"Look at this. They're all gone. They must not have much work to do to be leaving this early." I tried not to show my confusion as my boss at the time surveyed the art department's abandoned institutional gray cube farm. "If they can all be out of here this early, I will decrease the head count. These people aren't committed."
He adjusted his tie with his thumb and forefinger, pinkie pointed out, as though he was sipping tea in a fine restaurant. He convulsed for a second, then abruptly turned, headed back to the soft glow of the end table lamp in his office. He was here to stay, and had furnished his office accordingly. I kept expecting to see a Persian rug delivered, but for now he stuck with the industrial gray carpet us plebes had. His lamp was to let you know he was someone. He had a lamp. We plebes had fluorescent tubes as our only light.
For a brief moment, I considered biting my tongue. That was a brief moment. I had just wasted over an hour with him in my office, discussing important business issues, like what his favorite sushi restaurant was. I'm all for extra effort, but I'm not for extra hours of anti-productive emptiness. "It's 7 o'clock, why should they be here?" I asked, my blood pressure rising, and my insides tightening as I waited for his response.
"Because this is their JOB! They can't provide for their families if they have no JOB!" He ranted, small globules of spittle cascading from his open mouth, his goatee giving him the appearance of a contrived character from an animated comedy. A face suddenly appeared down the aisle from us. The cleaning crew was already in the office, and someone emptying the trash cans a few rows into the cube farm peered warily around the corner, probably seeing if he should make a break for the fire escape before this descended into violence. When he realized it wasn't a fight, and no guns were about to be taken out, he walked across the aisle, tying a garbage bag, pretending not to notice us.
"This is a publishing company, not an advertising agency. People make choices in life, and every artist I know makes a decision early in their career. Do they want a family, or would they prefer the excitement of the advertising world? The people here chose a family. If they wanted to work past 7 at night, they'd have chosen a career in advertising." The words were out before I could catch them. Pure, unadulterated, and honest. There, chew on that awhile.
He stared back, unsure how to handle the situation. I looked back, sure that he was the problem in the organization, not the solution. "See you tomorrow" I said, as I turned and headed toward the elevator.
The next day, I had an invitation from my boss for a meeting that started at 6:30 that evening. I walked to his office. He wasn't in yet. I went back to my office. I repeated this every 15 minutes, wanting to get rid of the anticipatory stress I was carrying. The morning dragged on. I worked on projects, and underneath it all, I carried the tension of the impending conversation with me, the same weight as I carried every day there. Heavy, yet immeasurable. Like the after effects of a swift kick in the groin, not that I'd had one of those in years. It was there, not letting go. Keeping me distracted with the pain.
At around 11:30, just as I was about to go brave the wall of smoke to get outside for a walk to enjoy the sunshine, my boss wandered past my office. He was coming in early, at the crack of noon. This was typical. I took a deep breath, and straightened my tie. He was big on appearance. "Fred, do you have a second?"
He stopped, turned his head to look over his shoulder, and said "Can it wait for our meeting later today?" You mean tonight, don't you? This was an inside thought, not a sentence that left my mouth.
"No, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I have plans tonight, and can't stay after hours." I put a slight emphasis on "after hours", maybe more than was necessary, but that happens sometimes. "Can we meet today, during work hours?" I lightened up the emphasis, but it still came through.
"I have meetings all day, can't you change your plans?" He cold stared me. Now I was pissed off. That was rude. I was beyond being nervous. He continued on. "That's the only time I have available." He adjusted his laptop case, and looked toward his office, probably planning his escape from this random act of management he was being forced into.
I tried to hide my irritation behind the screen saver facial expression. I hoped it would work just this one time. "How about if we meet tomorrow first thing, I can come in early." I wasn't going to lose this one, he was just too oblivious to accept his impending loss yet.
"Gosh, I'd love to meet early, but I have breakfast with children every day. It's our ritual." Was that sarcasm, or did he have some intestinal distress while he talked? Either one was fine, because I just made Bingo, I hit pay dirt. He's going down. My brain quickly processed this tidbit, and came up with the perfect response.
"I totally get that, I'm all about family. See, that's why I can't meet after hours. I have dinner with my wife every evening. This is our time, a time for us to reconnect. It's what we've done for our entire marriage, and I have no intentions on changing this" I worked a smile into it, and used my soft library voice, the one I would use to ask "which way are the romance novels" if there were other patrons near the desk. At least if I read romance novels, that'd be how soft my voice was. I don't read them.
