Smaller Luke Theory
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Performance Improvement Plan - Chapter 2
🕑 Added 2024-09-21 12:35:08 +0000 UTCI'm pretty jazzed to be working on a new story, and I'm also well aware that there's a little bit more of an on-ramp to this one before we get to the Main Attraction, so I thought hey, why not bang out two chapters back-to-back!
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December 7th, 2024 - Dr. Joanna Becker
This is the annotated transcript of the first session with patient Bethany Granger, file number 00-005. Intake forms and long-term patient history can be found in the file. Patient scheduled an appointment with our office after obtaining our number from their employer’s mental health resources website, and we agreed to accept them following a brief intake screening. Patient is seeking counseling and possibly treatment for anxiety and stress. Note: patient has a professional relationship to Patient 00-004, Theodore Murphy.
DR. BECKER: Beth, hello! Please, come in, come in.
MS. GRANGER: Um. Okay. Should I just…?
DR. BECKER: Anywhere you’d like. You can even sit at my desk if you’d like to.
MS. GRANGER: Oh, no, no, I would never! Uh, sorry, um, I… Sorry.
DR. BECKER: It’s alright, it’s alright. Why don’t you take a seat on the couch here.
MS. GRANGER: Okay. Sorry.
Patient clearly suffers from acute anxiety. Unclear at this point whether it is specifically social anxiety or if that is just one manifestation of a generalized anxiety disorder.
DR. BECKER: So, why don’t you tell me a little bit about why you’re here?
MS. GRANGER: Oh. Uh… Well. I don’t, really know, I guess.
I waited here for several minutes to see if Ms. Granger would collect her thoughts without additional prompting. She did not.
DR. BECKER: How about we start here: what were you thinking about when you called to make this appointment?
MS. GRANGER: I guess, I was mostly just trying to. I was just focused on making sure I said the right things. I’m not very good on the phone, I trip over my words a lot and. So. I was just trying to avoid that.
DR. BECKER: What about before that? What were you thinking about that made you decide to make the call in the first place?
MS. GRANGER: Oh, sure. Right. Sorry. I’m sorry.
DR. BECKER: It’s okay!
MS. GRANGER: Well, uh. It was actually my, my friend, well, my work friend, Francesca. She was the one that, that thought I should… talk to somebody, I guess. Well. Not, um. Not “somebody.” She thought I should talk to you.
DR. BECKER: Why me, specifically?
MS. GRANGER: Well, um. I mean. We’ve all noticed what’s been happening with um. With Ted—Mr. Murphy. Ever since he started seeing you. Even before the… you know, his… we noticed that things were different right after the first time he saw you.
***
Monday again. Beth hated being at work.
She didn’t hate her job, per se. In fact, she loved the work itself, combing through writer’s submissions, offering punch-up suggestions or tweaking the grammar and syntax to make a passage really sing. It was a blend of artistry and mechanical detail that made her brain hum. She never felt more at home than with her nose buried in a manuscript.
It was everything else she hated.
The office was currently empty and only dimly lit. The sky outside the windows was only just starting to fade from inky darkness into the deep blue of pre-dawn. She was here hours before anyone else almost every day; it was the only way she could hope to even attempt to keep up on her workload.
She had been over the moon when she’d gotten the job offer from Marabou Publishing late last year. She still remembered her initial job interview with—she closed her eyes and took a deep breath to try and relax her jaw—with Mr. Murphy. He had seemed so sweet and nice that day, like a kind, gentle mentor, and she’d been eager to prove herself to him. All the bad experiences and stress dreams had completely soiled her image of him now, but she even remembered thinking he wasn’t too bad on the eyes: tall, broad-shouldered and clean-cut, his face transitioning into the early stages of middle age with grace.
She’d been brought on the week before the holidays, and was told beforehand that she’d be expected to work through them. That was fine by her. This was a dream job, and there’d be more Christmases in the future. That was before she’d heard about her mom’s accident. She’d been planning to spend Christmas at work, and instead she spent it in an ICU ward, and spent the following week helping to convert her childhood home to accommodate the wheelchair her mother was going to need for the rest of her life.
The time off had been approved by the company, and HR assured her that her repeated apologies were unnecessary. But Mr. Murphy… that was a different story. His replies to her stream of updates and apologies were terse and clipped, and he just ignored anytime she suggested he email her some files for her to work on from her parents’ home. When she finally made it back into the office in January, all the warmth and openness he’d shown her that first week was gone. He never said that he thought she made up the entire thing about her mom to get Christmas off, but that was the clear subtext underneath every little thing he said to her. They’d just fallen so far behind schedule without her, he’d explained, so he hoped she’d be alright taking on a little extra work to help them catch up. She’d agreed immediately, eager to seize an opportunity to recover from the bad foot she’d started off with.
