Greg is Dead
On the mortality of coworkers and acquaintances
I changed some names. Otherwise it was too weird.
Six months into my first real job, Dave was fired. Dave was the Director AKA upper-middle management AKA Dave was the king of the floor, but not the building. To this day, Dave is the worst executive I’ve ever worked for. A couple of people have tried for his throne, but Dave is top of the corporate crop.
Dave wasn’t immediately ousted. Dave was first put on leave as HR investigated. Dave had said the wrong thing on the wrong day to one of his employees and the guy snapped. The guy went to Human Resources and came clean. From what I gathered secondhand, Dave had:
committed some not insignificant fraud
verbally abused his direct reports
harassed female coworkers
After Dave left, coworkers reminisced for months about how the man had forced them to drive his drunk ass home (unusual but not quite grotesque in the corporate world), added meals to team dinners so he could expense them, then brought the meals home for leftovers (more odd than anything), and how he had bullied subordinates into going to strip clubs with him (gross).
Everyone hated Dave and so did I. Six weeks at the job, new to the city, and fresh out of college, Dave made his mark on me. At a sad suburban sports bar with the whole team gathered for a casual offsite, Dave mocked my outfit in front of the entire team. He kept going, long after any punchline had been found. I fought back tears and vowed to find a new job as soon as I could.
Years later, Dave far gone from my mind, one of my friends from that job texted me.
“Dave is dead.”
I read his obituary with grim fascination. The horrible irony was that when he was fired, I took his spot in the department fantasy football league. I named my team The Dave Davidson Memorial Team.
So when I think of dead coworkers, I think of Dave. Then a few weeks ago, I was on a work call waiting for a vendor to show up.
Let’s call him Greg.
Greg no shows.
Two of my coworkers and I, just waiting on a call, gabbing about the weather. No Greg.
In Corporate America, this is almost unheard of. You’re buying something from these people so their whole job is to meet with you and facilitate selling you more stuff. They make money, you spend money, the economy happens.
Gregless, the two other coworkers start wondering aloud… where is this guy?
We wait twenty minutes.
No Greg.
“I’m calling it,” one coworker says. “He’s not coming.”
Over the next few days we send messages back and forth, joking about Greg’s rude absence.
And still. No word from the man. No sincere regret and apology. No request to reschedule and talk about more things our company can buy. No fabrication about how he had a deep spiritual revelation about the nature of his company’s proprietary widgets that had caused him to step away from a few hours of work Monday afternoon.
Then the coworker who scheduled the meeting looks back at his email and remembers that one of the last emails he received from Greg mentioned a personal emergency.
“What if,” he says, “something happened to Greg?”
And it dawns on us that we might be joking about tragedy.
Another week goes by and someone from Greg’s company emails us. Says he’s been reading through Greg’s emails and noticed Greg was supposed to meet with us. The new guy would like to talk.
Which is great. Because so do we. By this point, none of us give a shit about what Greg’s company sells. We’re in it for Greg.
The new guy kicks off the Zoom call, four of us total, our presences all mediated by our screens. The new guy is all apologetic that he’s new to the account, that he knows he has to get caught up. Assures us he knows our business, loves our product.
My coworker kindly interrupts.
“Before we start,” my coworker says, “we just have to ask. Understand that maybe you can’t tell us everything. But we just want to make sure… is Greg ok?”
The new guy looks at us somberly. We’re ready for the news.
He pauses before speaking.
“Greg is fine,” he says. “But he doesn’t work here anymore.”
Pressure vents from our ears. We’re free from worry. None of us pay attention as the man picks up his sales pitch. A man is still alive. Thanks to us? Maybe so. We did it. We saved Greg. Did he get fired? Almost definitely. But is he still alive, heart throbbing with vibrant, oxygenated, ketchup-red blood? Yes!
Greg is alive!
And if you’re reading this, dear reader, so are you.
So are you.
Good luck with your widget vendors and corporate executives, friends.
xoxo
Steve
The Greg is dead, long live the Greg!