Stopping the World
Mr. Rutherford had a vision, and that vision concerned the kind of life he was building. Mr. Rutherford was a quiet man, and his vision was humble. His plan had nothing to do with amassing a fortune. He simply wanted a peaceful life and largely to be left alone.
But as anyone knows in this day and age, Mr. Rutherford’s vision was outrageous. And Wim Stanley had no intention of leaving Mr. Rutherford alone. Mr. Rutherford worked for Wim Stanley, and even though Wim Stanley was the boss and Mr. Rutherford had to do what he said, everyone called Mr. Rutherford, Mr. Rutherford, and Wim Stanley was simply Wim, or else Wim Stanley.
Perhaps it had something to do with Mr. Rutherford’s bearing. He was large and ponderous, each of his movements measured and deliberate. He always wore a long-sleeved button-down shirt, tie, slacks, and lace-ups. And when he looked at you through those glasses of his with the impossibly thin frames, it was as though the world had stopped; and I suppose it did in a way, because Mr. Rutherford made it so.
But for Wim Stanley, such behavior was intolerable. Each second squandered on chit-chat could never be recovered. In fact, the longer one took to move from Point A to Point B, the larger the wasted opportunity cost. Wim Stanley coined this term, “wasted opportunity cost,” to describe the sum total of all the opportunities one might have had in the workplace but that one would never realize because of certain inefficient actions or rather inactions on the part of the employee. To Wim Stanley, Mr. Rutherford was the living embodiment of a wasted opportunity cost, and Wim was determined to set this situation right.
It all started when Dr. Klein retired. Dr. Klein had brought Mr. Rutherford on board eight years beforehand. But those were different times. Dr. Klein appreciated Mr. Rutherford’s hearty laughter and the care and seriousness with which he undertook his work in the supply room. Dr. Klein had started the company back “in the early days,” as they were known, and not many current employees remained from that time. Mr. Rutherford’s hiring marked the tail end of the early days, and now nine years later, just one year after Wim Stanley took over, the early days had vanished from the institutional memory, except a trace of them lived somewhere behind Mr. Rutherford’s prescription lenses, in that look he gave that brought the world to a halt.
Wim Stanley bristled at the inefficiencies of Mr. Rutherford’s shirt sleeves. Wim Stanley wore only vests. Lace-up shoes were a disgrace. Wim Stanley preferred loafers and endorsed their use in memos, only he was careful to call them slip-ons, lest the other word send the wrong message. Wim Stanley never dared look behind those glass shields and into Mr. Rutherford’s eyes because he could not afford to have the world crawl to a stop. Better to send memos—upon those Mr. Rutherford’s gentle gaze could have no effect.
I remember one such memo only weeks after Dr. Klein retired. The memo said this: “Effective immediately: all employees shall make one suggestion per week concerning how they intend personally to boost productivity. We want to hear from you!”
I recall seeing Mr. Rutherford not long after the memo was sent, and he looked uncharacteristically crestfallen. So I asked him, “Mr. Rutherford, what is it?” And he said, “John, I’m worried about the new guy.” And I said, “Why is that, Mr. Rutherford?” And he said, “Because he wants to make a name for himself.” And I said, “Wim Stanley?” And he said, “Wim Stanley.” And that was the end of the conversation. But Mr. Rutherford’s words stuck with me, and I kept on eye on Wim.
The weeks wore on and I would send in my suggestions—all bullshit really, but it kept Wim off my back. I noticed Mr. Rutherford looking more and more downtrodden. At first, I didn’t want to intrude. I mean, what good can come from telling someone they’re looking terrible? But for a man like Mr. Rutherford, it was really noticeable that something was wrong. So when I finally asked him, he said, “John, you’re right. Nine years I’ve worked this job with no problems. I know my limits, but so did Dr. Klein. The balance has shifted, John. Mark my words.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about then, but I started taking note of how often Mr. Rutherford was getting called into Wim Stanley’s office. It didn’t really seem fair. When I asked Mr. Rutherford about it, he said that Wim had been calling him in for “coaching.” And I thought, Coaching? Are you serious? We’re not the Chicago Bears. We’re a textbook distributor. But Wim Stanley suddenly fancies himself Mike Ditka.
