Pittsburgh,
Pennsylvania. The Steelworkers. Now, that's a fucking union. Just say the name
and you feel powerful. Say the name and it conjures up images of molten metal
and badasses working by the sweat of their brow. Labor and industry. Factories.
Harsh, unforgiving conditions and jobs that are seriously dangerous even today.
But I can't even imagine what it must have been like to report for duty in any
of these dismal places before the first union. The regular workday would last
anywhere from 10 to 16 hours. Overtime didn't exist and neither did sick
pay...or medical benefits for that matter. And the odds of losing a limb (or
even a life) in these places were pretty high since safety regulations, from
the management's perspective, were nothing much to worry about...if
there even were any! And if someone were to have accidentally melted
their arms off; it was, of course, their fault somehow and a willing and
able two-armed guy was always lined up and ready to take his place. And
it is this unfortunate mentality, management's idea of the readily
dispensable worker, that still exists today.
So how the
hell does this apply to Portland; a city that couldn't be further from
Pittsburgh if we tried. A city that, nowadays especially, conjures up images of
scenesters and punkers and crazy ex-hippies...of yuppies who'd become sick of
their careers...and of course, everyone's personal favorite; the California
transplant such as myself. A city full of folks who'd either chose to move here
or stay here for the reason of seeking an escape from society's traditional
norms. And anyone who'd been here for a few years had long since said, 'fuck
you' to the system. Because Portlandrriqueños, at least a greater percentage of
them than the average national urbanite, valued living over money. And in part;
this 'living' meant working a nice, cushy job. Something part-time or
event-based or both. Something that wouldn't too badly distract the fair
citizens of this fair city from the finer things in life. And I certainly don't
meant to imply that Portlanders don't work hard...just not as hard as steel
workers. And that's not necessarily a bad thing. But why the fuck then would we
need a labor union? Well...
It all
comes back to that idea of the readily dispensable worker. A concept that, in
and of itself, rings truly enough. Because, at their place of employment, anyone
is replaceable from the guy scrubbing toilets all the way up to and including
the president of the United States. There's always somebody who can do
the job just as well. And if they don't already know how to perform said
job; you can bet there are people determined to learn. Which again, in itself,
is a good sign. This steady supply of readily available laborers shows that at
least Americans are still willing to pull up their shirt sleeves. However, the
idea of the readily dispensable worker turns rotten whenever the notion is
exploited. Which, in the midst of this bleak economy with its deplorable
unemployment rate, it is exploited almost incessantly. Anyone is replaceable,
sure. But, from any given managements' perspective, the question on their minds
is; just how easily?
All too
often, this is where the exploitation of laborers begins. Because the concept
of the readily dispensable worker cuts right through the bullshit. It cuts
right down to the core of employment itself whether viewed from the
management's angle or the worker's. Through the management's eyes; an
employee will be expected to break his/her back for minimum wage and not a
penny more...with a smile on their face! Because both manager and
employee know that even a low-paying job (like the one specifically about to
pertain to this story) is in high demand in a such a dysfunctional economy as
the one we all now find ourselves living in...especially in Portland
where the rate of unemployment continues to skyrocket. And in this way; the
inert economy helps to make half the management's decisions for them. In this
way; all any given manager has to do is sit back with their arms folded and
wait for any one of their subordinates to make a complaint or (God forbid)
stand up for themselves or show the slightest backbone when being mistreated
and...SNIP. It's just that easy. Because why the fuck would they want to
deal with any employee who won't allow him or herself to be railroaded,
misused, and treated unjustly when they know perfectly well that there are
plenty of other potential employees to choose from; some with master's degrees
even who have their resumes out and ready?
So why have
a union in a town where part-time, event-based, and temporary jobs seem to
reign? Maybe so the companies can't get away with it. So they can't go around
firing people on the thinnest little whim...for standing up for themselves, for
refusing to perform duties well outside that person's job description, or even
for just asking questions in general. The list could go on and on because no
matter how self-explanatory one's job may be; each and every modern workplace
remains a giant grey area where shit is constantly popping up...shit not
listed in the official employee handbook (even a handbook as purposely vague as
the one handed out by this particular corporation). So, if for nothing other
than to prevent the higher-ups from going on an occasional firing orgy, the
union is necessary. It's necessary to keep them in check. And for that alone,
the dues are worth it.
But enough
of this essayist bullshit. Let's just dive right in, shall we?
Woodman's
office was small as it was windowless as it was depressing. Suffice to say
that, any normal person forced to work in such a dreary dungeon day-to-day and
for any length of time, would have definitely killed themselves long ago. But
maybe he wasn't very sensitive to his surroundings. Or worse. Maybe he'd just
become used to it. Either way though; I was glad when his boss, Brendan,
overrode Woodman's original decision and opted instead to use the boardroom down
the hall. Because, other than just being dark and gloomy, the first two
meetings in this series of three had already taken place in Woodman's office. And
I believe that if the 7 of us agreed on even a single thing that day; it was
that we were all pretty well sick of that stinking venue.
The purpose
of this final meeting was to was to grieve the fact that I'd been terminated
from the company in a way that the union and I felt was wrong and unjust. And
supposedly, based on what Clara had told me out on the sidewalk mere minutes
ago, we were here to plea our case for the first time since the firing was made
official...and they were here to listen to us.
“But why
would they hire me back?” I'd asked her, “I mean...just so I have some sort of
idea of which angle to work. I mean...what's in it for them?”
“Well,” and
her answer wasn't canned so much as something that I just didn't necessarily believe,
“Because you're a good employee and you always show up on time and do your job.
Plus, it saves them the trouble of having to hire someone else.”
“Yeah, but
they already hired someone else...about two months ago when I was first
suspended,” I honestly wasn't trying to sound surly now; it just sort of
came out that way, “But, kind of ironically I guess, I heard the other
day that that replacement of mine just quit.”
“There!”
her eyes perked up, “You see?”
“Yeah, but
I mean; they already replaced her too.”
And I was
quickly beginning to see that Clara was drastically depreciating the situation
here and the bewildering numbness of those heads we were about to go up
against.
For
starters, the managers present were already going to be pissed off for just
having to be here today! I knew this and, to be honest, a part of me even
relished in this little attitude of theirs and it's definitely one of the
reasons that I'd taken things so far and for so long. There was no winning this
battle. I knew that too. But rather than go down without a whisper, I could
pester the fucking shit out of them so long as the law and union allowed me to
do so. Because they had to be here today less they relinquish all power.
