Senior Discount
Lawrence F. Farrar
Carl Bitters studied his morning paper through rimless spectacles perched on a prominent nose. A slim man with a longish face, he liked to think he exuded a thoughtful appearance. He believed his deep-set brown eyes imparted a serious demeanor. Born in 1935, Carl had just turned fifty-five.
He relished the gentle summer morning, with its extravagance of sweet-smelling lilacs blooming in the garden. It had been the garden that led them to purchase the house. Their now-grown children had lived at home then. It was a nice house in a nice neighborhood; a goal fulfilled. “Not bad for a small-town Indiana kid,” Carl often said.
“You know, Alma,” Carl said on this birthday morning, “I don’t feel any older. Not at all.”
“That’s nice,” his wife replied as she cleared the breakfast dishes. “More coffee?”
He nodded and went on. “What do you think of this? Just looking at the movie ads. Discovered I now qualify for a senior discount. A senior discount. Like I’m old or something.” He put down the paper with a bit of emphasis. He sounded indignant.
“Well, you’re not getting any younger, Carl. Besides, tickets are more expensive than ever. Nice benefit. I hear there’s a new Redford movie at the New Town. Out of Africa.” Alma shuttered the blinds of the east-facing windows against a dazzling morning sun.
“Come on, Alma. What’s Redford got that I haven’t got? Have all my hair, don’t I? Not like your brother.” Indeed, Carl possessed a bountiful head of combed-over brown hair, which he now framed with two hands.
“My brother’s always been that way,” Alma said. “Nothing to do with age.” Alma liked to think she herself came across as younger than her fifty years. She ignored her thinning blond hair, her pack a day cough, and her golf course leathered skin. Her brown eyes considered the world from beneath false lashes and sketched on brows.
“I’m practically a spring chicken.” Carl grinned, grasped the front of his shirt, and flapped his arms as if they were wings. “Lots of years left in this ‘old boy.’ Besides, we hardly ever go to the movies, anyway.”
“All I can say, Carl, is they’ll be coming to take you to the old folks’ home any day now.”
“Very funny. Seriously, I feel great. Good for another ten, maybe fifteen, years on the job.”
“Speaking of which,” she said, “have you heard if Jack Burleigh is finally going to leave? Seems like Sylvia has been rambling on about moving to their Arizona retirement place forever.”
“Word’s out he’ll be gone by next month. He’s been with the city since Pluto was a pup. It’s amazing how some of these guys just hang on. Block younger people from moving up. Stifles the system.”
“I don’t think people still say that?”
“Say what?”
“Since Pluto was a pup.”
“It’s just an expression. Heard it all my life.”
“Anyway, you’re certainly the one who should take Jack’s place. You’ve been waiting for such a long time. Besides, I can’t think of anybody better qualified.”
“You’re a keen observer, Alma. Maybe a little biased.” They both laughed. “Should mean a nice pay raise, too,” Carl said. “Of course, I’ll have to start wearing a damn tie.” Carl considered wearing a tie as akin to cruel and unusual punishment.
“Somehow, I think, with that corner office and your name on the door, you’ll put up with it. Maybe we’ll even get you a new tie.”
They laughed again.
Carl had logged nearly thirty years as an employee of Thomasville, Indiana. And he’d long coveted the position of Deputy Public Works Director. Starting as a street maintenance worker, Carl had scaled the bureaucratic ladder, steadily, if not always quickly. He’d garnered good, if not outstanding, evaluation reports. Along the way, he’d acquired a community college degree, spent time in the City Development Office, learned to use computers (sort of), served two stints in Finance, worked in Parks and Recreation, and twice more occupied Public Works positions. He now supervised the city’s vehicle fleet and equipment storage facilities.
True, Carl lacked the skill at office politics manifest by some of his colleagues. And the proliferation of talk about various-isms, sexism, racism, and the like distressed him. Not a man for causes, he declared. Why had all these things come to the fore, anyway? More and more, people, especially younger people, came across as, well, simply too pushy. And they came down on you if you didn’t buy into their politics. He couldn’t help it if he was a white guy. Sure, everybody should have a chance to get ahead. But social changes ought to take place over time. Claims of discrimination, in Carl’s view, were way overdone. So much hot air. He’d certainly never experienced any racial or gender barriers.
People should appreciate their opportunities. Just do your job, he told himself. He believed that a job well done should be enough. If anybody had been a contributor to the city’s well-being, he concluded, it was him. If anybody deserved a promotion it was him.
Later that morning, as he often did, Carl paused in the lobby of the Municipal Building to admire the Depression era murals displayed there. In an idyllic forest green setting, they depicted blond pioneers welcomed on the frontier by Native American people. The pioneer men, some bearded, looked strong, ready to plough the nearest field. Carl thought the pioneer women looked strong, too. The Native American men, several only in breechcloths and moccasins, their skin rendered in muted browns, seemed noble. The women all appeared to be nubile maidens. (Alma had declared the murals should be painted over; too provocative). No problems back then, Carl thought as he rode the elevator to the third floor. The murals were like a window into the past, one where everybody knew their station; everybody got along.
Arrived in his office, Carl settled in at his desk, turned on his computer, and discovered a personnel email confirming Burleigh’s upcoming retirement. About time, he thought. He experienced a surge of anticipation. Successor candidates would be interviewed the following week. The email invited him to express his interest. Candidates? Plural? Could there be others? It seemed unlikely. He was the obvious successor. Why did he have to be subjected to this interview rigamarole, anyway? Not the way it used to be. Oh, well. It would all be pro forma. He completed the response form and clicked Send.
Just as he did, his officemate, Tom Dolan, popped through the door. Tom supervised the city’s storage yards. An amiable guy, a bit over five feet, with close cropped gray-blonde hair and age-faded blue eyes, he transmitted an innocent air. Dressed in khakis, a button-down shirt, and a crew-neck sweater, he seemed a walking Brooks Brothers advertisement. He was a gullible fellow, a regular target of office pranks. He hated it when colleagues referred to him as “the emperor of asphalt and road salt.” He seemed the sort of person who would always be a sidekick, always be a supporting actor. An autopen-signed photo of President Reagan hung behind his desk.
