Hoffman came into the conference room and put his iPad down. He looked around at the team sitting at the shiny conference table, careful to make eye contact with each one of us. The mood went from the jovial, pointless pre-meeting small talk to tenseness. Something was going on. Something big.
I stole at glance at Beverly across from me. She looked worried. She had been saying for weeks the company was going to be bought. Maybe she was right. I immediately thought about finding a new job. My mind bounced from one thought to another. Was my LinkedIn profile updated? Why the heck hadn’t I stayed in touch with Hank after he left for that that wildly successful start-up? One page, or three on the resume?
Hoffman let us sit in silence for a bit, wondering what was going on, then spoke up.
“I take it we’ve all seen the news out of New Zealand,” he said.
I had no idea what the man was talking about. We didn’t have an office in New Zealand, or maybe we did.
My eyes darted around the table to gauge the reaction of the others. Hopefully no one else knew what he was talking about. Blank stares, all of them. Except for Andy. He was doing that little nodding thing he does when he sucks up. Which was always. I secretly wished Hoffman would say something like, “Good, Andy. At least you’re up to date, why not brief the rest of the team.”
It wasn’t happening.
Hoffman sat down at the head of the table, went to his iPad and started reading.
“A company in New Zealand that tested a four-day work week says the experiment was so successful that it hopes to make the change permanent,” he said.
He gave us another cycle of the “death stare,” looking around at the assembled, just to let us know this was bad. Andy was sighing and shaking his head, trying to signify he understood the gravity of the situation.
“This is bad on so many levels,” Hoffman said. “And if it’s possible to make matters even worse, here’s something that will. The company paid employees for five days, while allowing them to work just four.”
“What the hell is going on in New Zealand?” I asked, hoping to get out in front of the team and establish myself as extremely concerned about the news I didn’t understand.
Hoffman slammed his fist on the table and said, “Whatever it is, it sure as hell better not get here.”
“Some kind of progressive, namby-pamby crap,” Andy said.
“The ‘Work-Life Balance’ police are behind this,” Milton said.
I thought Milton had been reassigned to the facilities staff after his last marketing debacle. Maybe I was wrong. Somehow the guy had kept his seat at the table. Literally.
Hoffman stared at his iPad. His face reddened and his cheeks seemed to expand, like some kind of puffer fish in a suit. “Here’s what these people in New Zealand found from this harebrained work-four-days-a-week stunt, according to this article. The staff was more creative, they were on time, and didn’t take long breaks.”
“Creativity my ass,” Milton said, with conviction.
“Exactly,” Hoffman bellowed.
Son of a gun, Milton had brought his A game. Maybe he had been in rehab or something because he seemed sharper, and more clear-eyed than when I last saw him.
“Working four days instead of five,” Hoffman said. “You know what this means?”
Beverly spoke up and probably wished she hadn’t. “It’s a thirty-two hour work week instead of forty,” she said.
“Forty?” Milton said. “Hell, that’s my vacation week.”
The man was on fire. It was like watching Steph Curry launching three’s. Everything he spit out was nothing but net.
“It means we need to keep an eye on this crap,” Hoffman said. “This catches on here and we’re going to have big problems. I’m sure these weak-kneed Kiwis even turn off email and texts on their off hours.”
“What are off hours?” Andy asked.
Milton gave him a little glare. It was turning into a two-horse race for Suck-Up of the Day honors.
“The guy who founded the company,” Hoffman yelled, spittle flying in every direction, “you know what was his big takeaway? He says they should hire people based on tasks performed, not hours in the office.”
The group collectively sunk a little deeper in the comfy leather conference room chairs. We all knew if that was the case the jig was up. Pay me based on productivity and I’d make $26,000 a year, maybe less.
“Mister Founder Man over there in New Zealand goes on to say, a contract should be about an agreed level of productivity,” Hoffman said.
“Outrageous,” I yelled. “We do not need our jobs, our very careers tied to productivity. What will happen to the value of just being in the office all the time? What’s next, no conference calls on weekends? Where does it end?”
The team rallied behind me with cries of, ‘totally,’ and ‘completely outrageous.’ I even heard a ‘hear, hear,’ tossed in. It felt good. I shot Milton and Andy a little look to let them know I was still in the game.
Hoffman stared at me and then went strangely silent. His cheeks deflated and he seemed lost deep in thought. “Hmmm,” he said.
He kept staring at me and I wondered if I had crossed a line or something. The team sensed it too. Nick on my left, and Dana on my right slid their chairs a few inches away from me.
Hoffman glanced down at his iPad. His fingers worked the scroll, and he seemed to be reading the article again.
“An agreed level of productivity,” he said, looking up. Then he sat back and put his hands together in that little steeple thing. He smiled a devious smile.
“Maybe that’s not all that outrageous after all, now that I think about it,” he said.
Milton stared at me and shook his head. Andy saw an opening and seized the opportunity.
“I volunteer to be the first to give it a try. Anything to help the company,” he said. “Maybe a pay-per-project system is worth trying.”
I thought about changes I needed to make to my LinkedIn profile.