Addressing Corporate Sphincters

by Thomas M. Pender

In an odd sort of continuation of yesterday’s column, on how to talk to people while using public bathrooms, this column also deals with the corporate world, phrasing things carefully, and a-holes.  Just not the anatomical kind.

Twice . . . at least twice . . . during my tenure at a Troy, Michigan insurance company, I was put in a situation where I was to explain to someone exactly how much of a hole in the ass he was.  Of course, this had to be done without losing my job, so my vocabulary came in awfully handy.

I worked in the mailroom, and most days, this involved getting full bins from the post office, distributing this mail, carrying interoffice mail here and there, then taking the outgoing mail to the post office on my way home.  On occasion, however, something out of the ordinary would happen.

The first occurred not long after I was hired.  My new boss Rick had already seen evidence of my wizardry with the English language.  In the first hour of my first full day on the job, in fact, he had tested said magic.  Before he got in on that first day, my desk phone rang.  I hesitantly picked it up, not knowing why someone would be calling me, since no one there really knew me.  It was, in fact, Rick on the phone, explaining that he would be about an hour late.  He also had a project in mind: he wanted me to write a letter to the other candidates for my job, explaining that the position had been filled!  This was a bizarre and fun assignment.  In the persona of my boss, I had to politely thank the unseen unknown people, and tell them that the best man won, who was, in fact, me.  Upon arriving, Rick asked how it was going, and I said, “Well, how do you spell . . . ?” and I sounded a razzberry.

So, with this example of my writemanship and ironic humor, the day came when Rick returned to the office from a business meeting, uncharacteristically steamed.  He put his briefcase down rather loudly, and called me in.  Not aware of anything I had done to cause such a mood, I curiously approached.  He handed me a business card, and told me he wanted me to write to the gentleman on the card, explaining to him that we would not be utilizing his product any longer, and that the man was, in my boss’s opinion, a gigantic poopshoot.

“No problem,” I said.

I quickly typed off a one-and-a-half-page communiqué, using the finest in modern business language, maintaining a cool and collected tone, and being completely respectful, while simultaneously making it clear to the addressee that he was, in fact, the grand poobah of poopshoots.  I turned it in, and knew I had gotten it right on the first try when I heard my boss softly chuckle then loudly laugh.  Rick and I quickly got into an understood thought pattern in which he could tell me what to call someone and why in a sentence, and I could produce a full-page formal directive explaining where the subject could go and how to get there, without saying that.

We had fun at this, time and again.

About two years later, when I was about to be at the end of my mail-sorting days, I was in the process of manhandling some office equipment from the building to one of the corporate vehicles.  While tackling this assault on my college degree, one of the vice presidents walked past, and took the time and energy to shoot me a sidelong comment which amounted to “It must suck to be in a dead-end job and have no hope of ever being respected.”

This story would have much more punch if I could recall exactly what he said, but again, it was in completely acceptable corporate lingo, though the meaning was deliberate on his part and not lost on my part.  I’m sure he expected me to smile and continue with my burden.

After three years at the company, he still did not know who he was messing with!

With a smile on my face, I replied very politely and spoke a few carefully chosen, very formal college-level words to the gentleman.  He paused and looked at me for a second.  His facial expression clearly said, “You just called me an asshole, but I can’t prove it.”  In return, my facial expression clearly said, “Yes, I did . . . and no, you can’t!”  My smile was broader than his.

In many situations Life has handed me, I have found that being armed with a vocabulary and an imagination can keep me prepared to fell the mightiest of oaks, without even swinging an axe.

This feeling is nothing short of awesome.

Calling In Sick . . . With Style!

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.