Old People Working

A short story

Image by Alexander Mils

“How are our employees today?” Hudson Whitcomb asked his senior vice-president, Louis Green. “Are they all still alive?”

Whitcomb tugged the sleeves of his gray Cesare Attolini suit, tightened the Windsor knot on his solid red Ermenegildo Zegna tie, and chuckled. He glanced down and smiled at his reflection in his Miu Miu leather shoes. Not bad for seventy-five, Whitcomb thought. I can still make Elise happy and vice versa. A forty-four-year-old wife was precisely what a seventy-five-year-old man needed. 

Hudson Whitcomb founded Whitcomb Advertising in 1963 when he was twenty-two, and shephered it into one of the most successful and powerful advertising companies in New York. It wasn’t just tapping into the most creative minds that made Whitcomb Advertising a top firm—though Whitcomb had a knack for discovering the best employees. The secret sauce was holding onto those employees for as long as possible. Herculian time, money, and energy went into shaping staff, making it a waste to retire anyone at sixty, sixty-five, or even ninety. 

Plus, new hires were more expensive over the long run than older employees because their salaries would increase faster than legacy staff. 

Whitcomb’s face morphed into seriousness, and he hissed, “We’re not going to lose any more, right?” Whitcomb clenched his teeth as he recalled last week when Sophie Aaron, one of his top copywriters, stroked out an hour before the Umbrella Motors presentation. That was unfortunate. 

“They all seem fine,” Louis answered.

“I don’t like the word ‘seem,’ Louis. Let’s confirm that.”

“Of course, boss.”

Whitcomb and Green stopped in front of Harrison LaTale’s office. Like the recently-deceased Aaron, LaTale was a magnificent copywriter, a word maestro who could transform a solitary sentence into a magical potion. It didn’t matter if it was perfume, boat parts, pillows, or cigars—Harrison LaTale could craft an advertisement that sold millions. 

LaTale’s desk faced his office’s crystal-clear glass door, one of Whitcomb Advertising’s policies designed to help monitor staff’s health.

LaTale waved to Whitcomb and Green from the hallway decorated with framed posters of their advertisements and trophies from their myriad awards on illuminated pedestals. LaTale pointed to the IV bag to the left of his desk and held up three fingers. Thirty minutes remaining. 

The digital clock on LaTale’s wall counted down to when the IV needed replacing and would set off an alarm five minutes later if the company’s nurse didn’t replenish it. LaTale, who would celebrate his ninety-first birthday next month, was a diabetic the company sustained with an intravenous formula of amino acids, sugar, protein, electrolytes, vitamins, probiotics, and insulin. 

Six wires snaked under his clothing to a cuboid box with flashing green, blue, and yellow lights, the computer that controlled his IV. 

“Would you like to go in?” Green asked. 

“Nah. LaTale looks good, not pale in the slightest. I don’t want to interrupt him unless absolutely necessary. Plus, he’s a chatterbox and will go off on something unrelated to work, like when he grew up, there was only black and white television.” Whitcomb pivoted to the right. “Let’s see how Shirly’s doing.”

Shirly May, a ninety-six-year-old bookkeeper, occupied the office next to LaTale. Most companies separate their workers by division: creatives on one floor, admin on another, legal in a third space. But because Whitcomb Advertising’s staff worked and lived in their offices on company-provided life support, they remained in the same office until their very last day. Home, office, and hospital rolled into one.

From her hospital bed, May flicked her ancient eyes toward the door before returning them to her calculator. Her tightly-organized tools, including a number one pencil, leather binder, pack of Post-It notes, and a yellow legal pad, were within easy reach on the swing tray in front of her. The bed’s controls sat on her left, and a call button was on her right. 

Metal sidebars framed the bed.

The display above her work bed silently flashed 125/88, 70 bpm, O₂ 97%, EEG rhythmic and alive—all within normal, but if a vital went awry, the nurse was only seconds away. May didn’t suffer from any single ailment, but rather suffered from them all. At her age, her organs were continually deteriorating. 

Whitcomb entered the next office, which belonged to Jennifer Bergeron, a stroke victim, who, at one-hundred-one, was Whitcomb’s oldest employee—and one of his most valuable. One good thing about the ventilator that sustained her life is Whitcomb didn’t have to worry about Bergeron engaging in irrelevant banter. Bergeron’s stroke had been on the left side of her brain, but her creative right brain remained intact, and she could still write with one hand.

Whitcomb gave Bergeron a long look-over. She would live to at least one-hundred-two.

Just then, a deafening, ringing alarm blared. 

Whitcomb and Green dashed back into the hallway where the enormous mediboard flashed: Garcia. Office 56. Heart attack. 

A scramble of rubber-soled shoes squeaked against the floor. Wind shook the framed advertisements as Nurse Halloway ran toward Bryce Garcia’s office carrying a portable defibrillator.

Garcia. Office 56. Heart attack. The alarm’s voice belonged to Darth Vador. Whitcomb chose that voice because he felt it would initiate the fastest response. 

Garcia. Office 56. Heart attack. Halloway swiftly raised Garcia’s torso off the desk, ripped open his blue Oxford shirt, and attached the two electrodes to his chest.

A paramedic summoned from the fire station across the street burst into the office as nurse Halloway pressed the green start-defib button. 

Garcia. Office 56. Heart attack. Whitcomb turned the alarm off via his phone’s app. 

