Monday, October 10, 2005
Work is Hell: Part 666
"The Cleaner did it".
How was I to know that a seemingly innocent remark could have such a disastrous consequence?
It all began last week. As I was leaving on Monday evening I popped into the kitchen to leave back my coffee cup and noticed a box of fudge brownies on the counter. There was no one around to ask, so I presumed they were left unopened from a meeting earlier on, probably attended by marketing girls with eating disorders or diets to maintain.
I opened the pack and helped myself. It was real luxury stuff. The kind you would only buy if someone else was paying. The chocolate practically melted away in my mouth leaving lumps of fudgy sugar. Hmmm.
One was never going to be enough so I grabbed another couple for the journey home.
As I made for the door I passed the cleaning lady in the hallway. A nice little woman. Slightly Oriental I think, with a really soft spoken voice. She would ghost about the place every evening, silently cleaning her way through the office with a smile on her face.
"Hiya!" I said.
She smiled and nodded back at me and then I was gone.
The next day I was sitting around, contemplating making another cup of coffee in between downloading the latest episode of Lost.
The phone rang. It was Phyllis, our office manager. "You didn't open that box of brownies in the kitchen last night did you?"
"Er, no. The cleaner must have done it." I said before starting to laugh. "But really, why do you want to know? Is there a problem?"
She was already talking to someone else before she hung up the phone. I just shrugged and wondered at how mean minded and petty this place was.
Anyway, it was 11 o clock and I knew I'd have to start working pretty soon, so I made for the kitchen.
As I went through reception, I could hear the end of a shouting match. Our boss, Number One, stormed through the door past me in a rage. I had to jump back from the door swinging at my face. He glared at me for a second, probably weighing up whether he should hit me or not, before deciding against it and thundering up the stairs.
I went through to reception to see a red faced Phyllis. Annie, the receptionist, had run into the toilets in tears.
"What was that about?" I asked.
"You don't want to know." she said. "Best left unsaid."
I shrugged and made for the kitchen. There was always some kind of intrigue going on in here. Every time you walked into a room there was a group of people bitching about something, so you got used to not asking questions. Keeping your head down and watching your back.
Yesterday, I was on my way out the door at the end of another day's drudgery, when I passed a new cleaning lady on the stairs.
She beamed a friendly smile at my greeting, before continuing up the stairs with her bin-liners.
I took a double take at her from the bottom of the stairs. She was definitely new. Now I thought about it I hadn't noticed the usual cleaning lady around these last few days.
"Yes. She's new you know". came a voice in smug confirmation from my side.
Smithers had come out of his room into the hallway. Wrapped in ironic Burberrys and Pink. "Apparently the last one was caught stealing or something." he went on.
"What? What do you mean stealing?" I asked.
"I dunno. Stealing. Who cares? Nothing important. Biscuits or something. She probably wanted to feed her family or something. You know those chinkees..." he trailed off chillingly.
I felt sick.
From nowhere a marketing girl piped up... "Yea, apparently the boss went mad last week. She had opened one of his packets of brownies or something before a meeting with his accountant. He blamed the receptionist first. Lost the head with her. She hasn't been back since."
I was feeling worse now.
"Funny thing was though, that they didn't even eat the brownies in the end. Phylis says they left them all on the plate. It was more the point of it. He always likes to open the pack. Everyone knows that."
I didn't.
"Rules are Rules." she chirped gleefully.
I staggered out the door in shock, leaving them to continue with their speculative gossiping session. This place was insane. I had probably caused that poor woman's sacking. I was gutted. It was like living in the old East Block under the Stazi. I was never going to speak to anyone at work again. It just wasn't safe.
I needed a drink.
How was I to know that a seemingly innocent remark could have such a disastrous consequence?
It all began last week. As I was leaving on Monday evening I popped into the kitchen to leave back my coffee cup and noticed a box of fudge brownies on the counter. There was no one around to ask, so I presumed they were left unopened from a meeting earlier on, probably attended by marketing girls with eating disorders or diets to maintain.
I opened the pack and helped myself. It was real luxury stuff. The kind you would only buy if someone else was paying. The chocolate practically melted away in my mouth leaving lumps of fudgy sugar. Hmmm.
One was never going to be enough so I grabbed another couple for the journey home.
As I made for the door I passed the cleaning lady in the hallway. A nice little woman. Slightly Oriental I think, with a really soft spoken voice. She would ghost about the place every evening, silently cleaning her way through the office with a smile on her face.
"Hiya!" I said.
She smiled and nodded back at me and then I was gone.
The next day I was sitting around, contemplating making another cup of coffee in between downloading the latest episode of Lost.
The phone rang. It was Phyllis, our office manager. "You didn't open that box of brownies in the kitchen last night did you?"
"Er, no. The cleaner must have done it." I said before starting to laugh. "But really, why do you want to know? Is there a problem?"
She was already talking to someone else before she hung up the phone. I just shrugged and wondered at how mean minded and petty this place was.
Anyway, it was 11 o clock and I knew I'd have to start working pretty soon, so I made for the kitchen.