“Want a doughnut?” Dolan asked. “Just picked up a box at that shop across the street.”
Although Carl had eaten breakfast, it was an offer he couldn’t refuse.
“Sure. Why not?” he said. He delivered a big grin. Everyone knew Carl considered himself a doughnut aficionado.
“You’re in a good mood,” Dolan said. He delivered a chocolate covered doughnut and a steaming cup of coffee from a flimsy cardboard box.
“Well, in case you forgot—and you apparently have—today is my birthday. I should also point out that it’s official: Jack Burleigh is leaving. Finis. Gone.”
“And you’re the natural successor. Right?”
“You said that. Not me.”
“Well, it makes sense to me. I did hear there is some company rule that says they should consider at least three candidates.”
“Didn’t used to be that way, but I guess they have to go through the motions.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I’m sure you are at the top of the list. I also heard Harry Trager’s name mentioned. Maybe somebody from outside, too.”
“Harry Trager? You mean that guy at the planning commission? He’s only been with the city for a few years. Somewhere else before. Why would he be a candidate?”
“Don’t ask me. Just what I heard. Probably just for show. Going through the legal hoops, I suppose.”
“Trager is quite a bit younger. You don’t think that figures in, do you? Jesus. I’m only fifty-five.”
“Can’t be,” Dolan said. “I’m soon sixty. You’re just a kid.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I did hear that there’s some budget issues. City Manager is looking for ways to cut costs.”
“Age can’t figure in a promotion, can it?”
“Could be,” Dolan said. “Times are changing. Maybe they can pay younger guys less. Get rid of older guys. Not sure. People don’t talk much about it. But it could be.”
“Great,” Carl said. “Thanks for the encouragement.” But he was not encouraged. Rather, it was like the apprehension he experienced when a warning light came on in his car. Was there some kind of problem about his age?
“Happy birthday,” Dolan said. “Have another doughnut.”
~ ~ ~
The next morning, emerging from a conference room, Carl overheard two men talking around a corner near the elevator bank. He suspected they were junior members of the Planning Commission staff. That office was just two doors away. Intrigued, he stopped to listen. The word “retirement” caught his attention.
“He’s been here for years,” one said.
They must be talking about Jack Burleigh, Carl thought.
“Yeah,” the other speaker said. “Some of these guys just never know when it’s time.”
“You got that right. They say that what’s his name, Bitters, has also been here for almost thirty years. Still needs IT help with his computer. Doesn’t know zilch.”
“Not all of them, but a lot of these older guys haven’t been able to keep up with modern technology.”
Older guys? Older guys, indeed. He knew a lot more than zilch. Must have confused him with someone else.
“I hear that new City Manager thinks it’s time to thin the herd. Too many of them set in their ways. Old school.”
“Thin the herd? You’ve got it.”
Carl heard them laugh; a sort of chortling.
“Old farts already have too many benefits. Instead of social security payments to retirees, the government ought to pay us. We’re the ones with student loans.”
“I bet we’re a hell of a lot more productive, too.”
Whining, just whining, Carl thought. An inclination to set these two straight seized him. But, before he could act, Carl heard the elevator door open and close. The men had gone.
At mid-day, per his usual habit, Carl joined Jack Scobey for lunch in the first-floor cafeteria. Carl enjoyed the cafeteria. It reminded him of the malt shop where he hung out as a high schooler. Unlike the rest of the remodeled building, the cafeteria retained its original art deco look – lots of chrome, lots of plastic – exuberant reds, yellows, greens.
Carl ordered a chicken salad sandwich and carried his tray to the corner table he and Jack regularly occupied. In years gone by, there had always been a Thursday bridge game. But Fred Bishop had retired, and Chubby Hendricks had died right there in his office. None of the newer people seemed interested in bridge.
Jack was a lanky man with thin lips, fifty-five or six. Plain looking, he favored old cardigans at work. He’d occupied the same accounting desk for years and described himself as “serving out his time.” Despite Jack’s lack of ambition, Carl viewed him as steeped in office lore and master of the rumor mill. A dour individual, Jack engaged in a vendetta against the world.
“Well, Carl,” Jack said, with no hint of congratulation, “Looks like you’re getting ready to replace Burleigh.”
“Hope you’re right. I hear Fred Chafin is up for it. And this guy, Trager. What do you think?”
“Chafin is just a place holder. Probably won’t even have an interview. The one you’ve got to look out for is Trager. They say he’s a real comer. And they say Eagan has an eye on him.”
“Look out for?” Carl’s sandwich hung suspended in the air, halfway to his mouth. “What does that mean?”
“Come on, Carl, you know there is all this emphasis lately on getting younger people?”
“Younger? You’ve got to be kidding. I just turned fifty-five.”
“Well, I’m not saying it’s the case here. You’re on the younger side of old.” Jack couldn’t resist a smile at his characterization.
“The what? The younger side of old? Is that even a thing?”
“Look, Carl, nobody talks much about it, but you move into that job, it means a pretty good pay raise. Why not get somebody for less who’ll be around longer? That's how a lot of these managers think now days.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Plus, the younger guys are waiting to move up. You’ve said the same thing. Waiting your turn. Right?”
“That’s different. Besides, I’m better qualified,” Carl said. Still, he felt a stab of uncertainty.
“Just letting you know, old friend.”
“Just ‘friend’ is good enough.”
Carl got up and dumped his tray, with its half-eaten sandwich, into a refuse can.
~ ~ ~
“They’re not going to admit it, but they’re thinking about it,” Dolan said when Carl described his conversation.
“Who is they?”
“You know, the upper echelons. The big shots. All the efficiency boys.”
“Well fifty-five is not old.”
“Maybe not, but they’re thinking ahead. You can kind of see it both ways. You got experience, but people coming along have fresh ideas.”
“Bull shit. I’ve got experience and fresh ideas.” Carl felt incensed. “Look how I kept the streets open last winter. What’s old age, anyhow? Is it how your body performs? Is it how good your mind works? Is it some number?”
