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| Hi Ho, Hi Ho |
| by: Josef Graf |
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As luck would have it, I submitted my dog-eared,
coffee-stained resume to the winner of the annual
Employer-from-Hell award.
Born and raised in Skinflint, Manitoba, when
Cuthbert M. Philbot read that you could feed four
people in India for a hundred dollars a year, he
sent his whole family there. During the previous
week, Philbot had accidentally smiled and got a
charley horse in his face. The company had a
tough sick leave policy. There was no time off
for illness or surgery. Death was accepted, but
you had to give three weeks' notice.
In the waiting room, I worked my way through an
application. To, "Length of residence at present
address?" I wrote, "About 30 feet, not counting
the porch." And where it said, "Tell us something
about yourself," I entered, "I like my coffee
weak and my women strong."
When I finished, I picked a copy of Jaws off the
coffee table and began reading. Presently, a
distraught employee came out of the boss's office
, and I could hear Philbot trailing on, "I'm sorry
, but if you take two hours for lunch today, I'll
have to do the same for every man whose wife
gives birth to triplets."
I was in luck when, a few moments later, Philbot
came out just in time to catch me off guard, nose
in the book, rooting for the shark. He could see
he'd found the right man for his team.
"I want you to be happy here," said Philbot,
giving me a quick tour of the office. "If there's
anything you need, I'll show you how to get along
without it. Oh, and, until further notice, don't
use the suggestion box. The handle is broken and
it won't flush."
I was given my own office. It was small, but
private. Except when another employee barged in
to ask for a broom.
Settling in, I hammered away on my computer
keyboard. Within a few moments, I had to
requisition a new keyboard, as the hammer had
quickly rendered the first one to a collage of
plastic art. This time, bowing to convention, I
used my fingers. I entered data steadily through
the day. Round about three o'clock, a colleague
dropped by, saw what I was doing, and informed me
that, while it was certainly energy efficient to
work the way I was, it would be more productive
to turn the power on first.
Thanking him for the tip, I once again modified my
approach. I did not feel bad, however, about the
lost time. I can produce about 90 words a minute
- in my own language. If you're going to be picky
and ask me to type readable copy, then it falls
to about seven words, tops. Had I been more adept
, I would no doubt have felt devastated at the
loss of significant production.
Changing horses, I spent the rest of the day
filing. By five o'clock, with virtually no nails
left, I punched out.
The second morning, I arrived fifteen minutes late
for work. "Why are you late?" Philbot asked.
"I fell down a flight of steps," I replied.
"It doesn't take fifteen minutes to fall down a
flight of steps," growled Philbot.
That day, in a bid to improve efficiency, I
undertook a little research project of my own. It
didn't take long to verify my conjecture, that
too many clients were creating a high level of
stress, resulting in lower production. I took to
the phone and by early afternoon had disposed of
over 70% of the company's clientele.
I waxed creative, informing some clients that we
were going bankrupt, others that we were facing a
class action suit and could no longer remain
above ground with our operations. Still others
learned from me that we were downsizing and had
to drop the ballast.
By day's end, a great sense of ease pervaded the
office. With the workload drastically reduced, we
now had some much needed breathing space. I
prepared memos soliciting suggestions for our
newly allotted recreation time, and recommended a
shorter workweek, as well as significantly
expanded vacations.
I damn near made it to the end of the week.
Although I had carefully concealed my identity by
signing all my outgoing memos with the handle of
one of my altar-egos, "The Count of Bondaglio," I
sensed the boss's suspicion mount with the
following little master-slave interchange:
Philbot: "I notice that you come to work late
every morning."
Me: "Yes, but you'll also notice that I leave
early every afternoon!"
That was enough to terminate my residency in
Office City, Ontario, though I suppose I should
also mention, in passing, that Philbott had
discovered I had pawned my computer equipment,
and replaced it with a mini-Jacuzzi.
Excerpted from Hebert Returns to America, by
author Josef Graf. Further viewing available on
the site - www.evbooks.net |
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This article was posted on June 11, 2007
and reads 18 times. |
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