The extra hours every morning—and every evening—probably would have been enough to catch up. If she could ever get any work done.
When he was in the office, it seemed like Mr. Murphy had some new menial task for her every twenty minutes: emptying the shredder, picking up the proofs from the printing department, taking everyone’s lunch orders. Half the time he seemed to forget that she was an editor and treated her more like a secretary. And the other half of the time he would just never. Stop. Talking. Out of the blue he’d be standing at the entrance to her cubicle, because she’d decided to include an Oxford comma where he wouldn’t, or opted for an em dash instead of a semicolon, or used too many contractions or not enough contractions or, or, something. Always something.
And it wasn’t enough for him to nitpick her work; if he’d taken note of a split infinitive he disagreed with, he couldn’t just tell her to change it, he’d have to give her an entire lecture on how infinitives work, and how they’re only one word in Latin but two in English, and on and on and on, and the entire time she’d be nodding along while casting glances at the BA in Creative Writing hanging on her cubicle wall, hoping he’d get the hint that she was well aware of all of this already, from school if not from the last three times he’d given her this lecture, but every time it was in vain. At first, she didn’t know whether he was deliberately trying to derail her work as a way to extend her punishment or if he just loved the sound of his own voice that much; after a few months, she was certain that it was the latter.
And then he had the gall to constantly, constantly criticize her for not being more productive! At her six month review, he told her that he was “disappointed in her work ethic!” That she needed to show more initiative and produce stronger numbers, or he’d have to put her on a PIP!
She wiped the tears of frustration out of her eyes; she didn’t have time to cry about it. She had the office to herself until at least seven A.M., and she needed to make the most of the time.
Beth had relocated for this job; she didn’t know anyone in the city, and her hours meant that she really didn’t have the spare time to get to know anyone in the city. She’d always been a shy person, but the isolation imposed on her by her boss, along with the endless criticism and nitpicking, was making it worse than it had ever been. Every day here was eroding her self-confidence, making her even more timid and anxious. She hated the way she’d started compulsively apologizing for everything she did, the gnawing sense that anytime she shared a space with anyone, not just Mr. Murphy, they were silently judging her.
She’d hoped she could at least lean on the senior members of the team for support, but no. Francesca, Joyce and Laura barely said a word, to her or to each other. They just sat at their desks and worked, and seemed irritated anytime Beth tried to speak to them. At first, Beth thought they were just… focused. She wondered if her desire to socialize was a sign of immaturity, something that working her first “grown-up job” would train out of her. But the more she observed them, the more she recognized their behavior as a defense mechanism. They made themselves as inapproachable as they could so that Mr. Murphy wouldn’t approach them. They’d cultivated images of serious, busy people who had no time to chat, in order to rebuff their obnoxious boss’ attempts to annoy them with pedantic criticism or extra work.
Beth couldn’t really blame them for it, but all of his obnoxious, overbearing energy had to go somewhere, and with all of them so practiced at rebuffing him, all of it was coming down on her head.
Something else that had struck her about her coworkers was that all three women were absolutely gorgeous. As if she needed one more thing to feel insecure about. She marveled at the coincidence of it… until she learned that it wasn’t a coincidence at all. Mr. Murphy was friends with managers all throughout the company, including the ones in charge of hiring. One day, she’d overheard some gossip that he had “first right of refusal” for any female junior editors they hired; he wanted his office filled with eye candy.
Beth’s face burned red-hot and a few more tears escaped her eyes as she flashed back to how she’d reflexively reacted to the information: at least he thinks I’m pretty enough to sexually harass. Here, finally, she’d gotten a piece of positive feedback.
She ripped a few sheets of paper out of a legal pad and channeled all her anger and shame into wadding them up as tightly as she could before turning back to her work.
After learning about Mr. Murphy’s hiring practices, and after he’d given her that terrible performance review, she’d tried to file an HR complaint—that’s what you’re supposed to do in a big company like this, right? You file a complaint and HR, you know, they find a way to resolve the conflict.
As far as Beth could tell, the way they “resolved the conflict” was cramming her complaint into an overstuffed filing cabinet and never taking a second look at it. So, she just… kept her head down. If she worked hard enough, surely she could find a way to impress him, or at least get him off of her back. The actual work she was turning in was high-quality, she knew that it was. He couldn’t hold a single family emergency over her head for her entire career, right?