“Beyond me, pal. Maybe it’s a frame of mind. But we’re sure hearing more about it these days. It’s called ageism. Why do you suppose the newspaper always gives the age of an older driver when he or she has an accident? Over the hill. A threat to all humankind. If it’s a thirty-five-year-old knucklehead, less likely to see the age. Anyway, that old clock just keeps clicking away, like a countdown to retirement.”
Carl had felt vaguely uneasy. Now, he felt very uneasy. What was happening? Why couldn’t things stay the way they’d always been?
At three o’clock, he met Burleigh for coffee. It had been a long-standing practice.
Gray-eyed, tan, and still blond, at sixty-two, Burleigh never appeared without a suit, tie, and polished shoes. In summer, he often outfitted himself in a tropical suit and white bucks. Colleagues puzzled over just what it was he aspired to be. Photos of his vacation home in Arizona festooned his office wall. Several featured him and his wife lounging beside their pool.
Now that Burleigh’s soon-to-be departure had become public, Carl hoped Burleigh would reassure him he’d been tabbed as Burleigh’s successor.
Unfortunately, he found Burleigh more focused on himself and in a petulant mood. Staring down at his mug, like a man outside himself, Burleigh said, “I figured I’d be in the job for another year or so. Eagan sugar-coated it. But, basically, he told me I’d been around long enough. He meant too long. That’s the thanks I get for all the years of service I’ve given the city. Another year was all I wanted, Carl. Another year for Christ’s sake.”
His words seemed to confirm Carl’s growing fear. This age-related stuff had a life of its own.
“At one point he told me they needed my parking place,” Burleigh said. “Can you imagine that. My parking place.”
“Really?” Carl said. He’d envisioned his Buick in that space.
“I don’t get it, Carl. Used to be seniority and experience counted for more. But now days, there’s all this emphasis on 'young' guys.”
Carl nodded. “Yeah. And they’re hiring more women.” Burleigh already sounded like an old-timer you heard about, one sustained only by memories.
“Not the way things were when we started. Right, Carl? You put in your time and you worked your way up. A man always knew where he stood, but nowadays . . .” He shook his head and gazed into space.
Carl nodded again. Did Burleigh know something about his successor? Something he wasn’t saying.
Burleigh assumed a serious expression and leaned forward. “I knew you were waiting, Carl; I just didn’t want to quit. Don’t overstay like I did.”
Don’t overstay. Did that imply he had the job?
“Guess maybe we’ve both stuck around too long,” Burleigh said.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Jack,” Carl replied. But, in fact, the notion seemed increasingly credible.
At home that evening, Alma sought to reassure him when he discussed the next day’s interview at dinner. “Carl, you’re treating this all out of proportion. This age business is just a lot of talk.”
“But what if Jack and the others are right? One of the guys said it was like a ball team’s youth movement. Maybe I’m being stranded at third base.”
“Come on, Carl. Has anybody actually said you’re too old?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean they’re not thinking it. Anyway, we never used to have these so-called interviews before a promotion was made. I don’t see the point of it. Burleigh said it’s so they can claim transparency, whatever that is supposed to mean.”
“You just remind them of all that you’ve contributed to the city. I’m sure it will go fine. Just a formality.”
He hoped she had it right. But he slept fitfully.
~ ~ ~
Carl knew Chafin and Trager had met the panel the day before. And now his turn had come. At ten o’clock on Thursday, he stepped into a conference room dominated by a long, chair-lined table. Floor to ceiling windows, flanked by heavy drapes, let in light and provided a view of Pioneer Park. Three panelists sat centered on one side of the table. Carl’s chair faced them. Each had a copy of his resume. Carl knew all three. Yet, both the setting and the panelists’ demeanor struck him as more formal than he’d expected. Carl sat down stiffly. He felt self-conscious. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his brow.
Jack Curlew, the City Manager, occupied the center spot. A paunchy figure in his mid-forties, Curlew was a fast riser with a less than amiable disposition. He puffed on a pipe and periodically expelled puffs of smoke, with little regard for their direction. A non-smoker, Carl suppressed a persistent inclination to cough. Carl did not like Curlew. Still, the man had a reputation for getting things done. And, although city staff found Curlew demanding, Carl believed he’d maintained a reasonably good relationship with him.
Up from the ranks, Adair Eagan, the Public Works Director, had a red face, little hair, and an ill-fitting suit. A man in his late forties, he’d proven to be a diligent cultivator of those above him. Eagan had outdistanced both Burleigh and Carl on his way to the Director’s job. By virtue of his position, he had close familiarity with Carl’s work and his qualifications. They got along well enough, but Carl felt no sense of comradery as he did with other members of the department. Alma actively disliked the man. She characterized Eagan as untrustworthy, a self-promoter.
Cecilia Riches, the Personnel Officer, still in her thirties, had come over from a private employment firm three or four years before. Dark-haired and thin-faced, she came across as a humorless person, one who considered herself especially “up-to-speed” when it came to contemporary employment practices. Terms like “efficiency” and “best practices” peppered her conversations. At the moment, she pensively chewed on the bow of her brown-framed glasses.
“Well, Carl, this shouldn’t take long,” Curlew said. “We all know you. You’ve been here a long time, after all.”
Carl smiled. “That’s true.” Been here a long time, he thought. Was this simply intended to reassure him? Or did it have something to do with his age?
Curlew went on. “With Burleigh leaving, Adair thinks this might be a good time to try some new approaches. And we agree. Shake things up in Public Works.”
“We’d like your ideas, Carl,” Eagan said and then surrendered himself to a jaw-stretching yawn.
Carl’s Adam’s apple rose and fell like a barometer of discomfort. No one had warned him such a question might come up. He had some ideas, but he really had not formulated a proposal. He’d expected only to describe his record and achievements. A sheen of perspiration embraced his forehead.
“For example, do you think it might make sense to combine the vehicle unit and the supply yards under one chief?”
“Well,” Carl said, after an uncomfortable pause, “we’ve talked about it some in the past, but . . .”
Riches interrupted. “Just because we did things a certain way in the past, doesn’t mean we have to continue to do so. I’m sure you’d agree there is always a need for new thinking.” She leaned forward. “Have to keep up with the times, you know.”