There were going to have to sit across that table from us and listen to me plea
my case. And they'd have to answer some technical questions that Clara and
Malcolm, the other union rep present, would surely ask. And having to do so
would burn them so badly...it would infuriate them! And they couldn't very well
stand up all red-faced and say, “Fuck your stupid union! And fuck you!”
Because, obviously this entire meeting was to go on record and obviously there
would be plenty of witnesses...partisan witnesses but witnesses just the same.
And because, according to Clara, the next step, should they choose not to hire
me back, was something called 'arbitration' where basically we'd have this same
meeting but in front of a judge.
Of course,
they weren't going to hire me back though. And the joke, this whole time, was
really on them because after getting fired...getting shit-canned for
nothing more than being short a stack of plastic fucking cups; I sure as hell
wasn't about to jump at the opportunity. They'd make my life a hell upon
rehire. And the whole 'plastic cup' thing was a facade anyway; an excuse, and
they knew it. They knew it, I knew it, and all the rest of my
coworkers knew it. And that's why they'd officially fired me for something as
vague but ominous sounding as 'gross misconduct' rather than 'theft'.
What Clara
didn't understand was that this case...I don't know if I'd call it 'personal'
exactly but it definitely went beyond the plastic surface of those stupid cups.
What she didn't understand was that this story really started about 7
months prior when I'd complained to Woodman about a way one of his managers was
acting towards some of the prettier looking ladies around the workplace. And,
what the hell, just for kicks; I'll get into some specifics. Said manager would
approach me and elbow me in the gut with a pervy look on his face and proceed
to say things to the affect of, “Yeah. I wouldn't mind breakin' me off a piece
of that...if ya know what I mean.” Or, adversely, pertaining to some of the
less lovely looking ones on the scale of outward appearances only, “There's no
good lookin' ones in here today,” he'd nudge me, “Looks like they're all a
bunch of computer geeks and lesbians.” And I'd told him that he really
shouldn't be sharing these personal thoughts with me. And when even after that,
they didn't cease; I'd made an appointment to come in and talk it over with
Woodman who was the manger of the mangers of sorts although I believe his
official title was something like: Corporate Toolbag. And so we'd met up in his
depressing office and we'd discussed this issue and, afterwards, that
particularly pervy manager did keep it on the down-low...about as much as he
could. So problem solved, more or less, without me having to bring the union
into it. Without even notifying them; I'd met with Woodman on my own (something
that I knew the union disapproved of...especially these days when new contract
negotiations were in the air).
What Clara
also didn't understand was that I'd met up with Woodman a couple of months after
that about a scheduling issue. And this one wasn't so much of a complaint as it
was taking a stand on my part. And I could see how Woodman might have taken this
personally since it was he who made the schedules himself. Basically, after
promoting me to Bartender last summer, he still felt free to schedule me in the
concession stands whenever he did so please. And this alone; I would have been
cool with despite the fact that no other Bartender would have ever been
so obedient. But hey, I'm a team player and like to help out when and where I
can. However, upon glancing at my paycheck one day, I noticed that, while
working the concession stands, I was actually being paid a lower rate...lower
than a bartender, that is. Which would pretty much negate my promotion to
Bartender in the first place! Not to mention that the tips were less. Not to
mention that that pay rate I'd noticed on my check was even lower than
what I'd been making in the concession stands before my promotion!
So...to summarize; I was basically getting fucked in the ass without even the
decency of a reach-around.
This
particular issue was never solved...at least not on the books. Because, after
meeting with Woodman (and some ancient bitch from HR) and not having
accomplished much; he held his ground by stating that he would continue to schedule
me to work the concession stands whenever he so needed but added that he'd also
begin to cross-train all the other bartenders to work them too...which we both
knew was complete bullshit. He was never going to cross-train them and he never
did. This, however, didn't keep him from looking me straight in the eye...and
lying. This is also the same moment that I lost all respect for Woodman; a
respect that had been slowly declining over the years anyway as he became more
and more of a corporate whore and would lie to us (the bartenders, concessions
workers, dishwashers, catering crew, and even the mangers below him) on a more
and more regular basis.
And so it
was for this particular issue and its lack of a resolution that I, for
the first time, contacted the union for help. Surely, somewhere within our
contract that I'd never once so much as glanced at...surely, there must be some
clause that stated we couldn't be forced to work a position outside our own job
classification and for less pay to boot. And sure enough; there was such a
clause. Two or three of them actually that Malcolm and I had found together
when I called him up to discuss matters. We'd found them, yes. But Malcolm did
suggest then that we not press the issue unless it ever came up again (on my
schedule) which, of course, it never did. Thus, the matter had amended
itself...but only because of the giant shit storm I'd created...much to Woodman's
annoyance, I'm certain.
And what
Clara ultimately didn't understand out there on the sidewalk and before going
into the boardroom that day was that these two issues coupled with a grievance
recently filed on my behalf regarding a concern where I'd been accidentally
(but unfairly just the same) skipped over to work a concert (a really good
moneymaking shift that, by not working it, probably cost me upwards of
two hundred dollars) is that I, having had to stand up for myself these
many times in the course of the past year, had been labeled (by the management,
of course); a troublemaker. And they wanted nothing more to do with me.
Four year's
worth of working there and the only complaint I ever made before these
aforementioned was about a coffee maker that had gone haywire and had, for
months, been overflowing thereby causing a slip and fall type situation. Some
of the staffers, on more than one occasion, had even burned themselves while
trying to turn it off. Yes, before then, the only complaint I'd ever made was
about a safety issue and, even then, it's only because the management
had refused to take the matter
seriously. The machine had gone unrepaired because they claimed we didn't know
how to 'use it right'. And with over a dozen different people using that thing
weekly...? It was Woodman's way of saying that he thought we were all stupid. It
couldn't be more black and white. And it wasn't until I threatened to call OSHA
that that human shit-stain finally sent someone in to fix it.
“So I heard
you just got employee of the month at your other job?” Malcolm asked me as we
were all making our way into the boardroom and finding our seats.
“Of the
quarter,” I smiled not only because this was true but because it was exactly
the type of praise that these managers
needed to hear about just now as they proceeded to shuffle their paperwork
together.
