One for the Boss by Pat Shaughnessy

      Most of us have worked a lot in out lives. It’s a part of life. And often, we’ve had bosses who cause us to wonder how they ended up in charge of anything in the first place. The worst part is if someone complains up the ladder about a bad boss they can end up in a worse situation or out of a job while the problematic boss gets a raise or promotion.  

     Need an example? Look at our current president.

      I’ve been the one in charge or at least I’ve had a bit of authority a couple of times in my working life. For a long time now, I’ve been self-employed as an upholsterer and have done ok. I’ve also been running rental property for my family since I was 19. It always seemed to go well or maybe I was too busy to notice if there was a problem. By age 30 I had become more competent and committed to doing the right thing, although an old school friend who was a tenant thought otherwise.

      “You’re only getting by on your good looks and charm,” she said.

       “Only according to you,” I replied.

        We’d then get into a conversation in which I’d point out all the repairs I’d done, the new paint job my buddy named Buddy and I just did and how the neighbors were all great, the neighborhood in a great location, and on and on and so forth.

        Even now I have a 67 year-old-lady in my building who insists I’m a bad person only in it for the money. I told her she’s only in it for the apartment. She did recently make my friend Mike and I who was helping me install a new lock on the front door some really good BLT sandwiches for lunch.

         It can be a mixed bag being a boss and at the first sign of trouble the boss usually ends up holding the bag. Who wants to hold a bag of problems? Pass that smelly sack on down, right?

          Fucking bosses. My current side gig is working in a group home where I care for developmentally challenged adults. I like working with the guys, but the company? In the office there is a picture of the owner from the cover of a business magazine. He’s got on a tie and appears to be an enterprising young man providing a needed service to the community.  More pictures and recognitions have been added to the wall and slowly but surely, he has become looking more and more like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, before his heart grows ten sizes and he returns all the Christmas swag to Whoville. As the business community continues to give him hand-jobs he has only given employees one, one, $0.44 an hour raise. At the quarterly meeting where the HR lady announced this, I raised my hand and asked that she stop talking about like it was a gift because it was actually a state mandated increase. All my co-workers nodded in agreement in a big old non-verbal “Damn straight!” Since then there haven’t been any quarterly meetings.

       A wise friend told me, “Shit rolls downhill, the boss is an a-hole and payday’s on Friday. If you can live with that you can handle the rest.”

       I worked for years as an upholsterer and carpenter for the Minneapolis Children’s Theater. My boss, Tony, was a goofball. Tony was in charge of facilities and had worked at the theater since the age of 13. He inherited the job from his Uncle. Tony didn’t really know much but managed to keep the floors clean and had a knack for telling other people what to do.

      I’m also from the theater world and had met Tony before. He appeared spaced out, arrogant and spoke in a phony British accent. Balding on top, long stringy hair and lumberjack beard helped him convince himself that he was a bit of a sage. He didn’t say much but when he did he used the fake accent and then showed a smug expression like he was Jesus or John Lennon.

That was one Tony.  Later I met Tony the Boss.

         Tony the Boss scowled as if that would convey how serious he was. I got hired and at first my work involved vacuuming the theater and other cleanup duties. At the time I was still managing family properties and doing all the freelance upholstery I could handle. That work had a higher purpose for my financial and personal development.

      At that time the theater was over 20 years old and things were wearing out. Especially the seats. After a while I didn’t need the cleanup job as much. To his credit, Tony realized I was a good worker and knew about my upholstery skills.

        Instead of replacing all the seats to the tune of six figures or more, the theater was nickel and diming on maintenance and fixing seats that were totally gone and there were always seats that needed fixing. I advised Tony that the theater could save money by re-upholstering “in house” by using me and my professional experience.

        “Harrumph!” Tony replied in his stupid English fake accent, “I have a relationship with this shop (the upholsterer they were using) and I seriously doubt you can match their quality! You can, however, be an assistant to the manager of the project, me. And, I will hire an assistant to you.”

         It was clear that using me would save a lot of money but the whole arrangement ended up one c******f*** chain of command.

         “You can be in charge but don’t make trouble for the other fellow!” said Sir Tony.

         “Ok, but he has to work and since he doesn’t have any upholstery experience and I am in charge like you said …” I said leaving all Tony’ s ambiguous crap dangling unresolved.

           Let’s not waste time on this POS “assistant” who turned out to be a junkie and was caught stealing musical equipment from the music room.

          Tony then three hired “artists” recent Minneapolis College of Art and Design graduates to help out because the busy season was coming and the theater really needed the seats.

           Effing college boys wouldn’t follow directions, put seat covers on backwards, fudged up placement in rows and did everything wrong.

           “How do you know the right way to do this?” one challenged me.

           “Because I’m a professional upholsterer,” I told him.

            “Well, we’re college graduates.”

            “Listen here Picasso, your Dad paying your way through art school where you learned to fling paint at the canvas like monkeys in the zoo throwing poop at the people has nothing to do with this project.”

            That’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I took a breath and patiently showed them how to put the front covers on the front, back on the back and how the seats were in numerical rows and all the other info they needed to be correct. Still, one diva stomped off and soon returned looking satisfied.

            “Patrick.” The prick actually used Patrick instead of Pat like he was a Mommy scolding a badly-behaved boy. “We need to speak.”

             “You can’t tell those guys what to do.”

             “You put me in charge and they’re screwing things up.”

             “I didn’t say you could tell others what to do.”

            “So, I’m not in charge.”

            “Yes, you are.”

             “Then tell them that they need to follow directions or I can’t take responsibility for their mess.”

             “Not going to happen. You just do what you can. You are responsible for the project.”

              This conversation, in which it was revealed that Tony had no managerial expertise, went round and round. We left it at an impasse.

               So, I let it slide. I did what I could, listened to the privileged upper-class art boys debate about obscure art references and pretend to be beatniks while I tried to work. A few days before the season opener Tony showed up and panicked. It was clear the seats were not going to be finished.

             “What’s going on with your project?” he demanded, his lizard brain dropping the phony accent.

              “It stopped being my project when you told me I couldn’t tell these guys what to do.”

              Somehow the seats got finished in time.

              I’d been around long enough now to get to know the rest of the Theater crew. The electrician, chief engineer, chief mechanic and others referred to Tony as “Zippy the Pinhead’” and “Buddha”.

             So, we got along great.

             Tony’s silly accent had by now, especially when he was trying to be stern, developed more into Hodji the Sikh enforcer from Johnny Quest.

             “Patrick,” he declared in his deepest most eastern mystic voice, “You must not judge another man.”

              “I’m not judging. I’m trying to get things done right.”

              “Yes. You judge. You are judging right now.”

              “No, I’m reacting to the reality of the disorder I see around me.”

               “We all create our own reality.”

               “On the contrary. Reality imposes itself on me and I carve my existence out of it.”

               “Develop your Chi Patrick. Use the inner spirituality and strength all humans possess.”

                Seemed that Tony had amazing Chi. He used his Chi to divert blame to others when things went south and take credit for the work of others success. I think people were taken off guard by the long hair, beard and his helpful but dim visage, like a talking cow you feel a little sorry for. This BS was his super power. Which caught up with him eventually.

                 They didn’t fire him. His Chi was too powerful. The Theater reorganized and made his position obsolete. I’d moved on by that point. Tony and his crew were told that custodial maintenance was being outsourced under the pretense of reducing the budget. Except now they’re spending more for what Tony did for less. Explain that to someone who can do math. But, don’t explain it to the boss, they’ll just fire you and give him and the outside contractor a raise.