What did that mean? Carl felt challenged. What did she know about the city’s work, anyway? Of course, Carl tried to stay current on issues of city management, especially on construction and maintenance topics. He regularly highlighted articles in The Public Works Professional.
More questions followed. Carl worried his responses seemed simplistic, anodyne. Worse yet, Carl sensed the panelists didn’t care about his answers. For good or ill, they merely were going through the motions.
Q. “What should we be looking for in new employees?”
A. “Better grounding in technology. Good work ethic.”
Q. “The union is getting more active. How would you handle complaints?”
A. Keep city interests in mind but offer a fair hearing to complaints.
Q. “Do you think we are up to speed in the use of computers and electronic data?”
A. Well, our system is pretty much out of date, but gets the job done.
Q. “Lots of pressure for budget cuts; what are your recommendations?”
A. Submitted a report on keeping our vehicles in service longer. Think buildings painting schedule could be re-worked.
Q. “What are the biggest challenges the city faces?”
A. Trying to do more with less.
“You’ve seen a good deal in your time here,” Riches said. “Long years of service certainly count. Burleigh has probably seen more than the rest of us put together.” She and Curlew exchanged knowing smiles.
A compliment? A veiled criticism? More importantly, was it another reference to age? The issue he’d once dismissed now gnawed at him. Were they, in fact, looking for a younger person? Carl was increasingly convinced that was the case. He worried.
These people were his colleagues. But when he searched for sounds of friendliness in their voices, he found none. They had treated him almost as if he were a stranger. Was the interview nothing more than a charade intended to demonstrate transparency – or whatever they called it? Had they already selected someone else? Was this fellow Trager actually a contender?
Curlew leaned back; hands folded across his chest. “We’ll have a decision tomorrow.” The meeting had lasted thirty minutes.
They’d been going through motions alright. But, Carl decided, not for the reason he’d originally anticipated. His mood, once confident, now felt leaden. Somehow, he was being eased out. He was sure of it.
~ ~ ~
And he was right.
When the phone rang Saturday afternoon, Carl was watching the television news. Why, he wondered, was Nelson Mandela getting a New York ticker tape parade? And why was Bush meeting Gorbachev? But, mostly, he wondered when he would learn the panel’s recommendation.
“It’s Cecilia Riches, “Alma called out.
Carl swallowed hard.
“Carl, I have to give you a heads up. The recommendation we sent to the mayor was for Trager. Can’t say how Curlew and I voted, but we had agreed that, because he is the Director, Adair Eagan’s decision would be the determining one. Wish I had better news.”
“What possible qualifications does he have?” Carl was shocked. “This doesn’t make sense.” Carl was amazed. “Is this how they reward thirty years’ service?” Carl was stupefied. Burleigh had it right.
Carl dropped the phone into its cradle and stared into the garden. No longer uplifting his spirits, the garden view seemed dreary, the lilacs dull. It had to be this age business. What else could it be? Based on any rational thought process, the decision was inexplicable. Carl felt crushed; bitter did not come close to describing his feelings.
“Alma, I’m going to fight this,” Carl said. “Maybe some kind of legal action. Damn it. They can’t pull a fast one on Carl Bitters.” That said, he wasn’t certain how he could stop them, whoever they were. “Is that how they reward loyalty?” Carl said, his voice saturated with indignation. “Is this how they reward a job well done?”
Moments later his mood shifted. Colored by a jumble of thoughts and counterthoughts, anger and resolution yielded to ineffable gloom. Palms pressed to his face; Carl pondered his next move. Or was there a next move?
“There has to be something more behind it,” Alma said. “Can’t put my finger on it, but I never trusted Adair Eagan. He knows you’re good and how much you’ve made him look good. What would he have to gain?”
“Oh, it’s my age. I’m willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that’s it. Want to know what I think? I think he’s trying to convince the higher ups he’s on board for the youth movement. Either he’s bought into it himself or he just wants to be seen as a team player.” Carl threw up his hands in a gesture of futility. “I’m only fifty-five, Alma. Fifty-five.”
Carl poured himself a scotch on the rocks, wandered into the living room, and slumped into his favorite recliner. After all this, he thought, who knew what might come next? He didn’t have long to wait. At four o’clock, the phone rang again.
“It’s for you,” Alma sang out from the kitchen. “It’s that personnel woman.”
“Okay. I’m coming.” Probably wants to put the knife in a little further, he muttered to himself.
“Hello.”
“I’ve some important news, Carl,” Riches said. “Trager has withdrawn his name and resigned from the staff.”
“What? I don’t understand. Why?” Carl now felt overwhelmed.
“More to follow. But somebody leaked the fact that Trager’s wife is Adair Eagan’s first cousin. Not only that. I’m not supposed to know this, but word is some questionable money ended up in Adair’s bank account.”
“I don’t believe it. I’ve known Adair for years. Lots of shortcomings but can’t imagine he’d be involved in something like that. Are you saying there was some plain old nepotism? Maybe a bribe?”
“There’s more. Adair also submitted his resignation an hour ago.”
“But why?”
“Apparently for the reason you suggested. Looks like something illegal was going on. The Mayor has referred the whole business to the County Attorney.”
“And all the time, I thought . . . Well, I thought it was my age.”
“Oh, no. It’s simply that Adair said he’d be more comfortable with Trager. And it was his call.”
“So, now what happens?”
“Well, there’s one more piece of news. The Mayor has endorsed you to the Council as the next Deputy Public Works Director. And, at least temporarily you will also serve as Acting Public Works Director.”
“I’m having trouble taking this all on board.”
“Don’t worry. My office is preparing all the paperwork. You can expect a call from the Mayor later today. Congratulations.”
“I was sure it was this age business,” Carl said to Alma. “I was just certain. Didn’t have a hint that any of this other stuff was going on.”
Alma smiled. “Maybe you were too concerned. I can’t imagine what they were thinking. It eventually had to come out. Anyway, you got the job.”
“Yeah. I guess it’s pretty complicated. I wonder who blew the whistle.”
“Who knows?”
“Do you think fifty-five is really old?”
“Of course not. Whatever. Let’s go to the movie and use that discount. Meryl Streep is in it, too.”
“Hey, Alma, I’m the one who gets a discount.”