As I went through reception, I could hear the end of a shouting match. Our boss, Number One, stormed through the door past me in a rage. I had to jump back from the door swinging at my face. He glared at me for a second, probably weighing up whether he should hit me or not, before deciding against it and thundering up the stairs.
I went through to reception to see a red faced Phyllis. Annie, the receptionist, had run into the toilets in tears.
"What was that about?" I asked.
"You don't want to know." she said. "Best left unsaid."
I shrugged and made for the kitchen. There was always some kind of intrigue going on in here. Every time you walked into a room there was a group of people bitching about something, so you got used to not asking questions. Keeping your head down and watching your back.
Yesterday, I was on my way out the door at the end of another day's drudgery, when I passed a new cleaning lady on the stairs.
She beamed a friendly smile at my greeting, before continuing up the stairs with her bin-liners.
I took a double take at her from the bottom of the stairs. She was definitely new. Now I thought about it I hadn't noticed the usual cleaning lady around these last few days.
"Yes. She's new you know". came a voice in smug confirmation from my side.
Smithers had come out of his room into the hallway. Wrapped in ironic Burberrys and Pink. "Apparently the last one was caught stealing or something." he went on.
"What? What do you mean stealing?" I asked.
"I dunno. Stealing. Who cares? Nothing important. Biscuits or something. She probably wanted to feed her family or something. You know those chinkees..." he trailed off chillingly.
I felt sick.
From nowhere a marketing girl piped up... "Yea, apparently the boss went mad last week. She had opened one of his packets of brownies or something before a meeting with his accountant. He blamed the receptionist first. Lost the head with her. She hasn't been back since."
I was feeling worse now.
"Funny thing was though, that they didn't even eat the brownies in the end. Phylis says they left them all on the plate. It was more the point of it. He always likes to open the pack. Everyone knows that."
I didn't.
"Rules are Rules." she chirped gleefully.
I staggered out the door in shock, leaving them to continue with their speculative gossiping session. This place was insane. I had probably caused that poor woman's sacking. I was gutted. It was like living in the old East Block under the Stazi. I was never going to speak to anyone at work again. It just wasn't safe.
I needed a drink.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Vietmarketing... some people call it hell. I call it work.
The body count is rising. And how!
Today the whispers floating around the office the last couple of weeks were confirmed.
NUMBER ONE informed us that we were losing another three people this month. "Moving on to bigger and better things." he joked through gritted teeth.
Eoin was leaving next week, Heather at the end off the month and Gayle was leaving today.
Or I think that's what he called her, as I realised that I had never even noticed her before now. Or if I did, I had probably presumed that she was visiting someone else who worked here. Or a client or something.
Apparently she had been with the company for seven months too! but what did I know? The turnover was so high here, that it was easy to miss someone.
I started to think about those Vietnam movies from the '80's like Platoon. Where the 'runts' were viewed as cannon fodder by the 'vets'. I was looking around the room at faces, trying to figure who would be the veterans and who would be the runts in this platoon.
Of course it goes without saying that our boss, NUMBER ONE, has to be 'Barnes' the Tom Berenger character.
I suppose I fancied myself as a bit of the Charlie Sheen character crossed with the charisma of Elias (the Willem Dafoe guy) minus the bit where he gets killed of course.
Truth was, I probably had more in common with the black guy who whinged all the time and only survived by hiding under all the dead bodies in his foxhole!
That guy from 'Scrubs' (John C. McGinley I think), could be half the people here. Spineless and sycophantic. Cowardly and treacherous. Essential qualities when it comes to surviving a Marketing company. Or Vietnam.
Our head PR guy, Smithers probably gets the role, although Igor, the accounts guy would give him a good run for his money as the bad guy's sidekick, although I se him more as the Vietcong guy in the Deer Hunter who made De NIro and Walken play Russian Roulette.
Pretty much everyone else here was a 'runt'. Most of the marketing girls were like the Johnny Depp character. You know they're in the film / company somewhere but you can't quite place them until they're about to walk on and get their comeuppance.
According to that Paul Hardcastle song, the average age in 'Nam was 19. Wonder what the average age in Vietmarketing is?
I'd say it's 28. Or 32 even. I was 36. That had to make me a Vet' then. Or dead meat.
'You're the seventh longest serving member of staff now you know!' came a whisper from over my right shoulder.
The hair rose up on the back of my neck at this.
I looked around the room at my platoon. The faces were fresh. Fearful even. The runts were always the more attentive in these meetings. Eager to impress Number 1.
The few battle hardened vets looked back at me through blank eyes. taking in the downtime before they went out to slay the enemy. Smithers took notes. Number 66 was writing and retracing the word 'NO' so hard onto his notepad that he had scored through all the pages. Trinnie (Number 4) was smiling through me with gimlet eyes.
Fuck! he was right. How the hell did that happen?
Number 27 had hit me with a sucker punch. Sharp as ever, he took on the role of my conscience in this place. To the point where I wondered if he really existed at all. Maybe he is a figment of my imagination like Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt) in 'Fight Club'. Created to help me cope with the stress of working this dead end job.
