Get out

A new short story about work, coping, and not falling for the bullshit

By the time he reached his floor, he was late. Due to the commercially sensitive nature of the project the company was delivering, security had been tightened. It now took Z almost twenty minutes to process through in the morning, time he wasn’t paid for.

He stepped off the elevator. Narrowing his eyes against the twenty-four-seven argon fluorescence and hurried past the glass walls of the executive offices. Mr Voler, his boss, stared out at him through the transparent partition. He did not look happy. Then again, he never looked happy.

Z pretended he hadn’t seen Mr Voler, plunged into the rows of cubicles, their particleboard and compressed foam partitions helpfully covered in grey sound-dampening fabric. He kept his head down, avoiding the stares of his fellow cubicle occupants, focused instead on the grey pathway of helpfully sound-absorbing carpet that directed him towards his personal 2 x 2.5 metre workspace.

Photo by Igor Omilaev on Unsplash

He arrived at cubicle C0983, which he’d occupied for the last three-and-how-much-more-he-wasn’t-sure-anymore years and logged in. The display informed him that he was five minutes and twenty-two seconds late and that his pay would be suitably adjusted.

Z shrugged, took a sip of water from the plastic bottle he kept on his desk and opened the new project allocation software that management had brough in just two months ago. The launch had been a glitzy affair, buttressed by vague explanations that it would massively improve efficiency, make everyone’s job easier, and make the company a lot more money. The dashboard provided him helpful information on which tasks he was assigned for that day, and how long he had to complete them. After each task was finished, he could click and drag it into the completed pile, and a new task would take its place. As far as Z could tell it didn’t do anything the old system didn’t do, and the only difference was that everything now took slightly longer to complete. Accordingly, management had increased the number of tasks to be accomplished each day, in line with the claimed efficiencies. It was helpful though. And Z liked the colours of the tiles assigned to each of the task categories. Red for urgent, black for urgent and sensitive, orange for urgent, sensitive and high priority.

He worked through until early afternoon, steadily clicking through his tasks. By meeting time, he was well ahead of his quota for the day. He was excited about the meeting. He had been observing the way the new software processed and assigned tasks and had noticed that the system failed to recognise and correct for obvious inconsistencies, which resulted in overlap and needless duplication on the margins of congruent tasks. Over the weekend he’d worked out an algorithm that could be applied to increase efficiency by more than ten percent.

He was proud of the algorithm. Management had promised significant rewards for employees who leaned in, found ways of adding value, and showed they were team players. Mr Voler had a way with words.

The meeting room was set at the far end of the floor, next to Mr Voler’s office. The whole bank of rooms was walled in glass frosted to just below eye level. Z sat at the far end of the rectilinear meeting table, facing the view out onto the carpark. It was a big carpark. So big Z couldn’t see anything but carpark and cars and the light poles that lit the parking spaces including the one eighty-seven rows back where his small Chinese electric car of his dreams was parked, its charging cable tethered to the company charging port. The cost of the electricity was docked from his weekly pay.

Mister Voler was sitting at the head of the table when Z walked in. Mister Voler always arrived at the weekly meetings first to make sure he claimed the head seat, even though everyone knew that it was his seat. Mister Voler liked everyone to call him Hank, or HV which he liked even better. He liked it because he thought it gave him a more approachable vibe and helped him to believe that everyone liked him and thought he was a great boss. Z always called him Mister Voler.

Today Mister Voler was wearing his usual effortlessly urban cool black jeans and tight black company polo that showed off his barbell guns and creatine deltoids. His dark hair was swept back into the faintest stub of a ponytail and his clean-shaven face shone with newly applied collagen moisturiser. He was very handsome and he acted as if he was.

The last of the invited arrived and took their places. A tall and determinedly unattractive woman from processing who sniffed every twenty-eight seconds – Z timed her – and a young guy from accounts who seemed incapable of keeping his eyes open longer than five or six seconds. Once everyone was seated, Mr Voler looked around the room, making eye contact with each of his staff members in turn, longer for a favoured few, a brief glance for those on the out, his head the big hand on a malfunctioning clock. When he’d finished his circumnavigation he squared his tablet on the desk before him, set his stylus down parallel to its bottom edge, and opened the meeting.

‘Right everyone. You’ve seen the monthly figures. We’re tracking under target. We need to pivot, and pivot hard.’

Everyone sat and looked at each other.

Mr Voler pointed at sniffing woman. ‘What do you have?’

Each of the invited presented in turn. Some stood and went through formal PowerPoint decks with more or less oratory skill, others sat and mumbled out their ideas as if they were addressing the faux stone tabletop. After each presentation, Mister Voler scribed a few notes on his tablet and then said ‘next.’

