Survival Job
Once everyone had settled into their seats, a man stepped up to the lectern at the front of the conference room. Behind him, a PowerPoint slide with the AllGo corporate colors and a whimsical font indicated that his name was Mr. Dudley. Exhibit B was the name “Mr. Dudley” stitched onto the left breast of his AllGo branded golf shirt. Barring new evidence to the contrary, it was a good bet that this guy’s name was Mr. Dudley.
“Good evening,” said Mr. Dudley. “My name is Mr. Dudley.”
Anne sighed. Five minutes in, and this was already taking forever.
An all night seminar directly on the heels of a 10-7 shift would’ve easily been the worst part of her day, if not for the fact that Anne had been evicted from her basement apartment earlier that morning. In a small saving grace, the bread truck she drove (a relic from her family’s now-defunct bakery) turned out to be big enough to hold all the art supplies she had amassed over the years. Thinking about the beloved tools of her preferred trade - a chaotic collection of paints, plasters, palette knives, power saws, rolls of paper, coils of rope, jugs of darkroom and etching chemicals - just sitting there in the AllGo parking lot pushed Anne’s heart deep into the pit of her stomach. She really did not want to be here.
For a time, Anne had been able to make a living as a freelance artist, but in the age of the smartphone and Google images and AI, the demand for original art had cratered. In an effort to extract herself from the wreckage, Anne had reluctantly taken a job at an AllGo warehouse (“All the things you need…to go!”) picking and packing the never-ending stream of online orders that had made the e-retail giant bigger than US Steel. Anne hit her numbers comfortably and flew mostly under the radar of the various managers, associate managers, supervising managers and other sundry tablet jockeys that prowled the sprawling warehouse floor on their AllGo branded Segway scooters. The job didn’t pay enough, but she had managed to stay afloat, at least until that morning.
In a twist of timing both hilarious and depressing, a newly-unhoused Anne had arrived at AllGo to find that her commitment to invisibility had somehow gotten her flagged as potential management material. “You couldn’t pay me to sit through one of those awful training seminars,” Anne thought when she read the notice….then she read the part about getting paid double-time and ruefully recanted.
Three other people in golf shirts that matched Mr. Dudley’s (name on the left breast, AllGo logo on the right, pique knit performance fabric for the ultimate in both fit and breathability) stood off to one side of the lectern, next to a frosted floor-to-ceiling window that ran the length of the large conference room. Anne had never seen these people before and since they didn’t even rate a PowerPoint slide, she gave herself the little treat of ignoring them.
She had seen all seven of her fellow management candidates around the warehouse, though - in particular the tall, skinny guy with the crooked smile who somehow managed to make the reflective safety vest and dorky lifting belt he wore for back support look kind of cool. If they were allowed a break at some point tonight, Anne thought that maybe she’d finally introduce herself. At this point, what did she have to lose?
“Now, most workplace activations like this one open up with some kind of cringey icebreaker that everybody dreads,” said Mr. Dudley.
Anne knew a setup when she heard one.
“…so let’s get started with ours!”
Anne thought she heard a muffled “oof” from Crooked Smile’s direction, but it was quickly drowned out by Mr. Dudley and the other Golf Shirts howling like they were front row center for Steve Martin at the Universal Amphitheatre in 1978.
“This icebreaker,” Mr. Dudley said, “is called ‘Build a Shake.’ You’ll break up into pairs to create a fun secret handshake. The team with the coolest shake gets to pick where we order our midnight snack, anyplace you want.”
As everyone got to their feet and started to partner up, Anne’s breath quickened when she noticed Crooked Smile making a beeline towards her.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m Matt.”
“Anne,” said Anne.
“We should probably get cracking,” said Matt. “Not to judge books by their covers, but some of these people look like they’re capable of picking Quiznos.”
Anne laughed out loud, for the first time in a while.
The icebreaker was indeed cringey, but damn if it didn’t actually break the ice. As they worked on their handshake, Matt’s easy nature and the way he pressed his calloused palms into hers gave Anne a warm, fluttery feeling in her stomach.
“When Mr. Dudley sees our shake,” she said, “he’s gonna be glad he stopped by after shooting that toothpaste commercial and before leaving to shoot the one for self-tanner.”
“Stop being funny,” Matt laughed. “If they find out we’ve got personalities, we’ll never get promoted.”
With the votes tabulated, Anne and Matt’s handshake was deemed the coolest and they chose La Fogata, the best Mexican place in town. Crazy good guacamole.
