Gushing hero worship August 27, 1985

  

All forms of disaster tend to strike at once, not my disaster this time, but those in general, disasters that affect me from a distance.

The drain at work has been backing up for three days running, a complex and frustrating end to a simple cause.

A week ago, I carelessly let hot oil spill out onto the floor from the fryer. To clean it up, I used a mop, and to rinse the mop and bucket, I used the drain.

Thick-headed John, the manager, did not see the connection, nor did he understand how his emotional reaction added to the critical morale ongoing in the store.

John is a “Yes man,” going all the way back to his early 20s, a spineless worm whose whole ambition is to please the owner Phil. He wants nothing more than a pat on the head for being a good boy.

At 21, his becoming manager was pure fluke, after working at the Paterson Dunkin as a common laborer, convinced he need was meant for greater things and asked the district manager there were any manager jobs open, and, of course, Phil had just fired his previous manager and was on the hunt for something more compliant, a perfect fit for John, who jumps the minute Phil walks into the room, so full of gushing admiration, Phil cannot help but be pleased, spoiling the water for the rest of us, who don’t or won’t gush in the same way. Most of us tell Phil what we think, risking is wrath.

Yet there is a bond between John and Phil that is even stronger. They are both cowards. Phil hates confrontation. When he wants someone fired, he gets someone else to do it for him. But in this regard, John is a poor choice. Last week Phil wanted to fire the other night baker, but passed the chore onto John, who apparently never called the man so that two nights ago that baker and his wife walked into the store while I was getting ready to go to work.

When we called Phil, he told us the other baker had been “suspended,” forcing an early morning confrontation with John when he finally meandered in.

John pulled some notice out of the office filing cabinet, waving it under the raging baker’s nose, backing down only when the confrontation threatened to become physical, something of an irony considering the fictional persona John puts on as a one-time biker.

There is something sad about seeing John quiver under his host of tattoos. If he wasn’t so gung-ho, I might be able to stomach him better.

Perhaps I haven’t liked him since we worked together at the Paterson store, he yapped about how he was going to become management. I had to shove him out the door to shut him up and hate the idea that it all came true.

Perhaps he thinks I’m as gung-ho as he is, wanting what he wants, needing Phil’s approval to make my day.

Oddly enough, despite his ass kissing, the store is actually improving under his care – which for Phil is all that matters. He just laps up the gravy.

All this makes me feel a little sorry for John when it is apparent his life purpose to kiss ass and allow himself to be degraded in the eyes of the rest of us.

I don’t think I could hold a whole conversation with him without being tempted to scream in his face, “Be Real!”

I keep waiting for another shoe to drop, for some real disaster to test his incompetence and to then push Phil into firing him.

As much as Phil loves John’s gushing, he loves money more.

 

 1985 Menu


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