I looked back at him grinning smuggly. Even though this made him the 6th longest serving member. It didn't matter. He knew it would be causing me more pain than him so it was all worth it in his eyes.
The rest of the meeting flew by. I was in a bit of a cold sweat.
Every time someone left we had to drop €10 into a going away present kitty. Call me small minded but at this rate I was going to be down about €360 a year. Net! I couldn't afford this. If I opted out of paying into the kitty I would become extremely unpopular. Then again everyone seems to hate everyone else in here anyway.
Everyone started to shuffle their papers and get up. Meeting over. Number 1 had given us permission to leave.
I made for the door hoping to avoid eye contact with Number 1. Like a bad dream, I did exactly the opposite.
"Er, Peter? Right?" He boomed.
"Yeah?"
"...so you've been around for a while now."
"Nine months."
"Really? That Long? ...we should catch up sometime."
"Er. Yeah. Sure."
"Do you play golf?"
"No."
"Rr-ight." he paused, "...let me get back to you on that."
"Ok." I replied, relieved.
I slipped out the door quickly. Number 27 was leaning against the wall in the hallway grinning knowingly. Or at least I hoped he was!
Today the whispers floating around the office the last couple of weeks were confirmed.
NUMBER ONE informed us that we were losing another three people this month. "Moving on to bigger and better things." he joked through gritted teeth.
Eoin was leaving next week, Heather at the end off the month and Gayle was leaving today.
Or I think that's what he called her, as I realised that I had never even noticed her before now. Or if I did, I had probably presumed that she was visiting someone else who worked here. Or a client or something.
Apparently she had been with the company for seven months too! but what did I know? The turnover was so high here, that it was easy to miss someone.
I started to think about those Vietnam movies from the '80's like Platoon. Where the 'runts' were viewed as cannon fodder by the 'vets'. I was looking around the room at faces, trying to figure who would be the veterans and who would be the runts in this platoon.
Of course it goes without saying that our boss, NUMBER ONE, has to be 'Barnes' the Tom Berenger character.
I suppose I fancied myself as a bit of the Charlie Sheen character crossed with the charisma of Elias (the Willem Dafoe guy) minus the bit where he gets killed of course.
Truth was, I probably had more in common with the black guy who whinged all the time and only survived by hiding under all the dead bodies in his foxhole!
That guy from 'Scrubs' (John C. McGinley I think), could be half the people here. Spineless and sycophantic. Cowardly and treacherous. Essential qualities when it comes to surviving a Marketing company. Or Vietnam.
Our head PR guy, Smithers probably gets the role, although Igor, the accounts guy would give him a good run for his money as the bad guy's sidekick, although I se him more as the Vietcong guy in the Deer Hunter who made De NIro and Walken play Russian Roulette.
Pretty much everyone else here was a 'runt'. Most of the marketing girls were like the Johnny Depp character. You know they're in the film / company somewhere but you can't quite place them until they're about to walk on and get their comeuppance.
According to that Paul Hardcastle song, the average age in 'Nam was 19. Wonder what the average age in Vietmarketing is?
I'd say it's 28. Or 32 even. I was 36. That had to make me a Vet' then. Or dead meat.
'You're the seventh longest serving member of staff now you know!' came a whisper from over my right shoulder.
The hair rose up on the back of my neck at this.
I looked around the room at my platoon. The faces were fresh. Fearful even. The runts were always the more attentive in these meetings. Eager to impress Number 1.
The few battle hardened vets looked back at me through blank eyes. taking in the downtime before they went out to slay the enemy. Smithers took notes. Number 66 was writing and retracing the word 'NO' so hard onto his notepad that he had scored through all the pages. Trinnie (Number 4) was smiling through me with gimlet eyes.
Fuck! he was right. How the hell did that happen?
Number 27 had hit me with a sucker punch. Sharp as ever, he took on the role of my conscience in this place. To the point where I wondered if he really existed at all. Maybe he is a figment of my imagination like Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt) in 'Fight Club'. Created to help me cope with the stress of working this dead end job.
I looked back at him grinning smuggly. Even though this made him the 6th longest serving member. It didn't matter. He knew it would be causing me more pain than him so it was all worth it in his eyes.
The rest of the meeting flew by. I was in a bit of a cold sweat.
Every time someone left we had to drop €10 into a going away present kitty. Call me small minded but at this rate I was going to be down about €360 a year. Net! I couldn't afford this. If I opted out of paying into the kitty I would become extremely unpopular. Then again everyone seems to hate everyone else in here anyway.
Everyone started to shuffle their papers and get up. Meeting over. Number 1 had given us permission to leave.
I made for the door hoping to avoid eye contact with Number 1. Like a bad dream, I did exactly the opposite.
"Er, Peter? Right?" He boomed.
"Yeah?"
"...so you've been around for a while now."
"Nine months."
"Really? That Long? ...we should catch up sometime."
"Er. Yeah. Sure."
"Do you play golf?"
"No."
"Rr-ight." he paused, "...let me get back to you on that."
"Ok." I replied, relieved.
I slipped out the door quickly. Number 27 was leaning against the wall in the hallway grinning knowingly. Or at least I hoped he was!