He twitched, and I could see I'd just overloaded the portion of his brain he utilized to win arguments with the maintenance staff. He was out of his league, on the slippery slope, and I had just given him a push disguised as a brotherly love tap. He was out of ammunition, the wind left his sails, pick your cliche, the discussion was over. "I'll look at my calendar and see what I can free up today." He never did. There wasn't anything to discuss. We never met after hours, I made it a point of coming in early to complete critical work, so I could deflect any urges he may develop to re-initiate evening meetings, or ambush my extra efforts with his dropping by to unload theories on why employees kept running their keys down his car when they left the office.
A few days later, I decided that this wasn't over, and I needed to put this issue to rest. I was in his office so he could regale me with stories of his meteoric rise in the advertising world, how he rescued every company he worked for, and how he would sleep in his office. I pretended I thought this was cool, and began to pity him for the things in life he chose to value. His two daughters and wife rarely saw him. Maybe they liked it that way. Maybe he liked it that way. But it was just wrong, fundamentally out of sync with what is important in life.
I waited about 45 minutes for him to pause in his story, and I quickly started with my topic. "Fred, I get the impression that being in the office is more important to you than productivity. It seems like face time trumps work time. If this is what you expect of me, to be here regardless of whether I have work to do or not, please let me know now so I can make decisions regarding my career path." He just sat there, his brain once again overloaded with confusion. He must have had everyone afraid of him throughout his career. Here I was, holding up the mirror, showing him for what he was. I wasn't going to play his game.
I continued. "If you are in any way dissatisfied with my productivity, please tell me so I can do what is needed so neither of us are disappointed. I hope you see by now that I will do what is necessary to deliver exceptional results, but I am not interested in sleeping in my office to show my dedication." Neither is my wife. I left that part out. Maybe I said it a little more pointed than that. Our minds have a tendency to smooth things over with time.
Fred picked his pen up, tapping it on his hand. He stared at the ceiling, then dropped the pen and leaned back in his executive chair. "No, that's not what I'm trying to have you do." His expression said something entirely different.
I won this battle, but the war would continue. It was the war for a life, and it had to be won. Losing was not an option.
Any resemblance to a person with a life, or without one is purely ... coincidental? You can determine if it's fact of fiction, either way, the point of the story remains the same.
Do you hold your ground when asked to do something that is against your principles? Or do you do what you are told to do, quietly seething, waiting for the chance to change the situation? Also, do you like this style of writing, a scene to make the point, instead of just an essay? Please comment below!
Please share this blog with your social network, and add this to your RSS feed. I allow full posts into the feeds.
_______________
He adjusted his tie with his thumb and forefinger, pinkie pointed out, as though he was sipping tea in a fine restaurant. He convulsed for a second, then abruptly turned, headed back to the soft glow of the end table lamp in his office. He was here to stay, and had furnished his office accordingly. I kept expecting to see a Persian rug delivered, but for now he stuck with the industrial gray carpet us plebes had. His lamp was to let you know he was someone. He had a lamp. We plebes had fluorescent tubes as our only light.
"Because this is their JOB! They can't provide for their families if they have no JOB!" He ranted, small globules of spittle cascading from his open mouth, his goatee giving him the appearance of a contrived character from an animated comedy. A face suddenly appeared down the aisle from us. The cleaning crew was already in the office, and someone emptying the trash cans a few rows into the cube farm peered warily around the corner, probably seeing if he should make a break for the fire escape before this descended into violence. When he realized it wasn't a fight, and no guns were about to be taken out, he walked across the aisle, tying a garbage bag, pretending not to notice us.
"This is a publishing company, not an advertising agency. People make choices in life, and every artist I know makes a decision early in their career. Do they want a family, or would they prefer the excitement of the advertising world? The people here chose a family. If they wanted to work past 7 at night, they'd have chosen a career in advertising." The words were out before I could catch them. Pure, unadulterated, and honest. There, chew on that awhile.
He stared back, unsure how to handle the situation. I looked back, sure that he was the problem in the organization, not the solution. "See you tomorrow" I said, as I turned and headed toward the elevator.
The next day, I had an invitation from my boss for a meeting that started at 6:30 that evening. I walked to his office. He wasn't in yet. I went back to my office. I repeated this every 15 minutes, wanting to get rid of the anticipatory stress I was carrying. The morning dragged on. I worked on projects, and underneath it all, I carried the tension of the impending conversation with me, the same weight as I carried every day there. Heavy, yet immeasurable. Like the after effects of a swift kick in the groin, not that I'd had one of those in years. It was there, not letting go. Keeping me distracted with the pain.