“Now that we’ve had a little fun, let’s talk a little shop,” said Mr. Dudley. “I think we can all agree that there’s real dignity in a good day’s work. And here at AllGo, it’s about even more than that.”
He advanced the PowerPoint to reveal a slide of AllGo’s billionaire CEO John Winthrop holding a golden shovel at some kind of groundbreaking ceremony. Winthrop was staring right down the barrel of the camera, with his eyes a little too wide and his smile a little too broad. You wouldn’t call him bad looking per se, but Winthrop definitely had that free-floating weirdness that often attaches itself to the ultrawealthy.
“When Mr. Winthrop founded AllGo,” continued Mr. Dudley, "it was with the belief that every human being has a calling. That we were each put here on earth to serve a purpose, and to ignore or defy one’s purpose was to travel a very treacherous road indeed.”
Anne couldn’t help but think about her truck full of art supplies in the parking lot, and how traveling that road had led her to this conference room. The notion that she might have been put on earth to pack boxes for a company that would mail you anything from dish soap to dildos was not a pleasant one.
“So tonight, we’re going to take a little field trip,” said Mr. Dudley. “Each of you is going to have the opportunity to teach us about your purpose in the warehouse. We’ll learn how each of us fits into the master plan, then head back here for our midnight snack.”
The field trip was every bit as interesting as you might expect. At one point, Matt feigned passing out from boredom, clunking his head onto Anne’s shoulder and quietly snoring in her ear. His shampoo smelled like almonds, which she really liked.
As the tour stretched into its second thrilling hour, Anne noticed something.
“Hey,” she said to the woman who had just shown them how AllGo handled returns and exchanges. “What happened to your handshake partner?”
“Oh yeah,” said Matt. “The guy in the New Jersey Devils hat.”
“I think he went home,” said Returns and Exchanges.
“Dang,” said Matt. “The night is young and we’ve already got our first casualty.”
“No great loss,” said Returns and Exchanges. “I don’t know what he was doing here in the first place. You saw our handshake, it sucked.”
Eventually, they completed the circuit of all seven of their work stations – Devils Hat Guy having had the decency to bail before giving his presentation – and returned to the conference room. The now aptly named midnight snack had been sitting for a little while, but the guacamole was still amazing. Mr. Dudley strolled by the small table where Anne and Matt were eating, and Anne stopped him. “Didn’t you guys order anything?”
“That’s very thoughtful of you to ask, Anne. But don’t worry about us…we’ll have our snack break in a bit.” Continuing on to the front of the room, Mr. Dudley addressed the group. “It’s nice to share a meal with your community, isn’t it? As you know, we’re big on community here at AllGo. Like a jigsaw puzzle, we can make something beautiful when we all fit together.”
“When I was a kid,” Matt whispered to Anne, “my grandmother had a jigsaw puzzle that made a picture of a bunch of different kinds of toilets.” Anne actually snorted at this, but covered it up with a brief coughing fit well enough that Mr. Dudley didn’t seem to notice.
“At the management level,” he continued, “this idea of community becomes even more important. You’re here tonight because we think you have certain gifts. And we want to absorb those gifts into our management team to repay Mr. Winthrop for the many blessings he has bestowed upon us.”
Anne's brow furrowed. “Looks like the midnight snack comes with a glass of Kool-Aid,” she whispered to Matt. But the vibe in the room had shifted, and neither of them felt like laughing anymore.
“An opportunity like this is rare,” Mr. Dudley continued. “It requires that you expel all other distractions from your hearts and minds…but I think you’ll find it’s worth the sacrifice. Sharon, would you join me up here, please?”
With a gasp of excitement, Returns and Exchanges made haste to the front of the room.
“Sharon,” said Mr. Dudley, “tonight you’ve shown us exactly what we’re looking for. Would you like to continue on the management track?”
“Absolutely,” beamed Sharon.
“That’s terrific,” said Mr. Dudley.
Snapping his jaw wide open at the hinge, Mr. Dudley sank his teeth deep into Sharon’s skull, shearing off the crown of her head with an ungodly cracking sound that Anne knew would never fully leave her ears. Slurping out a chunk of Sharon’s brain with his tongue, Mr. Dudley let out a high-pitched, gurgling shriek. The other Golf Shirts, responding to the invitation, lunged forward as one and, like a pack of khaki-clad wolves, began to feast on the insides of Sharon’s head.
Time stopped. Anne was paralyzed, first with sheer terror, then by the realization that the bloodbath she was witnessing was obstructing the only door out of the conference room. In a fog, she felt Matt’s hands on her shoulders, moving her behind the protection of his narrow frame. Anne could only watch as he tightened the Velcro on his back brace, effected a stable posture and, lifting smoothly with his legs, heaved their table through the glass wall of the conference room, leaving a gaping hole in its wake.
