Being ruthless August 13, 1985
Bob Adams, my immediate supervisor at Fotomat, is about to
have a heart attack.
I’m supposed to meet with the regional manager for Fotomat
to discuss a letter I wrote to the corporation telling them everything that was
wrong with their business.
Managers a petty dictators inside large corporations like
this, but I actually feel sorry for Bob, who is forced to sit in the middle,
between his career and his friendship with me. He’s a bit like a child at a
gate, swinging it in and out, unable to make up his mind as to which side he
wants to be on.
No wonder he has ulcers.
But he’s just an example of the suit-and-tie class of the
1980s, who think they can swing both ways, caught up in the corporate rat race
while desperate to maintain a real private life.
Bob wants more than anything to be a success – if only to
impress his tyrant of a father – and yet always manages just to miss getting
it.
He positions himself as a right-wing zealot, talking about national
defense and South Africa, which prompts us into heated discussions (the
foundation of our strange friendship). He approves of some aspects of Apartheid,
saying the world needs many of the natural resources that system provides, and
claims that whites lived in that particular part of Africa before the blacks
did, giving them right to exploit those resources. This is argument is about
the reverse of one made by whites during their conquest of Native Americans –
although both are too complex to go into here.
Bob sees gentrification as a proper way of improving city
life; and says capitalism is the only way we can keep progress going and avoid economic
stagnation and is ultimately fairer to all those involved that the seemingly
kinder face we see of socialism.
Bob also sees himself as an artist, a photographer who has
dreams of making his living from his art. He spends much of his off time wandering
the wilderness with his cameras and lenses looking to capture the perfect shot.
In the middle is another Bob Adams, a suffering Christ-like
figure, slowing falling to pieces physically, his stomach devoured by his self-doubt,
his knees shot from wild motorcycle rides at night through remote back roads in
Western New Jersey, where he sometimes crashes.
He is a piss pour manager because he quakes any time, he has
anything bad to say to one of his employees. One time after an audit of a
favorite employee, Bob sat vomiting in his car. He had to have another manager
come along with him to fire the person.
Deep down, Bob understands there is no way to win this game –
and winning isn’t always the point. Sometimes it’s just keeping up with the
play. The only people who succeed are those who can be ruthless without conscience.
Even people of the political left understand the need to be ruthless, even as
they talk about peace and love.
I keep telling Bob he needs to get another job, and then I
put him on the spot with the corporation by writing letters to tell them just
how fucked up their business practices are.
I wonder if the big boss will order Bob to fire me, and if
Bob will have courage to do it – or will he sit in his car vomiting into latte,
waiting for some other manager to fire me instead?
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