Green mouthed, “Thank you.”

The paramedic, a spritely twenty-something woman, injected a clear liquid into Garcia’s left arm. The monitor flashed a pulse for a few seconds, and the EEG resumed spiking, but then it flatlined again. 

“Another!” Whitcomb shouted, frantically pointing to the defibrillator. “And more epi for good measure.” 

Garcia’s chest quaked when Halloway pressed the defibrillator’s button, but the monitor’s bars didn’t change. 

Halloway shook her head, removed Garcia’s blue blazer, and covered his face with it. “I’m sorry.”

“Garcia was a good account executive. One of the best. But his ticker was one of the worst. He should have lasted longer than seventy-one years.” Whitcomb spoke in monotone like he was delivering a eulogy. 

Whitcomb had thought that a heart monitor would be sufficient, that Garcia didn't require a 24/7 IV. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

He turned to Green. “Dupont’s getting up there in years,” he said, referring to Mike Dupont, a copywriter swiftly approaching sixty. Whitcomb reviewed Dupont’s last medical check in his memory. His kidneys and bone density were not so good. It was time to hook him up to monitoring and an IV. “Move him into Garcia’s office while he can still walk.”

Three days later…

Melancholy and surprise painted Lilly Garcia's face when Hudson Whitcomb entered the funeral parlor, a surprise to everyone because Whitcomb didn’t do funerals. Or weddings, communions, bar and bat mitzvahs, or even birthdays. Whitcomb’s thoughtfulness for her late husband made her take back the mean thoughts she had about him. She would have smiled if not for the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Maybe he’ll say a few words, that would be nice.”

Whitcomb shuffled to the front of the chapel, his face down, hands shoved deep into his pockets to where Garcia lay in an open casket. He hovered over Bryce Garcia’s body with his eyes shut tight, swaying as if caught in a breeze or praying. 

A hundred attendees sat still and silent. 

Whitcomb opened his eyes, spun around to the back of the chapel, and took a loud, deep swig of air like an Olympic swimmer before launching. He then turned back to the deceased and, while holding his breath, dug into the inside pocket of Garcia’s jacket, the same blazer he had been wearing when he died, and removed a single sheet of paper. 

“Potential new client list. He would have wanted me to have this,” Whitcomb said to Lilly before sprinting out of the funeral parlor. He ran so fast he didn’t hear Lilly say, “That’s not what he wanted. Not even close.”

Whitcomb restrained himself from looking at the prospective client list—a list worth millions—while driving back to the office. He wondered who was on it. Everyone needed the ad man: pharma, auto, toys, porno, even the government. What Garcia acquired wasn’t just names of the companies; it was the names and numbers of individuals high enough up in an enterprise’s hierarchy to do the deal without anyone else’s input.

Whitcomb slammed on the brakes of his Cadillac Escalade ESV, missing an octogenarian and her dachshund, spinning his vehicle one-and-a-half times, nearly careening into a semi, and finally coming to a stop half a block in front of where that woman had been crossing the street. 

He quickly checked himself. No airbag deployed. No injury.

Through the rearview mirror, Whitcomb noted that the elderly woman had finished crossing the street. She was okay, too, and from the absence of any gesticulation, didn’t even seem to have noticed that she almost collided with a six-thousand-pound amalgam of metal.

Whitcomb parked quickly but carefully in his reserved space. 

Ten presses of the elevator button didn’t make the elevator come any faster, but Whitcomb kept pressing until the door opened. When he reached his office, Whitcomb ran in, plopped onto his Kennedy Cabinet Chair, and snapped Garcia's client list out of his jacket pocket.

“Damn!” Whitcomb blurted when the paper’s sharp edge sliced his forefinger. “That hurts like a motherfucker.” He reflexively stuck his finger in his mouth and then pulled it out, fearful that he might ignite an infection and lose his hand—or worse. 

With hands shaking in anticipation, Whitcomb unfolded the paper, ignored the drops of blood dotting the white, and called the first number on the list: Monica Cameron, Xeiona Corporation. 

Xeiona, that’s fantastic! This could be our biggest client ever. Whitcomb didn’t recognize Cameron’s name off the top of his head, but Xeiona was an enormous corporation. 

“This is Hudson Whitcomb from—”

“I know who you are, Hudson. It’s a pleasure to meet you over the phone. But I think we should meet in person, as we have a lot to discuss.”

Cameron said she’d be right over. 

“Please sit,” Whitcomb said after his secretary closed his office door, leaving him and Cameron alone. 

Cameron was less well-appointed than Whitcomb expected. An off-the-rack suit, makeup that looked like whoever does the makeup for the overnight crew at a twenty-four-hour news program applied it, no jewelry, and rubber-soled shoes.

“I’ll stand.”

When Whitcomb raised an eyebrow, she added, “This won’t take long.”

Whitcomb raised his other eyebrow.

Cameron withdrew a pistol from the small of her back. Whitcomb didn’t know what kind of pistol it was, but he recognized the silencer. 

“Who are you? What do you want?” Whitcomb stammered. 

“I’m an assassin. Garcia hired me.”

“What? How? Garcia’s dead.”

“Too bad you don’t have time to figure it out. But the better question would have been ‘When?’” Cameron smiled and shot Whitcomb three times in the chest. 

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If you enjoyed Old People Working, I think you’ll also like my story, Delegating Work.