by Thomas M. Pender
My four-year proofreading job in Atlanta had many plusses and only a few minuses. One plus that eventually became a minus, but which I turned into my own private plus, was the sick day policy.
At first, it was incredibly easy to call in sick. I would phone the desk of the composition supervisor at least two hours before my shift began (to allow time to get a replacement proofreader, if need be), let him or her know that I would be out that night, thank him or her for his or her kind assistance, and hang up. This operation was fast and easy, so therefore, the brains behind all things corporate decided it must be wrong.
One night when I called in, the second shift supervisor asked me why I was going to be out. “Do you mean why am I taking a personal day? Oh, well, that would be personal,” I said. I knew this was not the supervisor’s doing or fault, but when I am encroached upon by forces that don’t deserve to encroach me, I tend to push back a bit. John, the supervisor, laughed and said, “I know, I know, but now they want me to write down why you’re calling in.”
As it turned out, a legitimate reason for calling in on third shift (which was 11 p.m. – 7 a.m. in Bowne of Atlanta, Inc. terms) was “lack of sleep.” Since I could never really sleep in the daylight, this was actually the truth, as well, so I went with that . . . at first. After a few call-ins, which were rare, I became bored with simply telling the truth. If these invisible buggers were going to nose their way into my business, I was going to give them something worth reading, by God!
John and one of the other supervisors, Hank, had great fun when they asked me why I was calling in, because it became a habit for me to try to come up with the strangest reasons for anyone to do so. My theory was that if I confounded and disgusted the higher-ups enough, they’d stop asking.
A few gems over the months were “I’m having an unusually heavy period” and “Something green and thick and runny is coming out . . . everywhere!” My personal favorite, however, was an actual disorder. Still, it was designed to make my point.
“Leprosy!”
“What?” John asked, talking and laughing at the same time.
“You heard me,” I said. “It’s a legitimate disease. It’s also been so long since a true case has been recorded, that it could crop up again. I mean, we aren’t exactly immunized for leprosy, now, are we?”
“No,” John said, playing along, “but they may be concerned about your ability to work if parts of you are, uh, falling off!”
“Just tell ‘em . . . a fingertip. Just about a quarter of the tip of my left pinky. That wouldn’t affect my proofreading abilities at all, being a rightie.”
After a few chuckles, John had to get back to work, so I was forced to submit “Lack of sleep” as a reason. I was highly disappointed that leprosy didn’t get past the guards, though. I wanted the satisfaction of dropping at least one corporate jaw.
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