Lawrence F. Farrar
Carl Bitters studied his morning paper through rimless spectacles perched on a prominent nose. A slim man with a longish face, he liked to think he exuded a thoughtful appearance. He believed his deep-set brown eyes imparted a serious demeanor. Born in 1935, Carl had just turned fifty-five.
He relished the gentle summer morning, with its extravagance of sweet-smelling lilacs blooming in the garden. It had been the garden that led them to purchase the house. Their now-grown children had lived at home then. It was a nice house in a nice neighborhood; a goal fulfilled. “Not bad for a small-town Indiana kid,” Carl often said.
“You know, Alma,” Carl said on this birthday morning, “I don’t feel any older. Not at all.”
“That’s nice,” his wife replied as she cleared the breakfast dishes. “More coffee?”
He nodded and went on. “What do you think of this? Just looking at the movie ads. Discovered I now qualify for a senior discount. A senior discount. Like I’m old or something.” He put down the paper with a bit of emphasis. He sounded indignant.
“Well, you’re not getting any younger, Carl. Besides, tickets are more expensive than ever. Nice benefit. I hear there’s a new Redford movie at the New Town. Out of Africa.” Alma shuttered the blinds of the east-facing windows against a dazzling morning sun.
“Come on, Alma. What’s Redford got that I haven’t got? Have all my hair, don’t I? Not like your brother.” Indeed, Carl possessed a bountiful head of combed-over brown hair, which he now framed with two hands.
“My brother’s always been that way,” Alma said. “Nothing to do with age.” Alma liked to think she herself came across as younger than her fifty years. She ignored her thinning blond hair, her pack a day cough, and her golf course leathered skin. Her brown eyes considered the world from beneath false lashes and sketched on brows.
“I’m practically a spring chicken.” Carl grinned, grasped the front of his shirt, and flapped his arms as if they were wings. “Lots of years left in this ‘old boy.’ Besides, we hardly ever go to the movies, anyway.”
“All I can say, Carl, is they’ll be coming to take you to the old folks’ home any day now.”
“Very funny. Seriously, I feel great. Good for another ten, maybe fifteen, years on the job.”
“Speaking of which,” she said, “have you heard if Jack Burleigh is finally going to leave? Seems like Sylvia has been rambling on about moving to their Arizona retirement place forever.”
“Word’s out he’ll be gone by next month. He’s been with the city since Pluto was a pup. It’s amazing how some of these guys just hang on. Block younger people from moving up. Stifles the system.”
“I don’t think people still say that?”
“Say what?”
“Since Pluto was a pup.”
“It’s just an expression. Heard it all my life.”
“Anyway, you’re certainly the one who should take Jack’s place. You’ve been waiting for such a long time. Besides, I can’t think of anybody better qualified.”
“You’re a keen observer, Alma. Maybe a little biased.” They both laughed. “Should mean a nice pay raise, too,” Carl said. “Of course, I’ll have to start wearing a damn tie.” Carl considered wearing a tie as akin to cruel and unusual punishment.
“Somehow, I think, with that corner office and your name on the door, you’ll put up with it. Maybe we’ll even get you a new tie.”
They laughed again.
Carl had logged nearly thirty years as an employee of Thomasville, Indiana. And he’d long coveted the position of Deputy Public Works Director. Starting as a street maintenance worker, Carl had scaled the bureaucratic ladder, steadily, if not always quickly. He’d garnered good, if not outstanding, evaluation reports. Along the way, he’d acquired a community college degree, spent time in the City Development Office, learned to use computers (sort of), served two stints in Finance, worked in Parks and Recreation, and twice more occupied Public Works positions. He now supervised the city’s vehicle fleet and equipment storage facilities.
True, Carl lacked the skill at office politics manifest by some of his colleagues. And the proliferation of talk about various-isms, sexism, racism, and the like distressed him. Not a man for causes, he declared. Why had all these things come to the fore, anyway? More and more, people, especially younger people, came across as, well, simply too pushy. And they came down on you if you didn’t buy into their politics. He couldn’t help it if he was a white guy. Sure, everybody should have a chance to get ahead. But social changes ought to take place over time. Claims of discrimination, in Carl’s view, were way overdone. So much hot air. He’d certainly never experienced any racial or gender barriers.
People should appreciate their opportunities. Just do your job, he told himself. He believed that a job well done should be enough. If anybody had been a contributor to the city’s well-being, he concluded, it was him. If anybody deserved a promotion it was him.
Later that morning, as he often did, Carl paused in the lobby of the Municipal Building to admire the Depression era murals displayed there. In an idyllic forest green setting, they depicted blond pioneers welcomed on the frontier by Native American people. The pioneer men, some bearded, looked strong, ready to plough the nearest field. Carl thought the pioneer women looked strong, too. The Native American men, several only in breechcloths and moccasins, their skin rendered in muted browns, seemed noble. The women all appeared to be nubile maidens. (Alma had declared the murals should be painted over; too provocative). No problems back then, Carl thought as he rode the elevator to the third floor. The murals were like a window into the past, one where everybody knew their station; everybody got along.
Arrived in his office, Carl settled in at his desk, turned on his computer, and discovered a personnel email confirming Burleigh’s upcoming retirement. About time, he thought. He experienced a surge of anticipation. Successor candidates would be interviewed the following week. The email invited him to express his interest. Candidates? Plural? Could there be others? It seemed unlikely. He was the obvious successor. Why did he have to be subjected to this interview rigamarole, anyway? Not the way it used to be. Oh, well. It would all be pro forma. He completed the response form and clicked Send.
Just as he did, his officemate, Tom Dolan, popped through the door. Tom supervised the city’s storage yards. An amiable guy, a bit over five feet, with close cropped gray-blonde hair and age-faded blue eyes, he transmitted an innocent air. Dressed in khakis, a button-down shirt, and a crew-neck sweater, he seemed a walking Brooks Brothers advertisement. He was a gullible fellow, a regular target of office pranks. He hated it when colleagues referred to him as “the emperor of asphalt and road salt.” He seemed the sort of person who would always be a sidekick, always be a supporting actor. An autopen-signed photo of President Reagan hung behind his desk.