“Nice!”
“Yeah, it's
a pretty good gig actually. Steady hours. Paid holidays. Medical benefits.”
And
Malcolm's ears perked up at that last one. Through the union, he'd been
steadily pushing to obtain medical
benefits (for everyone) for years...to no avail. It was a pipe dream, of
course. Healthcare through a part time, event-based gig such as this? Let's
just say that there's some magic not even the union can work. And not many
employees, besides Malcolm, ever expected them too. Including myself.
“Well,
that's awesome,” he smiled back sincerely; his dyed red hair pulled straight
back into a ponytail.
Today,
Malcolm was wearing a summery sort of dress; white cotton and sleeveless with
some sort of black pattern on it. He'd worn a dress and platforms to the
previous meeting too. And the only reason I even mention this is that he was
the only one in the room presently wearing one. Even Clara, just to my right
now, was wearing pants and a shirt. Red pants! And a blue shirt! Or, to
be more precise, red jeans and a royal blue cotton T. She was all
business, though, with reading glasses on and a pen in her hand already.
Having just
come from my other job (and having carelessly spilled coffee on myself just as
I was leaving), I wore, over my collared shirt, a black sweater...in the
middle of summer which, no doubt, looked somehow suspicious or weird. But my
hair was combed and my face was shaved. I wasn't making a mockery of this
meeting in any way...at least not outright.
So a motley
looking group were we that would have evoked an uncontrollable amount of
intrigue from any assemblage (although probably less disdainfully so
than the one presently) sitting across from us. And this is how the
table was divided. The three of us on one side...the side closest to the door.
While the four of them sat directly across from us with the exception of
HR lady who'd seated herself at the head of the table at one end. Make no
mistake though. She was one of them. A recently acquired corporate
liaison whose position, I can only suppose, was to ease the rocky relations
between the division of laborers and management. For example, a couple of
months ago, she'd set into motion a program for rewarding us, say, if a
customer called to praise us for good service. The sadly typical downside to this
program, however, was that it was virtually impossible to reach any of our
managers by phone...even if somebody had a complaint to make! I often tried to
imagine customers going online to find our number where sensibly, they'd search
for The Schnitzer or the Keller Auditorium. And a phone number would pop
up, surely. It just wouldn't be the correct number...the number that would
ultimately lead to one of our managers' desks down in the very bowels of
these buildings. Because our company, Aramark, subcontracted with
the Portland Center for the Performing Arts and flew conveniently under the
radar while the patron calling to either give praise or make a complaint would
have no idea that the box office they just reached was not in any way, shape,
or form associated with us. And as far as taking the time to jot down
and relay the name of an Aramark employee being praised; well, the good people
actually in the box office could really give a shit.
So, for
this reason, the proposed record keeping of potential praise was complete
bullshit but not, however, for this reason only. The next had to do with what
they actually planned to reward us with. No shit; she literally reserved
a small room in one of our buildings and filled it with crap like cheap
appliances and headphones and maybe a department store bicycle even. And
whenever we were praised, they were supposed to reward us with this fake
currency anticreatively dubbed: Aramark dollars or Aramark bucks or something
equally unimaginative but of the like. But in the many months since this
patronizing program had begun, I hadn't come into contact with anyone who'd
saved up enough of these so-called bucks to actually 'buy' anything mostly (as
I've just mentioned) due to the fact that it was virtually impossible for us to
ever receive any outside praise in the first place.
Come to
think of it; I'd only known one employee to have ever received any
payment in this phony cash and that was for rolling a heavy Cambro full
of ice 10 downtown city blocks to a different auditorium and then back again.
The poor guy, upon his return, was all winded and sweaty and so I asked him,
“Did they even give you anything extra for doing that?”
To which he
replied in a tone that I hadn't yet identified as sarcasm, “Yeah. 50 bucks.”
“Oh. Well,
hell. I would have carted it over there for 50 bucks.”
“No, dude,”
and he gave me a look then like I should have known, “50 Aramark
dollars.”
“Oh.
Sorry.” And it was pretty sad but I think, at the time, we both just had
to laugh.
These
specific instances of praise were also supposed to go in our personal files so,
as the managers used to say, if we ever did get into trouble and had to
sit in any sort of disciplinary meeting like the one I'm about to transcribe,
there would at least be some documentation present to portray us in a positive
light. Not that this was technically a 'disciplinary meeting' we were about to
engage in so to speak. As Clara had told me over the phone; I was already fired
and therefore had nothing to lose. This was her way of attempting to put me at
ease...and it did...sort of. But what she neglected to mention (or perhaps
didn't fully realize) was that since this wasn't technically a
disciplinary meeting and since I was already fired and since they
had no plans to take me back; this meeting was to be nothing more than a farce
at best and probably something more like what I enjoy referring to as a
'lame fuck around'. And, as will soon be revealed, the few points of praise in
my file that I had picked up along the way (not to mention my perfect
attendance record and willingness to always come in on short notice) did for me
about jack and shit.
And so it
was programs like these that this HR lady now sitting at the head of one side
of the table came up with. This was pretty much the extent of her position from
what I'd gathered which, when you think about it, is pretty sweet gig! And this
was her first sweet gig or cake job or, to be perfectly accurate; professional
job. This, I could tell just by looking at her. She overdressed the part for
starters; like she'd gone out the day she was hired and bought a bunch of new
suits because she'd never had the opportunity to wear one to work
before...having just come from Target where she'd been employed since
graduating college something like 40 years ago! That last inference is nothing
more than that; the part about Target, I mean. That being said, though, I am
still very good at pegging people which is why I'm going to go on record as
saying that her age (60-something) wasn't so much a guess as it was calculated
speculation. She was 60-something hoping to God she could still pass for
40-something and hoping erroneously. Imagine an old cat. A really old one. One
that's so old that it appears boney and brittle. So old that, if it weren't for
its fur, there would only be a wrinkled sack of skin to meet the eye. Rather
than fur, though, this HR lady was trying to disguise her own wrinkled sack
with an expensive haircut...and that's what she had going for her. That and a
cakey layer of cosmetic foundation that didn't do shit to conceal the copious
amount of age spots that, like a disease, seemed to be on the verge of fully
taking over her face. To sum it up succinctly; she was just trying way too
hard to hide the fact that she was, and had been, post-menopausal for quite a
while.