One time I was talking to Gloria Sudna and Ed Revello in the breakroom about this, and I saw Wim walk by, only he paused for a minute in the doorway, before smiling a big phony smile and walking on. Wouldn’t you know that two days later, I got called in for some coaching of my own. Let me tell you, there was nothing nice about that. He wanted to hear about the progress I had been making toward implementing my suggestions. There was something he said about an action plan, and the next thing you know, he was questioning my commitment to the textbook trade. Well, you can’t exactly tell your boss to go take a flying leap, but I did think about Mr. Rutherford getting a steady dose of this and wondered where that man found his patience. Just thinking about his calm under fire helped me settle down somehow. I started thinking about Mr. Rutherford’s lethargic gestures and a sense of peace descended on me as I sat there halfway listening to a list of my shortcomings. I wasted an hour like this, but then Wim seemed to lose interest and let me go back to my job.
Here’s something else: Wim Stanley loved wearing bow ties and when he hired himself an assistant, this person loved wearing bow ties, too. Was this just coincidence? You should ask Mr. Rutherford about that. The assistant’s first assignment was to follow Mr. Rutherford around with a clipboard, analyzing his every move. This would lead to long meetings behind closed doors between the assistant and Wim Stanley. Sooner or later Mr. Rutherford would be called in for more coaching.
At that point, some of the memos were getting downright weird. I guess the assistant was giving back exactly what Wim Stanley wanted to hear. For me, whether it was Wim Stanley’s idea or whether it was something suggested by the assistant, I can’t say, but this one memo announced that the following Friday would be “Bow Tie Day.” “Come out and show your team spirit! Wear a bow tie!” it said. None of the rest of us owned bow ties much less understood how to tie the damn things. But we talked about this, wondering if we’d better learn. Everybody agreed it was nonsense, but wouldn’t you know when Friday came around, everybody was wearing bow ties—even the women. I’ll admit, I chickened out and stopped at Walmart the night before and found one that clipped on—nothing fancy, just a plain navy blue one. But these other people went over the top. Some looked like dealers at the casino. Others found bow ties with specialty prints like baby ducks.
When Wim Stanley saw this, he couldn’t stop himself from clapping, and this got the assistant to start clapping, too. Soon, everyone was clapping, and the next thing you know, they had us all lined up along the wall, and Wim Stanley walked down the line inspecting us with the assistant taking notes on his clipboard. All of us, that is, except for Mr. Rutherford. When he entered the conference room, everybody turned to look. Mr. Rutherford was wearing a tie as usual, but it was the wrong kind—not a bow tie. I looked at Wim. His lips were pursed, and his eyebrows were raised, but he wasn’t looking at Mr. Rutherford, lest the world should stop.
I felt so bad for Mr. Rutherford because the room got quiet and stayed that way too long. I guess he knew there was no point in joining the line-up, but it took him an eternity to get from one side of the room to the other, and that seemed to spoil things for Wim. But then the assistant managed a big fake smile of his own and yelled, “Happy Friday, Everybody!”
Well, somehow that did the trick, and Wim Stanley started clapping again. So did everyone else, even as Mr. Rutherford lumbered along, and the entire staff went back to its lively conversations.
I don’t remember exactly how long Mr. Rutherford remained with the company after that day. There was no clear cause and effect to any of it. I mean, how could someone be dismissed for not wearing a bow tie? But then that’s as good a reason as any, I suppose—as good as anything else Wim Stanley could ever think of.
I wonder if it didn’t work out better for Mr. Rutherford in the end—if there isn’t some other place he might have found where slow calm and peace of mind still count for something. I honestly miss the world stopping every now and then, and every time I pass the supply room, I think of him.