“Want a doughnut?” Dolan asked. “Just picked up a box at that shop across the street.”
Although Carl had eaten breakfast, it was an offer he couldn’t refuse.
“Sure. Why not?” he said. He delivered a big grin. Everyone knew Carl considered himself a doughnut aficionado.
“You’re in a good mood,” Dolan said. He delivered a chocolate covered doughnut and a steaming cup of coffee from a flimsy cardboard box.
“Well, in case you forgot—and you apparently have—today is my birthday. I should also point out that it’s official: Jack Burleigh is leaving. Finis. Gone.”
“And you’re the natural successor. Right?”
“You said that. Not me.”
“Well, it makes sense to me. I did hear there is some company rule that says they should consider at least three candidates.”
“Didn’t used to be that way, but I guess they have to go through the motions.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I’m sure you are at the top of the list. I also heard Harry Trager’s name mentioned. Maybe somebody from outside, too.”
“Harry Trager? You mean that guy at the planning commission? He’s only been with the city for a few years. Somewhere else before. Why would he be a candidate?”
“Don’t ask me. Just what I heard. Probably just for show. Going through the legal hoops, I suppose.”
“Trager is quite a bit younger. You don’t think that figures in, do you? Jesus. I’m only fifty-five.”
“Can’t be,” Dolan said. “I’m soon sixty. You’re just a kid.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I did hear that there’s some budget issues. City Manager is looking for ways to cut costs.”
“Age can’t figure in a promotion, can it?”
“Could be,” Dolan said. “Times are changing. Maybe they can pay younger guys less. Get rid of older guys. Not sure. People don’t talk much about it. But it could be.”
“Great,” Carl said. “Thanks for the encouragement.” But he was not encouraged. Rather, it was like the apprehension he experienced when a warning light came on in his car. Was there some kind of problem about his age?
“Happy birthday,” Dolan said. “Have another doughnut.”
~ ~ ~
The next morning, emerging from a conference room, Carl overheard two men talking around a corner near the elevator bank. He suspected they were junior members of the Planning Commission staff. That office was just two doors away. Intrigued, he stopped to listen. The word “retirement” caught his attention.
“He’s been here for years,” one said.
They must be talking about Jack Burleigh, Carl thought.
“Yeah,” the other speaker said. “Some of these guys just never know when it’s time.”
“You got that right. They say that what’s his name, Bitters, has also been here for almost thirty years. Still needs IT help with his computer. Doesn’t know zilch.”
“Not all of them, but a lot of these older guys haven’t been able to keep up with modern technology.”
Older guys? Older guys, indeed. He knew a lot more than zilch. Must have confused him with someone else.
“I hear that new City Manager thinks it’s time to thin the herd. Too many of them set in their ways. Old school.”
“Thin the herd? You’ve got it.”
Carl heard them laugh; a sort of chortling.
“Old farts already have too many benefits. Instead of social security payments to retirees, the government ought to pay us. We’re the ones with student loans.”
“I bet we’re a hell of a lot more productive, too.”
Whining, just whining, Carl thought. An inclination to set these two straight seized him. But, before he could act, Carl heard the elevator door open and close. The men had gone.
At mid-day, per his usual habit, Carl joined Jack Scobey for lunch in the first-floor cafeteria. Carl enjoyed the cafeteria. It reminded him of the malt shop where he hung out as a high schooler. Unlike the rest of the remodeled building, the cafeteria retained its original art deco look – lots of chrome, lots of plastic – exuberant reds, yellows, greens.
Carl ordered a chicken salad sandwich and carried his tray to the corner table he and Jack regularly occupied. In years gone by, there had always been a Thursday bridge game. But Fred Bishop had retired, and Chubby Hendricks had died right there in his office. None of the newer people seemed interested in bridge.
Jack was a lanky man with thin lips, fifty-five or six. Plain looking, he favored old cardigans at work. He’d occupied the same accounting desk for years and described himself as “serving out his time.” Despite Jack’s lack of ambition, Carl viewed him as steeped in office lore and master of the rumor mill. A dour individual, Jack engaged in a vendetta against the world.
“Well, Carl,” Jack said, with no hint of congratulation, “Looks like you’re getting ready to replace Burleigh.”
“Hope you’re right. I hear Fred Chafin is up for it. And this guy, Trager. What do you think?”
“Chafin is just a place holder. Probably won’t even have an interview. The one you’ve got to look out for is Trager. They say he’s a real comer. And they say Eagan has an eye on him.”
“Look out for?” Carl’s sandwich hung suspended in the air, halfway to his mouth. “What does that mean?”
“Come on, Carl, you know there is all this emphasis lately on getting younger people?”
“Younger? You’ve got to be kidding. I just turned fifty-five.”
“Well, I’m not saying it’s the case here. You’re on the younger side of old.” Jack couldn’t resist a smile at his characterization.
“The what? The younger side of old? Is that even a thing?”
“Look, Carl, nobody talks much about it, but you move into that job, it means a pretty good pay raise. Why not get somebody for less who’ll be around longer? That's how a lot of these managers think now days.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Plus, the younger guys are waiting to move up. You’ve said the same thing. Waiting your turn. Right?”
“That’s different. Besides, I’m better qualified,” Carl said. Still, he felt a stab of uncertainty.
“Just letting you know, old friend.”
“Just ‘friend’ is good enough.”
Carl got up and dumped his tray, with its half-eaten sandwich, into a refuse can.
~ ~ ~
“They’re not going to admit it, but they’re thinking about it,” Dolan said when Carl described his conversation.
“Who is they?”
“You know, the upper echelons. The big shots. All the efficiency boys.”
“Well fifty-five is not old.”
“Maybe not, but they’re thinking ahead. You can kind of see it both ways. You got experience, but people coming along have fresh ideas.”
“Bull shit. I’ve got experience and fresh ideas.” Carl felt incensed. “Look how I kept the streets open last winter. What’s old age, anyhow? Is it how your body performs? Is it how good your mind works? Is it some number?”
