As Scheduled

Gary looked again at the scheduler on his computer monitor. It had not changed in the ten minutes since he’d opened it. They were still the same scheduled appointments for this afternoon as they had been earlier this morning. He knew that and preferred it that way. Scheduled it that way.

Gary execrated even the smallest of emergencies. A stickler for details, he planned for every contingency he could think of. His wife — ex-wife as of a week ago — accused him of having to know the color of the toilet paper before buying tickets on an airline. Though not quite that bad, he knew there was some truth to those sentiments. He liked to be prepared.

His compulsive preparation and attention to detail had served him well. He had rapidly moved up through the ranks at Circuit City. In a few short years he had been promoted from lowly, part-time sales clerk to store manager and finally district manager just last month. There had been brief stops along the way as floor lead, department head and three or four other titles and positions he could no longer remember. His first wife had left him somewhere between his move to full time and the subsequent promotion to department head.

He hated Mondays. In the early days of his management career Mondays were “Moanin’ Days”. Once a month on a Monday, as he made his way through the store to his office, he would point to an employee at random.

“You’re fired.”

Of course, they had never been at random. He was always prepared. He always had numbers and reasons to back up his actions if it ever came to that. He was never asked for his reasons. Along the way he had out gunned, out guessed, out manuevered and out sold all his competition. He was good. He knew it; the company knew it, and had rewarded him for it.

Each new promotion, each new title, brought an upswing in luxury vehicles, bigger alimony checks, more expensive suits and better scotch. This last one included an ulcer. There was more stress, more unproductive meetings to attend. His blood pressure had gone up even if the numbers from his three stores had not.

His job and his enjoyment had also changed with this latest promotion. A position he had coveted, true, but it left him no time to sell anything. Instead he made buying decisions, scheduling decisions. Hiring, firing, meeting decisions. He had recently developed a hatred for flying. Ride the SuperShuttle. Stand in line. Wait. Fly with idiots! The whole rental car, hotel room, living out of a suitcase life was killing him. He had taken two cross-country trips a week for the last four weeks for further district manager training. Some over-promoted moron had decided that Tuesdays and Saturdays were good training days for the new district managers. Idiot!

This morning had been the worst he could remember in years. He had the kids this week which meant the added hassle of getting two teenagers up in the morning and constantly reminding them to hurry so he could drop them off on his way into work. Today, not only had the fucking dog shit on the floor but his daughter — a senior in high school who damn well ought to know better — had forgotten a notebook. The result? He had to turn around and waste goddamn valuable minutes searching through the mess in her bedroom to locate the errant notebook.

After finding it, he drove back to the school and had to stand in line at the office waiting for the secretary to get off the goddamn phone long enough to find out whom he was delivering the notebook to. And why the hell did they need a goddamn student ID number?

He had wanted to shout “Just look up the name on the computer and call her to come get the fucking notebook, lady! Do I have to think for you, too?”

Somehow, he managed to spill his coffee in his lap on the way into work. His first scheduled appointment of the day had been a new hire that didn’t know shit from shinola about selling anything. The kid had looked like he hadn’t had a haircut in 6 months and this obviously would have been the first time in his life he had worn a tie — if he’d chosen to wear one.

“Get the hell out of my office,” Gary had said, not two minutes into the interview. “Go tell the store manager that hired you that I don’t think you’re qualified to work here. Never mind. I’ll tell him. Get the hell out of my office.”

Now, here he was, 10 minutes before his first appointment of the afternoon after a lunch that for some reason didn’t taste right. The scheduler showed six more interviews to get through before he had to leave for the day. Then there was a little league baseball game to attend for his son. After that, at 6:30 p.m. according to the scheduler, his oldest daughter and her idiot, north-end-of-a-south-going-jackass husband were meeting he and the other two kids for dinner.

An incessant, insistent light blinked on the phone on his desk, an obvious indication there was a call waiting for him.

He jabbed a finger at the “Answer” button more to interrupt the offending light than to answer the call.

“Reynolds”, he spat into handset as he snatched it from the cradle.

“Yes, sir. Well, the numbers obviously aren’t where I’d like them to be, either, sir.”

“Yes, sir. Saturday of this week is already scheduled for more training. I’ll be flying out Friday evening, sir.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see you then.”

“Goddamn stupid idiot bosses! Can’t he understand I am doing the freakin’ best that I can here?

“‘Your numbers are down from last year’, he says. Well no shitake mushroom Sherlock Holmes! We've got a recession on our hands here. Or didn’t you notice that in your cushy office with your guaranteed salary and nothing to do all day but sit on your fucking ass on the phone hasselin’ us little guys?

He punched another button on the phone.

“Linda, I’m going next door to grab a cup of coffee. If the one o’clock shows up at all, tell him or her or it to just be patient and wait.”

He logged out without waiting for her response.

When he returned, the scheduler still said 10 minutes till 1:00. Impossible! It must’ve hung.

Click.

Click.

Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclikclickclick. Dammit! Close. Clickclick.

Still the scheduler was opened. He looked for an open dialogue box, just to make sure he wasn’'t missing something. Must be the whole machine had locked up. Reboot.

“Clear!”

Thump! A body — his body crashed back on the table.

“I’m calling it,” the ER doctor said. “It’s been almost 10 minutes. Some of them just can’t be saved. Well, folks, I’m outta here — golf game scheduled in less than an hour.”