She was
also one of those particularly scarey types of people who couldn't quite decide
whether or not to believe their own bullshit. As with her 'praise and rewards'
program, for instance. Did she actually go home at night and say to herself,
“You know what? I think that I really made a difference in those people's lives
today. I think that, from now on, everyone working under my tiny area of
influence is going to feel that much more appreciated...because of me. Good job!”
And if so
then which was worse? This was the burdensome little bug of a question that
these types left me trying to decide. Because, on the one hand, if this
lady did indeed believe that she was somehow making a positive
difference; well, then she was just another idiot in the world and not to be
taken seriously. And I believed this to be the case here; this less malignant
of the two possible outcomes. Because, on the other (and this is something that
frightens me right down to my core), if this bitch knew that she was
just spitting out bullshit and went to a job everyday where she generated more
bullshit because, deep down, she knew that this Aramark corporation (on
its administrative end) was nothing more than a giant bullshit factory...which
it is. If she knew this for a fact but continued to spit this
shit...for a paycheck? For a job where she could wear a suit for (literally) a
couple more years until it was time for her to retire? Where she could delude
herself just long enough to hold back the self-loathing until it was time to
wake up and look into the morning mirror all over again? It was this type of
fundamental flaw that frightened me so much and it's exactly these types of
deluded sickos out there who epitomized the very definition of the word
'wrong'. But we'll get into that in a minute. For now, as I've already
mentioned, I believed this lady to be the more benign type of psycho. She knew
that she, for the most part went unnoticed...that her footsteps through this
life would forever be quiet...that she would sooner than later, to quote Dylan
Thomas, 'go gentle into that good night'...and that truly; her very
existence made hardly any difference at all. So little difference, in fact,
that I could never even remember her name...which is why it doesn't appear in
this story.
Seated next
to her and slumping in the corner was Woodman; the manger of mangers (so to
speak) whom I'd met up with so many times by now already. During the last two
meetings, he was the one who'd done almost all of the speaking. He'd told me
point-blank that he didn't believe I'd miscounted my cups...which was his way
of insinuating that it was the management's take that I was stealing. And while
it's true that this was the management's position, it was a lie that
Woodman himself believed me to be a thief. It was illogical. He never would have
kept me around for 4 fucking years (much less have promoted me a year ago) if
he so much as had an inkling...which he didn't. Because I had not, nor had I
ever, stolen from that atrocious fucking company. And who knows? Maybe I should
have. Maybe I should have stolen a little bit here and there over the years. It
sure would have been easy. And it would've added up. And I would have damn sure
felt less silly sitting here at a boardroom table after having been fired for not
stealing. Had I been fired for something; I wouldn't even be writing
this right now! But I am...because I wasn't.
And this is
exactly what I mean about believing one's own bullshit. Or not believing
it; as was the case with Woodman. He was wrong for firing me because, deep down,
he knew that I didn't deserve it. But of course, with a grievance already on
the line and with this inventory discrepancy that truly I could not explain, he
was under pressure to do so from his higher-ups when really all
this discrepancy should have ever led up to was a stern warning and a write-up.
And this is where things really get ugly. Because it's the philosophy. Assuming
Woodman was under pressure to fire me and that his hands were tied...and I really
wanted to believe this. Assuming this was the case; then what was he
supposed to do? Be a man and stand up for his convictions like I did? And I do
realize that that's a pretty tall order since Woodman, from what I understood,
did have a family to support and kids that had probably long since stopped
respecting him. And surely, it wouldn't prove very beneficial for him to get
fired for not firing somebody else (me) who would doubtlessly be fired
regardless of his own stance, his opinion, or his actions. But at any point, he
could have leveled with me. At any time, he could have taken me aside and said,
“Hey, man. I know this is complete bullshit and I know that everyone has an off
night every once in a while. But it's either me or you here...or both of us.
And I'm really, really sorry. But I hope you understand. They've really got my
nuts in a vice over this one.” And I still may not have been okay with it but I
may have at least regained a single ounce of respect for the man. But he never
did take me aside and put his hand on my shoulder or even communicate such
sentiments with so much as a beseechingly apologetic look on his face. So here
goes...
It's a
scary thing when people go against that little voice in their head; their
conscience. And it's a scary thing when people are forced to choose between the
lesser of two evils. Not to say that it was evil to fire me necessarily.
But I do believe that a bunch of tiny, little evils piled on top of one another
for so long will eventually spill out into the world and cause a bunch
of chaos and unnecessary negativity. It's funny because there was this one
woman whom I'd worked with who had basically gone up against Woodman for very
similar reasons. She'd had a couple meetings with him while union reps were
present. But, unlike me, she was able to maintain her employment. She
told me those meetings got gnarly though. She told me that, at one point, she
found herself yelling across the table at them for having accused her of 'gross
misconduct' which, in Aramark language, meant stealing. And she told me that,
with people like Woodman in the world, it was no wonder the holocaust happened.
I'm chuckling to myself about this last remark even now...but not as hard as
when this theory of hers was first expressed to me. I didn't make a face and
say, “Jesus! That's a bit extreme, don't you think?” But afterward...I used to
go out to the bar and tell other co-workers that she'd actually said
that about Woodman and we'd all just laugh our heads off. How could she say that
about anyone, for that matter, save a neo-Nazi?! But I get it now. A
little. I think. This sentiment that she was attempting to express; it
was the same idea as all the little evils adding up. All the little wrongs. And
'wrong' is something psychological. It's man-made. It's obeying orders
from higher-up that you don't agree with on a moral set of standards. It's
going against yourself. And when you go against yourself; you go against
everything.
This
co-worker also stated that, in this meeting or meetings, Woodman had yelled at
her; had actually stood up and yelled. And I'd heard, on more than one
occasion, of him doing this. I'd heard it from other mangers even! Which, to
me, just meant that he was under a lot of stress. Again, he was perpetually
caught between the rock and the hard place that was his position within
the company; the go-between guy who was somehow supposed to link this awful
line between labor and management. He never yelled at me though. Not even in
the two meetings previous; both of which had become pretty intense.
Because...yelling at women with their backs already against the wall was one
thing. But to yell at a 200 lb. guy whom he knew would stand right back up, get
in his face, and throw it back at him...he didn't have the balls...or at least
not balls big enough. Apparently.