“Beyond me, pal. Maybe it’s a frame of mind. But we’re sure hearing more about it these days. It’s called ageism. Why do you suppose the newspaper always gives the age of an older driver when he or she has an accident? Over the hill. A threat to all humankind. If it’s a thirty-five-year-old knucklehead, less likely to see the age. Anyway, that old clock just keeps clicking away, like a countdown to retirement.”
Carl had felt vaguely uneasy. Now, he felt very uneasy. What was happening? Why couldn’t things stay the way they’d always been?
At three o’clock, he met Burleigh for coffee. It had been a long-standing practice.
Gray-eyed, tan, and still blond, at sixty-two, Burleigh never appeared without a suit, tie, and polished shoes. In summer, he often outfitted himself in a tropical suit and white bucks. Colleagues puzzled over just what it was he aspired to be. Photos of his vacation home in Arizona festooned his office wall. Several featured him and his wife lounging beside their pool.
Now that Burleigh’s soon-to-be departure had become public, Carl hoped Burleigh would reassure him he’d been tabbed as Burleigh’s successor.
Unfortunately, he found Burleigh more focused on himself and in a petulant mood. Staring down at his mug, like a man outside himself, Burleigh said, “I figured I’d be in the job for another year or so. Eagan sugar-coated it. But, basically, he told me I’d been around long enough. He meant too long. That’s the thanks I get for all the years of service I’ve given the city. Another year was all I wanted, Carl. Another year for Christ’s sake.”
His words seemed to confirm Carl’s growing fear. This age-related stuff had a life of its own.
“At one point he told me they needed my parking place,” Burleigh said. “Can you imagine that. My parking place.”
“Really?” Carl said. He’d envisioned his Buick in that space.
“I don’t get it, Carl. Used to be seniority and experience counted for more. But now days, there’s all this emphasis on 'young' guys.”
Carl nodded. “Yeah. And they’re hiring more women.” Burleigh already sounded like an old-timer you heard about, one sustained only by memories.
“Not the way things were when we started. Right, Carl? You put in your time and you worked your way up. A man always knew where he stood, but nowadays . . .” He shook his head and gazed into space.
Carl nodded again. Did Burleigh know something about his successor? Something he wasn’t saying.
Burleigh assumed a serious expression and leaned forward. “I knew you were waiting, Carl; I just didn’t want to quit. Don’t overstay like I did.”
Don’t overstay. Did that imply he had the job?
“Guess maybe we’ve both stuck around too long,” Burleigh said.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Jack,” Carl replied. But, in fact, the notion seemed increasingly credible.
At home that evening, Alma sought to reassure him when he discussed the next day’s interview at dinner. “Carl, you’re treating this all out of proportion. This age business is just a lot of talk.”
“But what if Jack and the others are right? One of the guys said it was like a ball team’s youth movement. Maybe I’m being stranded at third base.”
“Come on, Carl. Has anybody actually said you’re too old?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean they’re not thinking it. Anyway, we never used to have these so-called interviews before a promotion was made. I don’t see the point of it. Burleigh said it’s so they can claim transparency, whatever that is supposed to mean.”
“You just remind them of all that you’ve contributed to the city. I’m sure it will go fine. Just a formality.”
He hoped she had it right. But he slept fitfully.
~ ~ ~
Carl knew Chafin and Trager had met the panel the day before. And now his turn had come. At ten o’clock on Thursday, he stepped into a conference room dominated by a long, chair-lined table. Floor to ceiling windows, flanked by heavy drapes, let in light and provided a view of Pioneer Park. Three panelists sat centered on one side of the table. Carl’s chair faced them. Each had a copy of his resume. Carl knew all three. Yet, both the setting and the panelists’ demeanor struck him as more formal than he’d expected. Carl sat down stiffly. He felt self-conscious. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his brow.
Jack Curlew, the City Manager, occupied the center spot. A paunchy figure in his mid-forties, Curlew was a fast riser with a less than amiable disposition. He puffed on a pipe and periodically expelled puffs of smoke, with little regard for their direction. A non-smoker, Carl suppressed a persistent inclination to cough. Carl did not like Curlew. Still, the man had a reputation for getting things done. And, although city staff found Curlew demanding, Carl believed he’d maintained a reasonably good relationship with him.
Up from the ranks, Adair Eagan, the Public Works Director, had a red face, little hair, and an ill-fitting suit. A man in his late forties, he’d proven to be a diligent cultivator of those above him. Eagan had outdistanced both Burleigh and Carl on his way to the Director’s job. By virtue of his position, he had close familiarity with Carl’s work and his qualifications. They got along well enough, but Carl felt no sense of comradery as he did with other members of the department. Alma actively disliked the man. She characterized Eagan as untrustworthy, a self-promoter.
Cecilia Riches, the Personnel Officer, still in her thirties, had come over from a private employment firm three or four years before. Dark-haired and thin-faced, she came across as a humorless person, one who considered herself especially “up-to-speed” when it came to contemporary employment practices. Terms like “efficiency” and “best practices” peppered her conversations. At the moment, she pensively chewed on the bow of her brown-framed glasses.
“Well, Carl, this shouldn’t take long,” Curlew said. “We all know you. You’ve been here a long time, after all.”
Carl smiled. “That’s true.” Been here a long time, he thought. Was this simply intended to reassure him? Or did it have something to do with his age?
Curlew went on. “With Burleigh leaving, Adair thinks this might be a good time to try some new approaches. And we agree. Shake things up in Public Works.”
“We’d like your ideas, Carl,” Eagan said and then surrendered himself to a jaw-stretching yawn.
Carl’s Adam’s apple rose and fell like a barometer of discomfort. No one had warned him such a question might come up. He had some ideas, but he really had not formulated a proposal. He’d expected only to describe his record and achievements. A sheen of perspiration embraced his forehead.
“For example, do you think it might make sense to combine the vehicle unit and the supply yards under one chief?”
“Well,” Carl said, after an uncomfortable pause, “we’ve talked about it some in the past, but . . .”
Riches interrupted. “Just because we did things a certain way in the past, doesn’t mean we have to continue to do so. I’m sure you’d agree there is always a need for new thinking.” She leaned forward. “Have to keep up with the times, you know.”
