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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Survival / Success
- Subject: Personal Growth / Achievement
- Published: 08/10/2014
Getting to the Top
Born 1929, M, from Roseville, CA, United StatesI started working for the State in the late 1950’s in San Francisco. I’d just had my first promotion, which came with my own office, small but my own. My section supervisor, Mr. Rose, came in, followed by a young man he introduced as Robert Chalmers. “He’s going to be our new clerk,” said Mr. Rose. Chalmers was well-dressed in a suit and tie and wore highly-polished shoes. His features were clean-cut; his hair was in a crewcut.
“Glad to meet you, Bob,” I said. “Welcome aboard.”
“I prefer to be called Robert.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. Do you have anything I can do for you?”
“Uh, no, not right now.”
“I’ll get to work on that report then, Mr. Rose,” said Chalmers, then he did a military about-face and marched out.
“That boy will go far,” said Mr. Rose.
The prediction seemed a good one. Robert, as he preferred to be called, came in early, worked late, was always neatly dressed, and in a short time was promoted to head clerk. One day, when I returned to my office after lunch I was surprised to see Robert seated behind my desk. He jumped to his feet at once and said, “I thought you’d be at a meeting.”
“It was cancelled.”
“I wanted to see what it was like to have my own office. One of these days I will, you know. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m getting to the top.”
A few years later, after another promotion, I was working in Sacramento. A new governor had come into office and things had changed. Dress was no longer formal and long hair was common. A former drug addict was hired to head the alcohol agency, a maverick doctor to run the health agency, a woman who hated highways to direct the transportation agency.
Our division director called a meeting to introduce everyone to his new assistant, a man with long hair and a wild beard, dressed in beatnik costume with tie-died shirt and leather sandals. “Robert here is going to shake things up,” said the director. “I want you all to give him your cooperation.”
Robert? I looked more closely. Was it possible? After the meeting I went up to him. “You wouldn’t be Robert Chalmers, would you?” I asked.
“That’s right. I remember you.” He mentioned my name. “I see you got a promotion, too.”
“Yes, but not to assistant director. You look a little different.”
“You have to change with the times and the times they are-a-changing.”
Robert did shake up our agency. In little more than a year we’d overspent our budget, half the personnel had been replaced, a number of new contracts had been let to questionable outside firms and things were in total chaos. Then Robert suddenly disappeared and nobody seemed to know what had happened to him. By this time, the State had gone in big for minority hiring, Afro-Americans (although, as I recall, they were called “blacks” then), Latinos, lots of women, too, anyone but middle-aged white males. So I wasn’t surprised that when I went to a departmental meeting, the newly appointed chief was a black man dressed in African costume, a dashki and a long colorful robe. His name was Mohammed-Rhouf Ali Fakazian.
The meeting was the usual boring session. Finally, Fakazian pounded on the table with a big staff he was holding and said, “That’s enough. We’ll do it as I said. Is there any objection?” None of the others there, mostly middle-aged white males who’d not yet been forced into retirement, dared to object. The meeting was over. As I was about to exit I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Fakazian. “Hello (he said my name). Don’t you remember me?”
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Sure we have. The first time was in San Francisco, with Mr. Rose.”
“You’re Bob, I mean Robert, Chalmers.”
“Of course.”
“But you were white.”
“My heritage was always Afro-American. I’ve grown darker as I got older.”
“But the name, Mohammed-Rhouf Ali Fakazian.”
“I relinquished my old slave name when I became a Muslim.”
“A Muslim?”
“The one true faith. And you, how have you been doing?”
“Still at the same old agency,” I said.
“No more promotions?”
“Not lately. I suppose I’m lucky to keep my job.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
I don’t know if he did but I kept my job. A couple of years later I was entrusted to deliver a report to the Governor’s Office. After a long wait, I was told the Governor’s new Chief of Staff would see me. I was led into a huge office, sumptuously furnished. A well-dressed lady of mature years but still handsome stood up behind a massive desk. I’d read in the papers of the appointment of the new Chief-of-Staff. Nobody seemed to know where she’d come from. She was rumored to be the Governor’s mistress, or maybe she was a lesbian.
“Sit down (she said my name).”
“Wait a minute.” The voice, although a little higher, was familiar. “Don’t tell me.”
“Of course. How do you like the office?”
“But . . .”
“Sex change operations are just about as common as appendectomies nowadays.”
“But why?”
“Being a Muslim Afro-American was chic for a while, but now it’s old hat. Besides, the Taliban have given Muslims a bad name. Now I’m a transvestite with an Afro-American lineage and a little Latino and Native American blood thrown in. I’ve got everything covered.”
“Well, you said you’d do anything. Was it worth it?”