As he sat there across
from me at the boardroom table on this day, though, rolling his eyes; I mostly
just felt sorry for him. I'd heard that he was (or at least once was) in
a band. A Cake cover band, granted. But still. It was kind of cool. But
just look where he wound up. This was his stage now. And we, the
union reps and I; his all but unreceptive audience. I'd even heard that once,
not so very long ago, he'd moved to Philadelphia where there must have been
some musical opportunity there awaiting him. I'd heard that that had been his
last real stab at it. And I'd heard that he'd failed miserably. And that that's
why he was back. Imagine the resentment he must have held towards other people
still living their dreams. The very weight...the magnitude of it must have been
astounding. And that's why it didn't surprise me at all that he rolled his eyes
and huffed and yelled and acted the way he did. It didn't surprise me that
anyone who saw him on the street would have immediately mistaken him for an
albino with his ever thinning white hair and waxy, wan complexion. Woodman,
however, was an albino only of the soul. The very fibers of his being lacking
any pigmentation...anymore. A sad and tragic man who just wasn't quite good
enough to make it.
Either that or he was
just your regular, run-of-the-mill fucking asshole. Take your pick.
On the other corner
across from us, there sat Will. He was sort of a newcomer to Portland but not,
however, to the Aramark managerial scene...which is crazy because he was
probably a few years younger than myself. Maybe more than that even. It was
hard to tell. He was young, though, and still had that little boy's face about
him. More definitively; a little boy who'd just shit his pants and was pissed about
sitting in it. His prematurely receding hairline only helped to accentuate this
image because it resembled that of a toddler's whose hair hasn't begun to grow
in yet right around the temples and even a little bit beyond. And it was because
of his youth and his position that he truly disgusted me and didn't draw much
respect from anyone else. This isn't to say, of course, that just because
someone is young; they don't deserve respect. Rather, it was just so completely
obvious that he'd given up on his life and aspirations without ever really
trying to achieve them and that he'd probably taken that low and easy road by
majoring in (and then graduating with) a hotel and restaurant management
degree.
And as I sat across the
table from him just then, I couldn't quite decide whether or not it was funny
or sad that Woodman was his future. Either way, though, it sure did make for an
interesting phenomenon to see them seated almost side-to-side. The broken. The
defeated. The lifers.
Will had been around
for only a couple weeks before the first meeting that had resulted in my
suspension. And already, my co-workers had been referring to him as, The Mole.
I'm not perfectly sure why, though, since a 'mole' (by my understanding) is
someone who is undercover. Still, the nickname was funny as shit. And even more
so because he had absolutely no idea that this is what the staff truly thought
of him. It was believed, anyway, that he'd been brought in as an extra
player for their team while the new union contract was still under negotiation.
And it was known, pretty much from day 1, that Will's position within the
company was just a bit higher than that of our nightly closing managers.
However, after these first couple weeks were up and the story had a chance to
unfold itself (mostly thanks to some of the other blabbermouth managers); it
turned out that Will was just some garden-variety douche bag who'd moved to
Portland because his wife wanted to attend a specific school of
chiropractics...which would make him, what they refer to in The South as, a
following-spouse.
As I've
pointed out, it was Woodman who'd done almost all of the talking in the two
previous meetings. But now, just by the way that the Legion of Evil had
situated themselves, I could tell that this was no longer going to be the case.
Because, sitting in the center of the table on their side now was Woodman's boss, Brendan. And
he, out of any of them, had to be the one bona fide steaming pile of human garbage;
a stinking turd of a man right through to the core and a beady-eyed, Leprechaun
looking bastard at that.
Smiling
smugly across from me now, I actually took the time to evaluate the worm for
the very first time. His profile was so obvious, I can't even believe I'm going
to describe it but...Brendan had gelled what was left of his greying mane and
had slicked it back in the fashion of any used car salesman ever; a style that
I've never quite understood on any guy whose hair was already thinning so
badly. And Brendan had used so much fucking gel today that his scalp now, under
the overhead fluorescents, reflected an irritating, white shine that I knew was
going to distract me for the duration.
That being
said; it should also be obvious that he was the kind of guy who would point at
someone when he walked into a room...as if to acknowledge their presence.
Today, he wore a dress shirt; maroon and of a cotton that had been so refined,
it seemed to gleam...which only accentuated his already greasy being. Beyond
that, though, Brand would have been the perfect spokesman for Viagra. He could
easily have taken the place of any one of those guys in an erectile dysfunction
commercial; so prime was he for the part. As if, just by looking at him, one
would begin to hear that little voice-over warning that always ran at the end
of those ads...“Please, consult your doctor to determine whether or not your
heart is healthy enough for sex.” And I guess that's the general impression
that this guy gave off; that his heart was not. Although, rather than
wearing that complacent, self-satisfied smile on his face like all those other
baseball loving 50-somethings in the commercials; Brendan's own countenance
gave one the feeling that they were staring at some kind of hologram when,
without moving any actual muscles, his standard schmuck-smile would slowly
transform into an expression full of fear and agony. And this may sound strange
but it only made complete sense because, if I know anything about Aramark (and
I do), the degree of misery only seemed to increase as one moved up the
ladder...exponentially. And I didn't even want to fucking try to imagine
was his boss was like.
However,
for all points and purposes of this story, it may just be easier to envision
any standard, pink-faced lowlife that could make a $2000 suit look bad.
Admittedly,
Brendan was somewhat of a mystery card that I'd been dealt. That is; other than
the characteristics mentioned above and so easily ascertained via a little
intuition, I believe I'd only ever seen him one other time and that was
at the last meeting a month ago whereupon I was officially fired. And even
then, it seemed he'd made himself present just to ensure Woodman was doing his
job properly. He spoke only once then and I believe it was after the
fact...after Woodman had already broken it to the room that their decision was
'to terminate'. And, as we'll see in due time, jabbering nonsensical bullshit
was nothing more than another trait of Brendan's that can be added to the list.
What he'd said then was in reference to an extra bottle of gin that had
appeared on my paperwork. At first, I didn't know how this could have happened
either...but then, about a week later, it came to me. And please allow me to
get a bit technical for a moment... Whenever a bartender closes up for the
night, it is common practice (not to mention the way I was trained) to
not even take the time to inventory a bottle that has less than a shot in it.
