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.
Comments
Post a Comment