…Right?
Everything had come to a boil two weeks ago. Mr. Murphy’s newest way of torturing her was dumping the new Legends of the Dragon Heart book on her. She actually liked the series quite a bit, it was a really engrossing mix of fantasy, action and romance, but the books weren’t exactly known for their brevity. Balancing it with all of her other assignments was impossible, but she knew that if she complained it would just be one more point against her. With a completely unreasonable deadline bearing down on her, she’d decided to pull an all-nighter.
By one A.M., she was asleep at her desk, nowhere near finished. She didn’t wake up until Mr. Murphy was shouting “Good morning!” at her in that loud, aggressively friendly tone of his, the way he did every morning. He’d left her be after that to answer some emails and get his day started, and the other girls had all made it in by the time he finally asked her how the editing pass was coming.
When she admitted that it wasn’t finished, he went ballistic.
Beth was a compact 5’1”, her frame skinny and delicate. Mr. Murphy had over a foot of height and well over a hundred pounds on her, so to see him red in the face with anger, shouting at the top of his lungs… It was terrifying. She’d shrunken away from him, choking back sobs as he’d gone off on an endless tirade about how useless she was, about how she was ruining the entire team’s productivity metrics, about how apparently there was no amount of extra time that would make her capable of doing her job right. The other women were drawn to the shouting, and Beth began to hyperventilate as everyone watched him tear into her.
When he punched the wall, she’d run to the bathroom, where she hid crying for an hour.
By the time she’d gotten back… it was like nothing had happened at all. She could see Mr. Murphy through the glass facade of his office, chin on his hand as he studied something on his monitor. In the office next door sat Laura (the only other member of the team with her own office), similarly engrossed in her work. Joyce was typing away in her cubicle while Francesca was sneaking a break to play a game on her phone. Everything was so oppressively regular… except for the hole in the wall, and the missing picture frame.
Beth didn’t even bother reporting the incident; she’d already learned that it wouldn’t do anything, other than maybe piss Mr. Murphy off even more if one of his buddies in HR leaked it to him. But, to her surprise, she was approached the next day and brought into an office upstairs to discuss what had happened. The entire week, she’d occasionally see the others, including Mr. Murphy himself, get called away, sometimes for long spans of time.
She eventually found out that Francesca had filed a complaint on her behalf. She was just as stand-offish and cold toward Beth as always, but apparently this had crossed a line for her.
For a few days, Beth finally started to feel hopeful that something was going to change. They were clearly taking this more seriously than they had her previous complaint, and really, they should, right? He’d gotten violent.
But by the end of the week… the meetings seemed to stop, and everything went back to business as usual. HR was reluctant to tell her about what had been decided, but with enough prodding, they finally relented and explained that Mr. Murphy was being disciplined. A formal write-up had been put in his file—two more of those and he’d be ineligible for promotions for the next 3 years—and they were making him attend an anger management therapy session. An anger management therapy session. Singular. One.
Beth cried herself to sleep that night.
She didn’t know what she was going to do. She couldn’t keep going like this, but… what was the alternative? This was the exact job she’d spent the last 8 years working to land. This was what she knew how to do, and it was what she wanted to do. Or… it used to be, at least. She could feel herself burning out, feel the pleasure drain from her work as she trudged through pile after pile of manuscripts, weathering endless criticism, bullying, and now, loud, humiliating displays of intimidation. She could quit and try to find a job with another publisher… but how would that look? She landed a job at one of the top firms on the east coast and washed out in less than a year? It’s not like she could rely on a good letter of recommendation; if anything, Mr. Murphy would probably go out of his way to tell other publishers not to hire her.
She was just… stuck.
“Hey.”
Beth practically fell out of her seat at the sound of Francesca’s voice.
“Ah! Uh, sorry, I um. Did I forget to restock the K-cups in the break room?”
“What? No, uh. I just wanted to talk. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Francesca was thin like Beth, but much taller—nearly as tall as Mr. Murphy. There was a certain elegance to the way she carried herself—she always made Beth think of ivy, stretching and creeping along a wall.
“Listen,” she said, taking a step into Beth’s cubicle. Her voice was soft and conspiratorial. “I… owe you an apology. I think we all do.”
“...What do you mean?”
Francesca sighed, deflating a little as she looked around the office plaintively. “I was the last new hire before you. I know how… wonderful our boss can be. All three of us do. I think… I think we just saw that he found himself a new punching bag, and… and I think we all independently decided, ‘better her than us.’ It wasn’t right, and we shouldn’t have ever let it get as bad as it’s gotten. You don’t deserve this, and… well, from now on, I’ve got your back, okay? And I’m gonna tell Joyce and Laura that they better have your back from now on, too.”