We'd leave it there for the next guy, sure. But on paper, it simply wouldn't
exist. It wouldn't exist, that is, until the next bartender came along, poured
that 'less than a shot', and had to account for it on a different form that we
were supposed to fill out when accounting for the actual, empty glass bottle
itself. So it was a paperwork error. An error that was easy to explain if they
were at all into listening...which they were not. And that fucking moron,
Brendan, actually opened his yap and in that high-pitched, girly voice of his;
actually tried to argue the point with
me. He mentioned something about always counting the liquor in
our bottles whether they only had a few drops in them or not. To which my
rebuttal was to bring to his attention that one of his own managers had
specifically asked that we not do this. And so Brendan, the dumb mother fucker
that he was, proved in front of everyone in the room that he didn't even
understand the very system that he was supposed to be there somehow
enforcing...the very system that they were firing someone over. Brendan
obviously didn't know shit about anything going on behind the bar or the inner
workings of the job itself. And because he was now sitting in middle of
the boardroom table today, I knew for a fact that this meeting about to proceed
was going to be nothing more than a comedy of pretentiousness as did everyone of
them. They still had to be here though. And I wouldn't have missed it for the
world.
“Well
then,” Clara communicated to the room now that everybody was seated and the
doors had been closed behind us, “We're here to talk about two grievances today
so I opt that we start with the easiest one first.”
“The
easiest one,” Brendan blurted, “Which one's that?”
And here, I
would have automatically assumed that, by saying this, he was just trying to
get things off on the smug-foot by acting like some sort of hotshot in front of
his buddies if not for the insight I already had about Brendan not really being
able to comprehend what was going on...in any situation. So, rather than
just trying to be a bigger douche here, it occurred to me that he
probably just wasn't aware that that first and fatal (to my occupation)
grievance was still in affect. And that I still wanted my back pay.
“It's the
one,” Clara replied, “Where Mick was allegedly skipped over on the call-down
list to work a shift.”
“Well, that
sounds to me like you already said it right there,” he spoke to her and her
only, “Allegedly. I mean, as far as I know, we keep pretty accurate logs on
this type of thing. In fact...” and here he looked quickly over to the left at
his subordinate who was sort of spacing out in the corner, “Woody. Why don't
you go find some of those logs to show everyone here. Especially, the one
pertaining to this date if it's still available.”
To which
Woodman responded with a despondent shrug and a roll of his eyes like he'd just
sat down and didn't feel as if it were necessary for him to get off his lazy
ass again. He did get up though. He took that order like a good little
boy, swallowed his pride, and left the room in pursuit of those call-logs
which, in all fairness, were completely unnecessary to obtain. They
weren't going to prove anything. And it's not like anyone in the room wasn't
able to imagine just what one of these logs would have looked like. But, who
cares? That was their problem.
“Yes,”
Clara answered in a tone; practiced and diplomatic, “And I guess that we're not
really arguing the fact that this particular call wasn't logged...”
“Then what
are we arguing?” Brendan interrupted her. He was already losing his cool and I
was already loving that I really had to do nothing more than sit back and enjoy
the show.
“And
Clara...if I may,” Malcolm chimed in on my left, “I just wanted to reiterate
and to stress the fact that we're in no way suggesting that the
secretary willingly or intentionally skipped Mick over on this call. But, you
know, human errors do occur...”
“Well, they
don't occur very often,” Brendan put flatly.
“Um. Yeah,”
and Malcolm leaned forward a bit here to sort of eyeball Clara right on the
other side of me. It was as if he needed to ascertain, through just a look,
what she made of this blatant lack of regard for the perfectly valid and
bipartisan point he'd been trying to make. “Well, I guess the point that we're
trying to make is that they do occur from time to time and that this may just
be one of those cases.”
Malcolm sat
back again; his hands daintily folded over the notebook in his lap.
“Okay?”
Brendan retorted, “Well? Do you have some evidence of this?”
“Actually,”
Clara took over again, “We do have Mick's phone records which he's obtained
from...AT&T?”
“That's
correct,” I spoke up mostly just so my throat didn't go dry.
“Can I have
a look at those?” Brendan held his hand out.
“Certainly.”
And he did
look at those couple sheets of paper; skeptically, though, as if the very
records were antagonizing him.
“Well,
this...” he sneered arrogantly here, “There aren't even any calls made on the
day in question. Incoming or outgoing. These are all text messages.”
“Yes,” I
attempted to clarify, “I really don't get that many actual phone calls.”
“Well, you
have to get more than... It says here, you got three in a week!”
That's
because nobody actually talks on the phone anymore, you dumb fuck.
“Three in a
week sounds about right.”
“About
right?”
“Yes.”
“I think
what we want to focus on here,” Clara did her best to keep the communication
from running away with itself, “Is that there are no records indicating that
Mick ever received a call on that day.”
“Okay,” and
Brendan may as well have been the only advocate over on their side at this
point, “Well, we're sayin' he did. So...? I guess I'm just not really
understanding what it is you wanna do here.”
“Well,”
Clara continued, “What we're asking for is that Mick receive back pay for this
night in question. No tips, obviously. But, according to Mick, he was only
requesting the back hourly wage to begin with...which, I'm only
speculating here, would come out to something like 40 or 50 bucks.” Then she
quickly craned her neck to look at me, “Is that about right, Mick? And would
this satisfy the situation for you?”
“I believe it would,” I
answered her.
“And that's
all fine and good,” Brendan opened his hands, palms up, in a exaggerated
expression of poorly feigned bewilderment, “But phone calls don't always show
up on the billing records. It happens to me all the time.”
“And to
me,” the nameless, void of an HR lady decided to show some support.
“There. Ya
see?” and Brendan actually looked to her as if her three-word statement somehow
held any water.
“And
Clara...if I may,” and I just had to be the one to say it, “I think that
what we're asking for...what we're requesting here...that is, if we haven't
already; are the phone records from your side so that we can compare.”
“Well, I'm
afraid that's not possible,” Brendan always had an answer...even if it was
just empty garble, “This building operates on a tree trunk system meaning; all
the lines are tied into one bill...one record so... I'm afraid it's just not
possible that we could tie any one line to Mick's number.”