A nod from Mr Voler signified that it was Z’s turn. Z stood, brought up a real-time image of his system screen on the big display at the front of the room and explained in a few short steps how the current algorithms failed to account for the lag and overlap between adjacent tasks, and showed how the system could be improved. Mister Voler’s eyes widened at Z’s mention of a ten percent efficiency gain and then narrowed again a second later.

‘Next time, don’t be late,’ he said.

Shifting his gaze to mid-table, Mr Voler said: ‘Okay everyone. We’ll circle back next week, touch base, and do a deep dive on the ideas that could be game-changers.’

That afternoon, a notification came through the system. It was one of Mr Voler’s detailed, overlong, AI-generated emails, curated to provide a folksy, inspirational leader’s tone of authenticity, while incorporating the company’s favourite claims and jargon. Z’s idea had been rejected.

By the time he logged out and made his way to the parking lot, it was already dark. A fine, acid-laden rain was falling. The traces it made through the xenon lamplight reminded him of the afterglow of luminescent algae he’d seen as a child swimming in the ocean at night. He hadn’t been to the ocean for a long time.

Fifty-three days now the rain had been coming, sometimes in a fine mist, others in a downpour like the ones he’d seen when he’d worked in the tropics for a year. He weaved across the carpark, choosing a route around the deepest of the lakes and snaking rivers that had gradually established themselves in the carpark.

By the time he reached his car his shoes were soaked. He started the car, selected home on the navigation system, and checked his messages. Licence renewal overdue. The nursing home where his Alzheimer’s father was slowly dying informing him of an impending rate increase. Robert, his friend since high-school asking him to call. He instructed Siri to dial Robert.

‘Hi mate. Thanks for calling back.’ Robert’s voice reassuring, steady as always. A successful lawyer. Wife and two kids. Nice house in the third-nicest suburb in the city.

‘What’s up?’

‘Come over. I need to talk to you.’ Something shook in the last two words.

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘Okay. See you in half an hour.’

‘Good.’

‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, fine. Just come over, okay? I need to talk to you.’

‘Yeah, sure. See you soon.’

The click. ‘What the fuck,’ Z said to the empty car.

The freeway was clogged and it took him over an hour to get to Robert’s. The pinhole in his stomach that had opened when his friend’s voice wavered in a way Z had never heard before was now the size of a drainpipe. And what was oozing through was dark.

He shut down the car and ran through the rain to the front door, knocked. Robert answered almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting for him.

‘Thanks for coming.’ His eyes were red. If Z didn’t know him better, he’d say he’d been crying, and recently.

‘You look good,’ said Z.

Robert grunted something and led him down into the basement. He sat in his favourite armchair and Z sat on the couch facing him. Four empty beers on the table, the football on the TV.

‘Jane and the kids are out at something. You want a beer?’

‘Trying to stay dry for a while.’

Robert shrugged and opened another bottle.

‘What’s up, Robert?’

‘I’m worried about you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Why do you sound so surprised?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re a worrier.’

‘Me?’

Robert took a swig of his beer. ‘Anyway, I’m worried about you. You still doing that activism stuff?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Doing any good?’

‘Look around. What do you think?’

‘Not much.’

‘What can you do?’

‘So why are you still working at that shitty job?’

‘I’m helping to keep the economy strong. What’s your excuse?’

‘I’m not sure I know anymore.’

‘So.’

‘So.’

Robert held his bottle up to his face, stared at it. ‘Ever think you were born in the wrong time? Like you could have been so much more?’

‘Nope.’

‘They’re taking everything away from us, Zed. That’s what people need to understand.’

Z nodded, listened. He’d heard this before. Robert’s steadily developing view that the oligarchy, as he called it, were no longer satisfied with owning all the capital, they were going after the labour now, too. The age-old tension between the domains was dissolving as robotics and machines replaced people’s physical labour and artificial intelligence supplanted their intellectual input.

‘Think about it,’ Robert said. ‘The entire economy becomes theirs. Every fucking last thing. And they won’t be satisfied until they have it. If we’re lucky, the rest of us may eventually get a small, guaranteed income for doing fuck all, but they, they will become modern day Pharaohs. Marx would have been appalled.’

Robert finished his beer and set it on the floor by the side of his armchair. Then he reached behind his back and pulled out a handgun. It was black and plastic looking.

‘That’s why I’ve got this,’ he said. ‘They come for me, I’m ready.’

They talked for another half-hour about the usual stuff they talked about when they got together and hugged at the door when Z left. Whatever Robert had wanted to tell him when they spoke on the phone must not have been important enough to bring up.

That weekend Z stayed in and skipped going to the gym and watched old movies and ordered takeout Chinese from the place down the street. He didn’t bother leaning in.

At the following week’s management meeting, Z didn’t have an idea to present but Mr Voler asked him to come along anyway. He got to work on time, logged in, and walked to the meeting room. When he entered, Mr Voler and the Vice-President were already there. The VP, a youngish woman of colour, as she liked to be called, was sitting at the head of the table. Mr Voler was on her immediate right. His freshly oiled hair was pulled back very tight across his scalp. It made him look as if he’d just had a facelift. No one else was in the room.