What did that mean? Carl felt challenged. What did she know about the city’s work, anyway? Of course, Carl tried to stay current on issues of city management, especially on construction and maintenance topics. He regularly highlighted articles in The Public Works Professional.
More questions followed. Carl worried his responses seemed simplistic, anodyne. Worse yet, Carl sensed the panelists didn’t care about his answers. For good or ill, they merely were going through the motions.
Q. “What should we be looking for in new employees?”
A. “Better grounding in technology. Good work ethic.”
Q. “The union is getting more active. How would you handle complaints?”
A. Keep city interests in mind but offer a fair hearing to complaints.
Q. “Do you think we are up to speed in the use of computers and electronic data?”
A. Well, our system is pretty much out of date, but gets the job done.
Q. “Lots of pressure for budget cuts; what are your recommendations?”
A. Submitted a report on keeping our vehicles in service longer. Think buildings painting schedule could be re-worked.
Q. “What are the biggest challenges the city faces?”
A. Trying to do more with less.
“You’ve seen a good deal in your time here,” Riches said. “Long years of service certainly count. Burleigh has probably seen more than the rest of us put together.” She and Curlew exchanged knowing smiles.
A compliment? A veiled criticism? More importantly, was it another reference to age? The issue he’d once dismissed now gnawed at him. Were they, in fact, looking for a younger person? Carl was increasingly convinced that was the case. He worried.
These people were his colleagues. But when he searched for sounds of friendliness in their voices, he found none. They had treated him almost as if he were a stranger. Was the interview nothing more than a charade intended to demonstrate transparency – or whatever they called it? Had they already selected someone else? Was this fellow Trager actually a contender?
Curlew leaned back; hands folded across his chest. “We’ll have a decision tomorrow.” The meeting had lasted thirty minutes.
They’d been going through motions alright. But, Carl decided, not for the reason he’d originally anticipated. His mood, once confident, now felt leaden. Somehow, he was being eased out. He was sure of it.
~ ~ ~
And he was right.
When the phone rang Saturday afternoon, Carl was watching the television news. Why, he wondered, was Nelson Mandela getting a New York ticker tape parade? And why was Bush meeting Gorbachev? But, mostly, he wondered when he would learn the panel’s recommendation.
“It’s Cecilia Riches, “Alma called out.
Carl swallowed hard.
“Carl, I have to give you a heads up. The recommendation we sent to the mayor was for Trager. Can’t say how Curlew and I voted, but we had agreed that, because he is the Director, Adair Eagan’s decision would be the determining one. Wish I had better news.”
“What possible qualifications does he have?” Carl was shocked. “This doesn’t make sense.” Carl was amazed. “Is this how they reward thirty years’ service?” Carl was stupefied. Burleigh had it right.
Carl dropped the phone into its cradle and stared into the garden. No longer uplifting his spirits, the garden view seemed dreary, the lilacs dull. It had to be this age business. What else could it be? Based on any rational thought process, the decision was inexplicable. Carl felt crushed; bitter did not come close to describing his feelings.
“Alma, I’m going to fight this,” Carl said. “Maybe some kind of legal action. Damn it. They can’t pull a fast one on Carl Bitters.” That said, he wasn’t certain how he could stop them, whoever they were. “Is that how they reward loyalty?” Carl said, his voice saturated with indignation. “Is this how they reward a job well done?”
Moments later his mood shifted. Colored by a jumble of thoughts and counterthoughts, anger and resolution yielded to ineffable gloom. Palms pressed to his face; Carl pondered his next move. Or was there a next move?
“There has to be something more behind it,” Alma said. “Can’t put my finger on it, but I never trusted Adair Eagan. He knows you’re good and how much you’ve made him look good. What would he have to gain?”
“Oh, it’s my age. I’m willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that’s it. Want to know what I think? I think he’s trying to convince the higher ups he’s on board for the youth movement. Either he’s bought into it himself or he just wants to be seen as a team player.” Carl threw up his hands in a gesture of futility. “I’m only fifty-five, Alma. Fifty-five.”
Carl poured himself a scotch on the rocks, wandered into the living room, and slumped into his favorite recliner. After all this, he thought, who knew what might come next? He didn’t have long to wait. At four o’clock, the phone rang again.
“It’s for you,” Alma sang out from the kitchen. “It’s that personnel woman.”
“Okay. I’m coming.” Probably wants to put the knife in a little further, he muttered to himself.
“Hello.”
“I’ve some important news, Carl,” Riches said. “Trager has withdrawn his name and resigned from the staff.”
“What? I don’t understand. Why?” Carl now felt overwhelmed.
“More to follow. But somebody leaked the fact that Trager’s wife is Adair Eagan’s first cousin. Not only that. I’m not supposed to know this, but word is some questionable money ended up in Adair’s bank account.”
“I don’t believe it. I’ve known Adair for years. Lots of shortcomings but can’t imagine he’d be involved in something like that. Are you saying there was some plain old nepotism? Maybe a bribe?”
“There’s more. Adair also submitted his resignation an hour ago.”
“But why?”
“Apparently for the reason you suggested. Looks like something illegal was going on. The Mayor has referred the whole business to the County Attorney.”
“And all the time, I thought . . . Well, I thought it was my age.”
“Oh, no. It’s simply that Adair said he’d be more comfortable with Trager. And it was his call.”
“So, now what happens?”
“Well, there’s one more piece of news. The Mayor has endorsed you to the Council as the next Deputy Public Works Director. And, at least temporarily you will also serve as Acting Public Works Director.”
“I’m having trouble taking this all on board.”
“Don’t worry. My office is preparing all the paperwork. You can expect a call from the Mayor later today. Congratulations.”
“I was sure it was this age business,” Carl said to Alma. “I was just certain. Didn’t have a hint that any of this other stuff was going on.”
Alma smiled. “Maybe you were too concerned. I can’t imagine what they were thinking. It eventually had to come out. Anyway, you got the job.”
“Yeah. I guess it’s pretty complicated. I wonder who blew the whistle.”
“Who knows?”
“Do you think fifty-five is really old?”
“Of course not. Whatever. Let’s go to the movie and use that discount. Meryl Streep is in it, too.”
“Hey, Alma, I’m the one who gets a discount.”