The Firing Line

Sheldon Keeler, manager of the home products division, kept himself in conference-readiness at all times; Walford Company meetings were liable to be called any time and any place. Even the building elevators weren't sanctuary; as he stepped into the up car on Wednesday morning, Cliff Bowles, the personnel VP, was waiting for him. Bowles had large, nervous hands; when he lit a cigarette, he held his elbows tightly against his sides. "Had a powwow last night," he said. "One of your guys got kicked around, Shel."

"Oh?" Keeler said. "Who would that be?"

"Might as well tell you now. Macauley's out. Not pulling his weight. Appreciate it if you'd tell him."

"Certainly," Keeler said, trying to isolate the face out of the sixty-seven in his department, and failing. "Want me to do it today?"

"No, better wait until Friday. Late-ish. Not good policy, having discharged employees hanging around, grumbling."

Keeler chuckled, but he wasn't amused. It wouldn't be the first time he had been handed the duty of wielding the departmental ax, but he didn't find the task particularly agreeable. Sometimes, there were unpleasant scenes when he told a man he was through; even the carefully worded company bulletin (256. Informing a Walford Employee of His Discharge) wasn't much help when the victim turned emotional.

"Will do, " he said. "Friday it is."

By the time Keeler reached his office, he was feeling a vague sense of chagrin. The last three discharges in his department had been subject to his ratification or veto; naturally, he had agreed, since Personnel were the experts. This time, however, the decision had been downright unilateral. He enjoyed a moment of righteous outrage, and during his coffee break, joshed (concluded on page 157) Firing Line (continued from page 77) with a subordinate about "soulles corporations." The subordinate, a promotion writer named Delman, chimed in a little too heartily and Keeler became worried.

"Well, it's all right to kid about it," he said gruffly. "But a big company's like an army. You got to give Walford credit. No grass grows around here."

"And no flowers, either," Delman said sadly. "When he left, Keeler frowned after him and made a mental note about Delman.

He thought enough of his repartee to repeat it at lunch in the private dining room. "You're damn right," Collins, the marketing VP said. "A big company needs discipline more than an army. What the hell, you only get a war every ten or twenty years. But in business, the war's never over."

"I'm sick of all this junk about corporations," Bowles said disgustedly. "If it's so damn miserable, why do we get a hundred and fifty applications for every job we have?"

United, indignant and happy, they ate their lunch with relish and satisfaction.

Thursday was a rewarding day for Keeler, and he completely forgot his momentary pique about the unilateral decision to fire his man. But on Friday, he returned from lunch with an emptiness in his stomach, despite the roast beef it was digesting. He knew the moment had come, and there was no good procrastinating. He called Evelyn, his secretary, and told her to inform Bob Macnally that he was wanted in the corner office. He showed up promptly, a slim young man with a sensitive face and an uncertain smile.

"Sit down," Keeler said cordially. "How long have you been here, Macnally?" It was the standard opening line, prescribed by the company bulletin.

"Almost two years," the young man said. "Let's see, it'll be exactly two years this November."

Keeler smiled. "Guess we must have sized up each other by now. How do you feel it's worked out?"

"Fine," the young man said. "Just fine, Mr. Keeler."

The manager sighed deeply. "Well, I guess the fault's ours," he said unctuously. "Guess we have to take the blame."

"Blame?"

"Look, Bob," Keeler said confidentially. "You're a good man, and you've got great potential, and just because the Walford Company can't seem to make proper use of your talents doesn't mean you're a failure. See what I mean?"

Lips tightened. "No. I don't see."

"When you leave here, the Walford background is going to be one hell of a recommendation. You can bank on that."

"But I wasn't thinking of leaving, Mr. Keeler."

"Bob," Keeler said sorrowfully, "sometimes a man has to think about leaving."

The truth was dawning on Macnally's face, and all the soft contours were hardening. He straightened in his chair.

"You mean I'm fired?" He was incredulous. "You mean I'm canned?"

"Look, Bob – –"

"Don't give me that Bob crap!" He said the words so brutally that they fell like rocks on Keeler's desk. "You never called me Bob in your life, Keeler I'll bet you never knew my first name until now."

"I'm only trying to make this easy on you —"

"I'm the best damn promotion man you ever hired, you told me that your self —"

"I did?"

"Only last year. You sent me a memo, remember? Or didn't you know who you were sending it to? I got the best damn record in the department, and now you're canning me!"

"There are a few factors," Keeler said gravely. "The personnel Department – –"

"The hell with them!" the young man said furiously, standing up. "The hell with you!" he shouted. "You goddamn puppet! You think you can chop my head off without me yelling? Well, you're wrong. I'm going to see the old man. I'm going to get some answers – –" He turned and started for the door.

"Wait a minute!" Keeler cried. "You'll only louse yourself up more. It'll get around – –"

The young man was halfway out of the doorway, but he came back to say two more words to his former boss. Keeler's face blackened and he sank into his seat, shaken by the outburst. If he did go to the old man, it would only reflect on Keeler's inability to discharge him without ill will. But how could he stop him?

There was nothing he could do. Keeler signed and buried himself in the afternoon mail. There was no further word about the firing, and at five-ten he filled his attaché case with unread memorandums, and went home.

On Monday morning, Evelyn was in his office ahead of him, putting a yellow telephone notice on his desk. She looked up as he entered, and said: "Oh, Mr. Keeler, Mr. Walford called at nine and asked you to drop in and see him."

"Which Mr. Walford?"

"Senior," Evelyn said.

He returned to the elevator bank and caught another up car. He got off on the executive floor and went by the receptionist to the six-window office at the end of the long hall.

The old man was tying his shoelace when Keeler walked in. His paper-colored face was deep in concentration. When he looked up, he snapped his gums before speaking.

"This fella Macnally – –"

"Sorry about that, Mr. Walford. Guess he did come up here after all – –"

"He did," Walford, Senior, said. "Very excitable young man. Good man, too; I asked Bowles about him. Said he was the most promising man in your department. Too bad."

"Hope he didn't annoy you too much, Mr. Walford."

"Didn't mind that. Minded losing him, though. After those things he said to me, couldn't let him stay. Called me an old leech. Too bad." He looked mournful.

"Yes," Keeler said. "It certainly is too bad. I sure hated to fire him, Mr. Walford, but personnel knows best..."

"You get the order from Mr.Bowles?"

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

Keeler smiled. "It was in the elevator, matter of fact. Told me that Macauley wasn't pulling his weight – –" He stopped, and swallowed a large, rough stone. "Macauley," he whispered.

"Yes," Walford said quietly. "Macauley." He leaned back, and his chair creaked. "How long have you been here, Keeler?"