Matt grabbed Anne’s hand and they leapt through together, only to immediately lose their footing and tumble to the floor in a pool of broken glass and slippery Mexican food. But hadn’t they eaten most of the food? Anne was wondering what else could have been so slippery when she noticed the blood-soaked New Jersey Devils hat alongside what little remained of its owner.
“As you can see,” said Mr. Dudley, “you don’t have to continue on the management track if you don’t want to.”
As they clambered to their feet, Anne watched in horror as Mr. Dudley pulled an AllGo branded golf shirt with “Ms. Kaufman” stitched on the left breast over what was left of Sharon’s head. As the shirt came to rest on her shoulders, a new head emerged from the neckhole. It was Sharon’s head, intact again, but…different somehow. Looking around the room, she blinked a few times, like a newborn.
“You have been purged of all that holds no holy purpose. What remains are the gifts you give to AllGo,” Mr. Dudley said, turning now to address the group. “It is my great privilege to announce that Sharon is no longer with the company. Welcome aboard, Ms. Kaufman!”
She shook his hand, the normal way. The time for fun, secret handshakes was pretty clearly over.
“Thank you for this opportunity,” said Ms. Kaufman. “I won’t let Mr. Winthrop down.”
One of the previously catatonic warehouse people let out a long-overdue wail of terror and hopelessness before collapsing into a sobbing heap.
“I’m sensing that some of you are still on the fence,” said Mr. Dudley, dabbing at the gore and gristle dripping from the corners of his mouth. “What if I told you that in addition to a generous increase in salary, management team members receive a 401k match, 10 additional PTO days per year, and full health, dental and vision insurance for you and your dependents…with no deductible?”
Drowning in a tidal wave of irreparable psychic and emotional damage, the survivors could only weigh their options: a grisly death, or a grisly death followed by a quick rebirth and a pretty nice chunk of vacation time? One by one, resigned to their fate, they formed an orderly line to the front of the room where Mr. Dudley and the other Golf Shirts set about "promoting" them.
Except for Anne and Matt, who ran like hell.
Crouched in a corner of the warehouse out of view from the security cameras, Anne struggled to process what had been, on balance, a pretty upsetting evening. Matt put his steadying hands on her shoulders.
“Do you have a car?” he asked.
“I have a truck,” she replied. “But it’s not exactly suited for a fast getaway.”
“It’s faster than my bike. Go get it, ” said Matt. “I’ll stay behind and distract them.”
“Distract them from eating your brain?” she asked. “How do you propose to do that?”
“I know this place better than any manager,” said Matt. “They’ll never catch me.”
“Fine,” said Anne. “Just stay safe as long as you can, and meet me at the south side loading docks. I’m way the hell over in Lot H, so I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”
“I don’t know,” said Matt. “I don’t usually give out my number on the first date.”
She looked at him like he was out of his mind.
“Give me your phone, dumbass,” he said.
He punched in his number and got to his feet.
“Wait!” hissed Anne, standing up beside him.
“What?” said Matt.
“Here’s something I don’t usually do on the first date,” she said, grabbing his face with both hands.
She kissed him, and he kissed her back. And you know it had to be good, because they did not have time for this.
Eventually they parted and, crooked smile firmly in place, Matt slipped away into the darkness of the warehouse. Once Anne finally lost sight of him, she beat feet to Lot H.
The bread truck screeched to a halt at the loading dock and to Anne’s immense relief, Matt leapt out of the shadows to join her. Flinging open the passenger door, he suddenly found himself ankle deep in art supplies.
“Oh shit,” said Anne. “Let me make some room.”
She scrambled out over the passenger seat and started gathering up the stuff that had clattered to the ground.
“This is what happens when you don’t expel all your distractions,” said Matt.
“Great tip. Thanks, Mr. Dudley,” Anne said, with an exaggerated smile. But Matt didn’t smile back.
Ice filled Anne’s veins. “Oh no,” she thought. “Please, no.” Trying desperately to steady the tremble in her hands, Anne grabbed his reflective vest and yanked it open. Underneath was an AllGo branded golf shirt. Her heart sank.
“What’s the problem?” asked Matt. “It’s a very high-quality garment.”
“Do our handshake,” she said.
“They’ll be here any second,” he replied.
“Matt. Do. Our fucking. Handshake.”
He shook her hand.
