REGARDING MY
JOB DESCRIPTION.
- - - -
Ken,
When you brought me on board the company's crisis-management team, I was excited and enthusiastic. After six years toiling as an underling putting together press packets, I finally would get to use the skills I developed with my communications degree and media-training courses. And at a Fortune 500 company! I was feeling pretty important when you said my main role would be "putting out various fires."
I just didn't know you meant it literally.
Call me spoiled, but I expected to be issuing press statements and getting out front of negative stories, not following a pyromaniac around with an extinguisher trying to nip things in the bud before the sprinklers go off. The only skill I'm developing now is pulling out extinguisher pins with my teeth and recognizing at a glance whether it's a Class A or Class C blaze. The only damage control I perform is closing the fire door.
I don't care if Clayton is the CEO's favorite nephew. His proclivity, as you like to call it, is going to get us in trouble. I thought someone with your business sense would know that nepotism in any form is a bad idea, but especially when the beneficiary is (1) a serial arsonist and (2) incredibly lazy. I asked him, "Why can't you be the kind of arsonist who sets a fire and then 'discovers' it so you can put it out and be the hero?" He said it sounded like too much work.
I should have turned around and walked out on my first day, when H.R. issued me Kevlar gloves along with my ID card. And then Clayton buttonholed me in the hallway and started ranting about the price of napalm and how Firestarter was "the most kick-ass movie of the '80s." It wasn't two hours later that I walked into the copier room and saw the flames coming out of the wastebasket and Clayton sitting on the counter with that frat-boy grin. (I understand now it's the feeling of euphoria they all get when they've scratched the itch.)
Then it was the lunchroom, the conference room, and the ladies' room (nice touch), all before 5 o'clock. Every day since then has been more of the same. I do my best and ask others to keep an eye out, but he's gotten so good at it that we're averaging two to three full-fledged incidents (alarm, evacuation, feeble explanation to the fire department) per week. It's like the sports cliché: You can't stop him, you can only try to contain him.
It's really starting to impact everyone's work. When he torched Sheila's desk Thursday, we lost vital documents relating to the LexCon closing (as well as my birthday card that everyone had signed, which pisses me off to no end, but never mind) and were set back several weeks.
This would be bad enough if we could keep things in-house. But, as you know, Clayton has broadened his horizons. This city is his oyster. You warned me in the job interview that I might have some late nights, but I never thought they would involve listening to my police radio at 1 a.m. to see if our boy has struck again. Every time I hear a fire called in, my stomach goes into knots and I drive to the address knowing he's probably behind it.
And he's starting to get sloppy. On Monday night, I found him gawking at the fire at that landmarked building. (You probably read about it in the paper.) I thought we were both going to jail when that police dog sniffed Clayton's pant leg and sat down in front of him. Doesn't he know the cops always check bystanders for traces of accelerant? How hard is it to change clothes and take a shower? Lazy ass. (Thank God the police chief is in our pocket.)
This is headed for a public-relations disaster unless we take a drastic measure. So I suggest you finally let me do what I thought I was hired for: making messes go away. I think you'll agree it's an elegant stroke.
I'll casually mention to Clayton the existence of a storage room in the subbasement that's stuffed with paper, blankets, floor polish, and paint thinner. I'll make sure the room is primed for his arrival. (I suggest you use this opportunity to dump there any problematic documents that might have to be produced in a lawsuit. Why not kill two birds with one stone?) He'll go in there, but he won't come out.
Then we milk the publicity: Horrible company tragedy, sympathy for us from the shareholders and press, etc. I'll have a bio of Clayton ready for the papers—what a team player he was, his puckish sense of humor, so unassuming that nobody knew of the family connection, and we're starting a scholarship in his honor.
In fact, with a little finessing, I think I can pitch this to Business Week.
- - - -
Jim Stallard's
Other Features.
- - - -
OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
- - - -
Regarding My Job Description By Jim Stallard
Black History Month: An Objective Perspective By the Assimilated Negro
The Modern Girl's Guide to Curing ... By Mike Benner
Lowlights From My Failed Hidden-Camera Show By Frank Ferri
Romeo and Juliet Flynn, the Sophomore Squad's Head Cheerleader By J.P. Lacrampe
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