“How can you ask? I’ve made it to the top.”
The End
Getting to the Top(Martin Green)
I started working for the State in the late 1950’s in San Francisco. I’d just had my first promotion, which came with my own office, small but my own. My section supervisor, Mr. Rose, came in, followed by a young man he introduced as Robert Chalmers. “He’s going to be our new clerk,” said Mr. Rose. Chalmers was well-dressed in a suit and tie and wore highly-polished shoes. His features were clean-cut; his hair was in a crewcut.
“Glad to meet you, Bob,” I said. “Welcome aboard.”
“I prefer to be called Robert.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. Do you have anything I can do for you?”
“Uh, no, not right now.”
“I’ll get to work on that report then, Mr. Rose,” said Chalmers, then he did a military about-face and marched out.
“That boy will go far,” said Mr. Rose.
The prediction seemed a good one. Robert, as he preferred to be called, came in early, worked late, was always neatly dressed, and in a short time was promoted to head clerk. One day, when I returned to my office after lunch I was surprised to see Robert seated behind my desk. He jumped to his feet at once and said, “I thought you’d be at a meeting.”
“It was cancelled.”
“I wanted to see what it was like to have my own office. One of these days I will, you know. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m getting to the top.”
A few years later, after another promotion, I was working in Sacramento. A new governor had come into office and things had changed. Dress was no longer formal and long hair was common. A former drug addict was hired to head the alcohol agency, a maverick doctor to run the health agency, a woman who hated highways to direct the transportation agency.
Our division director called a meeting to introduce everyone to his new assistant, a man with long hair and a wild beard, dressed in beatnik costume with tie-died shirt and leather sandals. “Robert here is going to shake things up,” said the director. “I want you all to give him your cooperation.”
Robert? I looked more closely. Was it possible? After the meeting I went up to him. “You wouldn’t be Robert Chalmers, would you?” I asked.
“That’s right. I remember you.” He mentioned my name. “I see you got a promotion, too.”
“Yes, but not to assistant director. You look a little different.”
“You have to change with the times and the times they are-a-changing.”
Robert did shake up our agency. In little more than a year we’d overspent our budget, half the personnel had been replaced, a number of new contracts had been let to questionable outside firms and things were in total chaos. Then Robert suddenly disappeared and nobody seemed to know what had happened to him. By this time, the State had gone in big for minority hiring, Afro-Americans (although, as I recall, they were called “blacks” then), Latinos, lots of women, too, anyone but middle-aged white males. So I wasn’t surprised that when I went to a departmental meeting, the newly appointed chief was a black man dressed in African costume, a dashki and a long colorful robe. His name was Mohammed-Rhouf Ali Fakazian.
The meeting was the usual boring session. Finally, Fakazian pounded on the table with a big staff he was holding and said, “That’s enough. We’ll do it as I said. Is there any objection?” None of the others there, mostly middle-aged white males who’d not yet been forced into retirement, dared to object. The meeting was over. As I was about to exit I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Fakazian. “Hello (he said my name). Don’t you remember me?”
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Sure we have. The first time was in San Francisco, with Mr. Rose.”
“You’re Bob, I mean Robert, Chalmers.”
“Of course.”
“But you were white.”
“My heritage was always Afro-American. I’ve grown darker as I got older.”
“But the name, Mohammed-Rhouf Ali Fakazian.”
“I relinquished my old slave name when I became a Muslim.”
“A Muslim?”
“The one true faith. And you, how have you been doing?”
“Still at the same old agency,” I said.
“No more promotions?”
“Not lately. I suppose I’m lucky to keep my job.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
I don’t know if he did but I kept my job. A couple of years later I was entrusted to deliver a report to the Governor’s Office. After a long wait, I was told the Governor’s new Chief of Staff would see me. I was led into a huge office, sumptuously furnished. A well-dressed lady of mature years but still handsome stood up behind a massive desk. I’d read in the papers of the appointment of the new Chief-of-Staff. Nobody seemed to know where she’d come from. She was rumored to be the Governor’s mistress, or maybe she was a lesbian.
“Sit down (she said my name).”
“Wait a minute.” The voice, although a little higher, was familiar. “Don’t tell me.”
“Of course. How do you like the office?”
“But . . .”
“Sex change operations are just about as common as appendectomies nowadays.”
“But why?”
“Being a Muslim Afro-American was chic for a while, but now it’s old hat. Besides, the Taliban have given Muslims a bad name. Now I’m a transvestite with an Afro-American lineage and a little Latino and Native American blood thrown in. I’ve got everything covered.”
“Well, you said you’d do anything. Was it worth it?”
“How can you ask? I’ve made it to the top.”
The End
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