role, I had to actually come up with some ideas to warrant giving it to me. Truth was I was drawing off a barren field.
I focused my efforts on the two great motivators — fear and greed. If I could find one of those things that could either get them to salivate or to soil their shorts, I would have no problem through the interview process. Do both at the same time and they’d be talking about director material. The problem was that there were so few fears left. Most had been eradicated from Corporate America — health issues associated with smoking, threats of lawsuits for discrimination and sexual harassment.
I knew what Paul, the perpetually-thin man who never worked out and loathed anyone above fifteen percent of their body mass index, would pitch. He’d pimp the noonday run-walks he organized which no one showed up to, weight loss seminars that always started out strong but suffered from attrition after only a few days, and one cockamamie idea that associates travelling between one or two floors were required to take the stairs.
In Paul’s defense, the medical costs associated with this small subset of people far exceeded the combined totals of the rest, and it wasn’t even close. But it always felt like there was something more to his fixation on this “terrible disease,” something that went far beyond the costs he could save the company. Every new idea was positioned with a false sense of concern — “these poor folks are really struggling and need our help” — that I never believed came from a genuine place. Of course, that could have been because I hadn’t had a fresh idea in ten years and was merely envious of the in-roads he could potentially make with senior management.
I was so wrapped up in my brainstorm session that I barely noticed we had pulled off the highway and had entered the residential neighborhoods of Pacoima. Hector navigated us through the bedroom community to a quiet street one block from the looming foothills.
The street was in the middle of a wholesale rejuvenation drawing largely off the well of young professionals new to the home ownership game. And while its youthful neighbors had fully embraced the home improvement movement, Sheila’s house stood out like a stalwart. It seemed content with its generic concrete driveway and occasionally-mowed crabgrass despite the yards around it displaying an elaborate design of river rock, succulents, and PVC fencing.
I rang the bell a few times but got no answer. A nosy neighbor working on a finicky sprinkler head called out to us. He wore an over-sized landscaper’s hat common among Mexican gardeners but the person underneath was very white.
“They’re not home,” he said.
I walked over to the fence that divided the lots.
“Do you know Sheila Lansing?”
“Sheila?” he repeated like the name was foreign to him. “Yeah, I know Sheila. But she doesn’t live here anymore. She moved into an elder care home about three years ago. No one takes care of the yard,” he said with remorse. “Such a shame. It could be a really nice house.”
“You don’t happen to know which home?”
He eyed me closely, but he eyed Hector even closer.