‘Sit down and close the door,’ said Mr Voler.

Z sat.

‘You’re being let go,’ said Mr Voler. ‘You are being given a month’s notice.’

Z sat a moment and stared out at the carpark and the lakes and rivers and the rain falling in angled sheets that wandered over the rows of white and grey cars. ‘May I ask why?’

‘You are surplus to current requirements,’ said Mr Voler. ‘You have been replaced.’

‘Yeah. By whom, if I may ask?’

‘It’s who, idiot.’

‘What?’

‘Not whom.’ Mister Voler laughed, looked at the VP. ‘Who even says whom?’

‘It’s called grammar.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Mr Voler.

‘We thank you for your service,’ said the VP, interjecting. She had a pleasant, songlike voice. ‘Please avail yourself of the counselling services through the employee assistance program. It’s free of charge.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Z. ‘Very generous of you. But you didn’t answer my question.’

Mr Voler looked at the VP who nodded.

‘We are implementing a new AI-enabled system. It will do the job better than people can, at a fraction of the cost.’

‘Better for the bottom line,’ said the VP.

‘Of course.’ Z stood. ‘Well, I wish you luck. You’re next.’

Mr Voler frowned. ‘I don’t think so. You see, we have something you don’t.’ He glanced over at the VP again. ‘We have people skills. You know. Emotional intelligence.’

‘You sure do, Mr Voler. That’s what we all say, on the floor out there. Boy oh boy, Mr Voler sure has emotional intelligence.’

The VP tried to kill a smile, failed. ‘Hank has come up with a new algorithm to improve efficiency,’ she said. ‘He’s been promoted.’

Mr Voler squirmed.

‘Has he? Well, I bet it works great. Ten percent increase in efficiency will be good for the bottom line. Isn’t’ that right, Hank?’

‘We expect you to work your severance,’ said Mr Voler, mouth set in a hard line. ‘You need to transfer all your learnings to the new system.’

‘You want me to train the AI.’

‘That’s what I said.’ Mr Voler glanced at his boss. ‘You and myself can take this offline.’

‘I’ll consider it.’

Z left Mr Voler and the VP in the meeting room without being dismissed and walked through the parking lot. It was still raining. He messaged Robert could he come over and got a thumbs up soon after. He drove there with wet feet. Robert greeted him at the door. He was wearing the same shirt and jeans that he’d seen in him in the week before. Jane and the kids were out again.

‘I’ve been sacked,’ said Z, this time accepting the offer of a beer.

‘Fuckers. It’s like I said.’

‘Yeah. Marx was right. Just not in the way he thought.’

‘You okay?’

‘Not sure I like the idea of sticking around to train the artificial brain.’

‘You should come hiking with us this weekend. Get out of the city. Come with us. We’re going to the mountains. It’ll be wet, but at least we’ll get some clean air, maybe see some snow.’

‘Can’t,’ said Z. ‘Maybe next time. Gotta go see my dad.’

‘How is he?’

‘Other than being a vegetable, great.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. He’s happy as shit. Completely clueless. I figure Alzheimer’s is pretty much today’s antidote to reality.’

Robert nodded, opened two more beers. ‘You should just quit. Fuck the machine.’

‘Maybe I will.’

‘You should.’

‘You’re right. Fuck them all.’

‘Fuck ‘em.’

That weekend Z didn’t go to the mountains. He didn’t see his father. He hadn’t seen him for years and was pretty sure he would never see him again. Monday morning, he showed up at work as usual, on time. He got off the elevator and walked past Mr Voler’s office. But Mr Voler was not in his office. His name had been removed from the door. Z walked to his cubicle, logged in. There was a brief notification from the VP. Mr Voler had chosen to pursue other interests and was no longer with the company. He was thanked for his loyal service. His role would not be replaced.

Z logged in to his assigned training task, worked at it through mid-morning. At 11:13 his personal phone rang. It was Robert’s wife. He picked up. Jane’s voice was hushed, laced with sobs. Z listened. She didn’t speak for long. Just a few words. Robert had told her on Saturday that he hadn’t worked for over a month, that he’d been laid off from the firm he’d given twenty years’ service to. She’d taken the kids to her mother’s on Sunday morning. When she got home, she found Robert in the basement, lying in a pool of blood. She asked Z not to share the news with anyone. She’d called him because in the note Robert left he’d asked her to.

‘Get out, was all he asked me to tell you,’ she said. ‘Just that. Get out.’

Z closed his phone and stood and walked to the elevator and rode it down. He swiped through the gates and stepped outside. It was still raining, but in the distance he could see a warmth of sun shining through and far off a glimpse of snow on the mountains. He hadn’t seen that for a long time.