And he was
actually saying this shit. It wasn't his logic. But, once again, Brendan wasn't
the type of creep to believe in his own bullshit.
“Yes. But
I'm sure,” I threw in again, “that it would be possible to obtain
those records and, from them, to discern whether or not any line from
this building called my number on that day...which I'm confident that it would
not.”
“And what?”
and here was his exasperated attitude again, “So you're saying that we should
actually pay one of our people to take the time to go through all
those records?! I'm afraid that's just not going to happen. Not that it would prove
anything anyway!”
And I
looked him right in his beady, little eyes this time, “So what you're saying
is; you can obtain the records. You just don't want to.”
Luckily,
for the sake of the continuity of this meeting, Clara jumped in again and
addressed him, “Okay. Well, I can clearly see your stance on this matter. And
it would appear, for the time being, that it's not going to be resolved. So I
guess that our next move would be to subpoena those records and just
take it from there.”
Woodman
reentered the room at this point with a few sheets of paper in his hand. He
dropped them down on the table in front of Clara and let his boney index finger
linger on the stack just long enough to seem spiteful before returning to his
corner. Then, from his seat, he proceeded to explain what each of the lines on
the Excel spreadsheet that was the call-log were supposed to signify while
Clara marked on them with her pen and asked some questions as to whether or not
the log was manually entered...which, of course, it was.
“It also
says here,” and she already knew this but I can only suppose she was just
trying to gauge their response, “That you left a voice mail? Is that considered
a standard procedure?”
“Not yet,”
Malcolm proudly interceded from my left, “But we're actually trying to get that
wording into our new contract right now so... We hope it's gonna happen.”
Clara may
not have been aware of this last part, however; the part about voice mails
presently being on the contract table. It didn't really matter either way but
it did cause me to stop for a second and consider that I'd had no idea
just how deep this union went. If Clara wasn't aware of every last, little
detail in this upcoming contract; it was probably because she was so high up
the ladder that our contract was, to her, just another one among many.
In Portland; I'd heard lately that the Hyatt staffers were coming up on a new
contract too and I knew that this union also covered the workers of the downtown
Hilton. Neither of these companies could have been nearly as defective as the
retarded conglomeration known as Aramark though; the very same Aramark that,
beyond such finer establishments as the Portland Center for the Performing
Arts, also ran and operated prison cafeterias (and that is the
honest-to-God's truth).
High up on
the wrung as Clara was, though, she was here helping me deal with this
shit...and I did appreciate it. It was nice to feel, when dished up one heaping
helping of injustice, like someone did indeed have my back. And the union
seemed to. During the meeting in which I was fired, for example, no less than four
representatives from the union hall made it down to hear the verdict. Woodman was
pissed that we had to get so many extra chairs just for all the butts to fit in
his tiny, little office! All just for him to read (literally) from a script
which took all of two minutes!
Be that as
it may; the union still didn't prevent me from being fired just like
they weren't going to get me my job back right now. Because, at the end
of the day (and as we shall see momentarily), there was still this little
clause on all official disciplinary forms used by the company which stated
basically that they had the right to fire anybody for any reason. And it was this
type of clause that had always caused me to question the actual authority (or
lack thereof) that our union may have wielded. Because, if this could happen to
me, it could happen to anyone still working for Aramark at the PCPA...anyone
who ever decided to speak up for themselves. And this is why, since I was
already fired after all, I had decided to make this process the longest, most
drawn-out, most painstaking shit-charade this company had ever yet imagined. I
would waste as much of their time as was humanly possible just so that the next
time they ever even considered firing someone without any solid proof or legitimate reason; they may remember just what a lengthy process it could be
indeed...and think twice about it.
“Okay,”
Clara obviously knew that we'd hit an impasse, “Well, I think we can just put
this one aside for now and move on.”
“I can't
wait,” Brendan replied tonelessly and surprisingly without an ounce of sarcasm
in his voice.
“Alright,”
she went on while switching folders, “Well, I guess that brings us to the
company's decision to terminate Mick's employment. And I think what we're
trying to determine here is if said termination was completely justifiable.”
“Oh, it's
justifiable,” was Brendan's response, “I mean, it's all right here in
black and white. Mick came up short over $200 on the night in question and
bingo. I mean...what more do you need?”
“Clara,”
and I did actually find it necessary to intervene here for just a moment, “I
just wanted to make sure that you understand that that $200 wasn't actual cash
that I came up short on. In fact, the bartender working right next to me; her
cash totals were about the same as mine at the end of the night. I just wanted
to be sure that we're all on the same page and that it's the plastic cups that
I was actually short on and their worth as far as poured drinks are concerned.”
“Well,”
Brendan's irritation made its quick reappearance, “I mean...that's what
we go by around here, isn't it? They're cups that you signed for.”
“Yes. Well,”
Clara resumed, “I think part of the case that we're making is that Mick had to
leave his bar during the time of setup and...”
“Well, who
told you to leave your bar?!” he quickly bypassed the mediator altogether.
“Nobody
ever told me, in four years, not to leave my bar,” I replied, “And the
fact of the matter is that I had to since, more often than not, the
supplies that I require aren't delivered to me by the time the house
doors open.”
“Why?” this
question of his was rhetorical though, “Do we not have runners on the
payroll to do that for you?”
“There are
runners, obviously, and I'm not getting down on any of them. But it's common
knowledge that, for big concerts and events like this was, they're running
around like crazy people trying to get everyone the most rudimentary stuff that
they also need to do their jobs...”
“And what
was it? What rudimentary things did you need so badly?”
“Well,
lemons and limes for one. And bus tubs and ice for another. Let's just say that
I don't enjoy serving the customers warm beer and gin and tonics with no
lime wedge. They get upset. And,” I delivered my case in the only
language they spoke, “It's bad for business.”
“So what
you're saying is that the runners aren't doing their jobs?”
“Not at
all. In fact, I've heard them complain many times only because they're not given
ample time in which to perform their duties. And I've mentioned countless times
to the mangers on duty that they, along with the bartenders and everyone else
for that matter, should be scheduled earlier and given more time...the
time that they need, so that we don't always run in to situations like
this where everyone is having to rush around...”
“I'm not
buying it,” Brendan sat back in his chair now and sort of removed himself from
the conversation. He also took this time to scan each and every face sitting on
his side of the table; searching them for approval like a politician who knew
that his stances were shaky. Brendan needed to be surrounded by yes-men less he
crumble...and I imagine that he was like that outside of work as well.