The normal way.
As Matt’s jaw snapped open to an impossibly wide angle, Anne stumbled backwards in fear and landed hard in a pile of art supplies. Matt pounced on her, pinning her to the ground. Cocking his head back, he let out an ear-piercing shriek, which is when Anne slit his throat with her Japanese pull saw, a fine woodworking tool she used to ensure cleaner cuts than a circular saw.
As she clambered out from under the weight of his lifeless body, the other Golf Shirts – Mr. Dudley and the new hires included – appeared from nowhere on a fleet of Segways and surrounded the bread truck. Anne scrambled inside and slammed the door behind her. Unsure of what to do next, the Golf Shirts turned to their boss for guidance.
“She doesn’t seem interested in the management track,” said Mr. Dudley.
The Golf Shirts swarmed the bread truck, but before they could overwhelm it, Anne kicked open the back doors and leapt to the ground, dousing one of them with acetic acid, a toxic chemical that halts the photo developing process. Another Golf Shirt got a spinning angle grinder, which would normally be used to cut sheet metal for sculpting, to the chest. She sliced open the eyeballs of a third with a pair of utility knives that had only ever cut linoleum blocks and jammed two leatherworking awls deep into the ears of a fourth.
One by one the Golf Shirts fell, each surviving manager growing a little weaker as Anne lost herself in the act of creation, painting a life size mural of violence and butchery all over the canvas of the loading dock. Soon only Mr. Dudley was left, fully depleted by the loss of his minions and barely able to stand under his own power.
Anne cranked up the small gas-fired kiln she used for glass and ceramics work and, crouching next to the heap of what used to be Matt, she grabbed his golf shirt by the neck and tore it off in one pull. Goddamnit…he had a pretty solid set of abs under there. What a waste.
With the kiln approaching full heat, Anne dunked Matt’s golf shirt into a can of paint thinner and draped it atop the kiln, where it began to smolder and crackle. Pulling on her welder’s gloves, Anne picked up the glowing orange kiln and wedged it onto one of the abandoned Segways, which she then pointed in Mr. Dudley’s direction.
“I guess I’m just not management material,” said Anne, releasing the Segway’s handbrake. “In fact, I think I fucking quit.”
The Segway rolled jauntily towards Mr. Dudley, catching him chest high and carrying him back into the depths of the darkened warehouse. With the efficiency of a skilled warehouse picker/packer, Anne managed to shovel all her tools back into the bread truck before the first explosion.
As day broke, Anne watched at a distance from the safety of the bread truck as the firefighters knocked down the last of the flames. Much to her relief, no Segways had come rolling out of the smoldering wreckage. Who knew if these weirdos could regenerate like Jason Voorhees or multiply like the Gremlins or whatever?
The press showed up not long after, and were rewarded with an in-person appearance by John Winthrop himself. The great man was thanking the first responders when the guy from Channel 11 shoved his way past the crews from the other media outlets, many of which were owned by Winthrop himself.
“We have a source who tells us that all the affected workers will continue to receive full salary and benefits until the warehouse can be made safe again. Can you confirm?”
Winthrop’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. After a beat, he replied “Yes. Yes, of course. Community is everything at AllGo.”
There was actual applause from the crowd, and Anne congratulated herself for pulling off the most frictionless negotiation in the history of the labor movement with a single anonymous phone call.
“Now I certainly hope this unfortunate incident won’t distract from all the great things happening at our newest warehouse down in Oakport,” said Winthrop. “In fact, I’m headed there right now to see for myself – and you’re all invited to join me!”
That really seemed to get the crowd going, and the complimentary AllGo frisbees and beer koozies sure didn’t hurt. Anne sat in silence, realizing that she had no idea what to do next. She watched Winthrop gladhand his way out of the crowd and, as they dispersed, she noticed for the first time that he was wearing a very familiar golf shirt.
“Goddamnit,” she said.
Anne typed “Oakport” into the Maps app on her phone and steered the bread truck out of the parking lot towards the interstate.
About the Author
Ben Zelevansky is a two-time Emmy Award winner and one-time Writers Guild Award loser whose work has been performed by such luminaries as Martin Short, Robin Williams, Laraine Newman, Andrea Martin, Patton Oswalt, Marc Maron, Paul F. Tompkins and the Garbage Pail Kids.
Ben has also appeared as an actor on shows like Parks and Recreation, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, The Goldbergs and St. Denis Medical, which was a lot more fun because they have people who do the writing for you.
Read more of Ben's Deathbed stories.
Image Credits
Photos courtesy of the author.