At around 11:30, just as I was about to go brave the wall of smoke to get outside for a walk to enjoy the sunshine, my boss wandered past my office. He was coming in early, at the crack of noon. This was typical. I took a deep breath, and straightened my tie. He was big on appearance. "Fred, do you have a second?"
He stopped, turned his head to look over his shoulder, and said "Can it wait for our meeting later today?" You mean tonight, don't you? This was an inside thought, not a sentence that left my mouth.
"No, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I have plans tonight, and can't stay after hours." I put a slight emphasis on "after hours", maybe more than was necessary, but that happens sometimes. "Can we meet today, during work hours?" I lightened up the emphasis, but it still came through.
"I have meetings all day, can't you change your plans?" He cold stared me. Now I was pissed off. That was rude. I was beyond being nervous. He continued on. "That's the only time I have available." He adjusted his laptop case, and looked toward his office, probably planning his escape from this random act of management he was being forced into.
I tried to hide my irritation behind the screen saver facial expression. I hoped it would work just this one time. "How about if we meet tomorrow first thing, I can come in early." I wasn't going to lose this one, he was just too oblivious to accept his impending loss yet.
"Gosh, I'd love to meet early, but I have breakfast with children every day. It's our ritual." Was that sarcasm, or did he have some intestinal distress while he talked? Either one was fine, because I just made Bingo, I hit pay dirt. He's going down. My brain quickly processed this tidbit, and came up with the perfect response.
"I totally get that, I'm all about family. See, that's why I can't meet after hours. I have dinner with my wife every evening. This is our time, a time for us to reconnect. It's what we've done for our entire marriage, and I have no intentions on changing this" I worked a smile into it, and used my soft library voice, the one I would use to ask "which way are the romance novels" if there were other patrons near the desk. At least if I read romance novels, that'd be how soft my voice was. I don't read them.
He twitched, and I could see I'd just overloaded the portion of his brain he utilized to win arguments with the maintenance staff. He was out of his league, on the slippery slope, and I had just given him a push disguised as a brotherly love tap. He was out of ammunition, the wind left his sails, pick your cliche, the discussion was over. "I'll look at my calendar and see what I can free up today." He never did. There wasn't anything to discuss. We never met after hours, I made it a point of coming in early to complete critical work, so I could deflect any urges he may develop to re-initiate evening meetings, or ambush my extra efforts with his dropping by to unload theories on why employees kept running their keys down his car when they left the office.
A few days later, I decided that this wasn't over, and I needed to put this issue to rest. I was in his office so he could regale me with stories of his meteoric rise in the advertising world, how he rescued every company he worked for, and how he would sleep in his office. I pretended I thought this was cool, and began to pity him for the things in life he chose to value. His two daughters and wife rarely saw him. Maybe they liked it that way. Maybe he liked it that way. But it was just wrong, fundamentally out of sync with what is important in life.
I waited about 45 minutes for him to pause in his story, and I quickly started with my topic. "Fred, I get the impression that being in the office is more important to you than productivity. It seems like face time trumps work time. If this is what you expect of me, to be here regardless of whether I have work to do or not, please let me know now so I can make decisions regarding my career path." He just sat there, his brain once again overloaded with confusion. He must have had everyone afraid of him throughout his career. Here I was, holding up the mirror, showing him for what he was. I wasn't going to play his game.
I continued. "If you are in any way dissatisfied with my productivity, please tell me so I can do what is needed so neither of us are disappointed. I hope you see by now that I will do what is necessary to deliver exceptional results, but I am not interested in sleeping in my office to show my dedication." Neither is my wife. I left that part out. Maybe I said it a little more pointed than that. Our minds have a tendency to smooth things over with time.
Fred picked his pen up, tapping it on his hand. He stared at the ceiling, then dropped the pen and leaned back in his executive chair. "No, that's not what I'm trying to have you do." His expression said something entirely different.
I won this battle, but the war would continue. It was the war for a life, and it had to be won. Losing was not an option.
Any resemblance to a person with a life, or without one is purely ... coincidental? You can determine if it's fact of fiction, either way, the point of the story remains the same.
Do you hold your ground when asked to do something that is against your principles? Or do you do what you are told to do, quietly seething, waiting for the chance to change the situation? Also, do you like this style of writing, a scene to make the point, instead of just an essay? Please comment below!
Please share this blog with your social network, and add this to your RSS feed. I allow full posts into the feeds.
_______________
love the new style. you should write a book. seriously. if this were a book, i would have described it as a 'page turner'.
ReplyDeleteThanks, I actually have one in the works. I'm taking a book writing class, and interjecting the lessons into the blog. Stay tuned... changes are coming. (-;
ReplyDelete