“I… I…” Beth was fighting back tears; the mere fact that someone was finally acknowledging what she’d been going through was almost more than she could take. She wanted to jump up and embrace the taller woman, sob into her shoulder, just—
Wait. If Francesca was here, then… how long had she been zoning out?! The day-time lights were on, and sunlight was pouring in from the windows.
“Did Mr. Murphy take the day off?” She hadn’t heard a loud, aggressively friendly “Good morning!”
Francesca cocked her head, a bright luster dancing across her raven-black hair. “He’s been here for over an hour, did you not hear him come in?”
Beth rose from her chair and up onto her toes. Sure enough, her boss was sitting in his office, making a phone call.
“He’s been quiet today, I don’t think he’s said two words to anyone. Maybe he’s getting sick.”
Beth stared at him, biting her lip.
“I gotta go talk to him. But, um… thank you. I… thank you.”
Francesca set a hand on Beth’s shoulder. “You could just message him on Slack.”
She was right about that. Beth looked down at her computer, then back toward his office. She could feel her heart rate rising. “I… I want to show him that I’m not afraid of him.”
Francesca offered a supportive smile and a light pat on the back.
Beth’s eyes fixated on her boss as she slowly crossed the open floor toward him. Her hands were trembling slightly, her palms sweaty, so she shoved them into the pockets of her slacks. As she approached, she could faintly hear his side of his phone call through the glass.
“No, you don’t understand. Something isn’t right. I’ve been… lethargic, all weekend, and. I don’t know, there’s just been a lot of strange things happening, I don’t know how to explain it, but it all started after… We really can’t just do this over the phone?... Alright, fine. I’ll be there Saturday.”
Normally, when Mr. Murphy made a phone call, his booming baritone carried all the way to Beth’s cube; it was yet another thing that made him infuriating as a boss. But today, Beth had nearly needed to be right at his door before she could hear him.
Swallowing, she pushed the glass door open, and he turned to look at her.
“Oh, good morning, Beth. Did you need something?”
Something about him was just… off, today. Beth couldn’t really place what it was. It was the softness of his voice, but it was also something about his posture, or just… something about the energy he was giving off. He seemed… more docile.
“Sorry, I just, wanted to let you know that I finished up on the Pierson novel.”
“Oh. Good. Thanks. I’ll take a look at it on the shared drive when I have some time.” He turned back toward his monitor.
Beth stood there, taking him in, feeling slightly off-kilter. None of the usual anxiety or intimidation that she felt in his presence was there. The man sitting before her just… didn’t seem like anyone to get that worked up about. How had he managed to intimidate and terrorize her for 8 long months? Ten minutes ago, she was on the verge of tears thinking about how she’d ever manage to survive her next encounter with him. Was she really going to let this guy make her feel that way?
Her hands began to tremble again, but this time, in anger. She balled them into fists, a mask of pure rage stretching across her face as she grinded her teeth.
She seethed there in his doorway for a long, silent moment, before Mr. Murphy realized that she was still there and turned back to her. “Sorry, was there something else?”
“Ffffffuck you.” The words hissed out between her lips, snake venom transformed into sound.
Mr. Murphy’s jaw dropped, eyes bugging out. “What did you just say to me?”
Beth’s face suddenly burned crimson. Oh God, what had she just said to him?!
“Uh! I! I don’t know what. Sorry! Sorry! I’m sorry! Um, I’ll…. Sorry!” she practically sprinted out of his office and dove into the security of her cubicle, burying her head in her hands. Where had that come from?!
The sound of a door knocking popped out from her speaker. A Slack notification. A DM from Mr. Murphy.
It’s been a stressful couple of weeks for everybody, so I’m going to pretend that didn’t just happen.
A shuddering, ragged sigh escaped her as she deflated in her seat. Francesca’s large, dark eyes appeared over the wall of her cubicle, looking at her quisitively.
***
MS. GRANGER: I um. I have my first annual performance review coming up, and… And Francesca thought. Well, I’m not, very, confident, uh. I guess that’s pretty easy to tell. Francesca thought that… maybe… whatever it is that you’re doing to Ted…
DR. BECKER: I can’t discuss another patient’s treatment, Beth.
MS. GRANGER: No, I know, I’m sorry! Um. But. We just thought that, whatever it is that you’re doing to him.
MS. GRANGER Maybe you could do the opposite to me?
Comments
Double Burger
I like where this one's going!
