I know the way to Pops’ office, heading through the maze of hallways that lead off the factory floor through the room of cubicles, then up the stairs to the executive suites.
I’ve been here before, several times.
Pops does not look up from his monitor as I hang out in the doorway.
“Have a seat.”
I pop down into the fine leather chair, aware that the grease on my jumpsuit is going to leave a mark. This chair is more comfortable than anything in my studio apartment.
“What’d I do now?”
Pops grunts. Finally, he turns away from his monitor and pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.
“Hayes, how long have you worked for me?”
“Seven years today, sir.”
“And how many promotions have I offered you in that time?”
“Seven.”
“And how many have you turned down?”
“Seven, sir.”
Some people call this man Santa Claus, only without the white beard. I think it’s the grandfatherly way he treats everyone. “I’m not your commanding officer. You don’t have to call me sir.”
“Force of habit.”
“And why have you turned down seven promotions?”
I give the same answer I’ve given before; it’s a nicer way of saying I don’t like people. “Others are better suited for it. I don’t want to be in charge of people. I make enough to live on, and anything beyond that, I don’t care.”
Pops peers at me over the top of the glasses.
“I’ve heard the same thing over and over again. But your military record makes you perfect to manage a team.”
“I’ve heard that before. But I like where I am. And I like the company.”
Pops leans on his desk.
“And as much as I tried to get good people into leadership, the best leader I have in the plant prefers working the floor.”
I don’t take this as a question, so I stare back at him.
He points to his monitor. “I’ve been looking at your records, and you’ve been contributing the absolute maximum amount into your retirement fund the entire time you’ve been here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know, the contribution will be a hell of a lot bigger if you would let me pay you more. If that’s what you’re interested in.”
“I don’t want a promotion. I don’t want to be a middle manager, getting reamed by upper management and hated by the people who report to me. I just want to do my job and go home.”
He leans forward. “And where is home?”
He has to know that already, if he’s been snooping at my file.
I answer with my literal address.