“Mick,”
Clara attempted to refocus the discussion for the umpteenth time, “Would you
say that it wouldn't have been difficult, while you were away from your bar,
for somebody to just come over and take some cups?”
“Extremely
easy,” I used her prompt, “I keep them behind the bar so that they're not as
obvious or inviting but... If someone...especially someone working for
the show, like the crew; if some of them needed cups, I'm sure they'd feel
perfectly entitled and wouldn't hesitate to lift some. The ushers have been
known to get a bit grabby from time to time too.”
“Is it possible that another
bartender might have taken some because they were short themselves?” Clara kept
leading me.
“It's
possible but not very likely. Not without them having told me about it, that
is. But that's not to say that maybe they grabbed a stack and then, after a
crazy-busy night like that, just forgot to tell me about it. That's
certainly another possibility.”
“No,” and
Brendan actually shook his head here as if to accentuate that one hollow word
from which a brief pause followed. And I think even his side was
expecting him to say something else. But he didn't.
“Okay,”
Clara took a deep breath, “Well, rather than concentrating anymore on whether
or not Mick's missing cups could have been taken without his knowledge; let's
examine for a moment, if we may, the severity of this disciplinary decision and
whether or not it was a reasonable one based on his longstanding record with
the company. I have, in my information here, that in 4 years; Mick has called
in sick only once. He's been late only a couple of times. And, other than this
one incident, there have been no other major disciplinary actions on-record. Am
I correct in saying this?”
“No,”
Brendan's tone rose and then fell a bit as if to stress the absurdity of
Clara's very question, “In fact, I have a whole stack of disciplinary
records here. Here's one,” he opened his own folder now, “It says Mick was off
by $7.25. And here's another one, and this one only a few nights later, that
says he was off by 9 dollars. I have a whole stack. There's over a dozen
of these things and his signature is on every one of them.”
“And may I
have a look at them?” Clara asked.
“Be my
guest,” he said as if she were going to attempt to discover something that just
wasn't there.
“And
Clara,” Malcolm threw in from my left again, “I think, just for the record,
that we need to make clear that these sheets are representing cups, and
not cash shortages again. So, while 9 dollars may sound like a lot, it
really is just one or two cups that he may have been missing on these
nights.”
“And may I
further clarify,” I had to add, “that these notifications, as they're called,
were being handed out to everyone for any little shortage just about every
night there for a while. And this went on for...I don't know; something like
only a few months in the entire 4 years that I've worked here. And then they
just went away entirely like sort of a passing fad.”
“Since when
did they go away entirely?!” this last statement of mine had apparently pissed
Brendan off...and I hadn't even been trying! My guess is, though, that he
hadn't been aware of this sudden influx of shortage notifications and then
their sudden cease. And all the flux really amounted to in the first place was
a ploy by the management to flex their muscle a little...to keep us scared and
in line like good, little worker-ants. And he'd probably berate Woodman later for
not having informed him that this little preventative policy had gone out the
window a long time ago like so many other non-issues they would occasionally
isolate and try to enforce before quickly giving up again.
“As I've
just said,” I answered him directly, “I can't remember the last time anyone has
actually received one of these. I mean, it's even become sort of a running
joke. In fact, I can clearly remember some of the newer people asking
what a 'notification' was even.”
“I don't
believe that,” Brendan put flatly.
“Well,” I
found myself glad to be having this deliberation now. I mean, that's what Clara
told me this meeting was supposed to be all about; stating my case in an
environment where the management was practically forced to sit and listen, “I'm
sure that if you just check the dates on any of those notifications in that
stack there; you'll find that they all occurred within a few months time. And because
they were almost always given for any of us being off just one cup; nobody ever
really worried too much about them. That is, they just seemed sort of
meaningless. Even the managers told us not to worry about them since, I
believe it's even stated in our contract that, if we ever received something
like 10 of them in a month's time; then this would constitute a write-up. But I
also believe that, in our contract, it's stated that those things are supposed
to be thrown out after one year. So what I'm really wondering here,
since I know absolutely that any of those in that stack is much older than that...
What I'm wondering right now is what they're still doing in my file or why
they're even in this room in the first place.”
“Is that
so,” Brendan wrinkled his brow...not that he portrayed the look of being
stumped. But he was. I'd caught him on something and a thick vein marking his
inner tension began to bulge on his forehead. Predictably, though, he dodged
the question, “And why, do you suppose that these notifications just
sort of fizzled out? Which they didn't.”
“Because
the managers,” I came back, “have always been, since I started working here,
reasonable enough to adjust our inventory if we were ever only off by a
cup or two at the end of the night. And it is perfectly reasonable for
them to do so. Cups fall on the floor. They get broken. Oftentimes, two just
get stuck together and there they go. I may use one for ice water and then
forget to mark it down. It happens. Everybody's human. And just about everyone
is off at least one or two cups at the end of the night. And so the night
managers will adjust our inventory. It happens, literally, every single night.
So, when it comes to these notifications, it was the managers who were really
under the pressure to give them for a while more than we ever
felt burned for having received one. And they always told us not to
worry about them so...”
“Were you
aware of this, Woody?” Brendan asked his boy.
“No,” Woodman
shrugged his slouched shoulders again without looking directly at anyone.
Malcolm
hadn't wanted me to play this card. He'd told me so many times. He believed
that it would bring heat upon the employees again...and with good reason. But my
philosophy for doing so was; if the system was a broken joke to begin with then
it needed to be fixed. No more hush, hush behind the curtains shit...even if
some of it (like the manager overrides) were actually in our favor. And
I knew absolutely that this heat which Malcolm predicted would never
reach the extremes he was anticipating. Because...what were they going to do?
Pick up with the whole 'notification' thing again and hand one out to every
last staffer at the end of the night and, in a month's time, fire everyone
working there?! They could, I suppose. But if they didn't like how
firing me was going just now; multiply that by twenty without even
mentioning the media shit-storm that would develop by firing so many people in
such little time in this, the largest unemployment scare in our nation's recent
history.
“Well,”
Brendan looked me right in the eye this time, “That's all fine and good. But,
from the way I see it, it has nothing to do with why you're sitting here today.
We decided to terminate. And I believe that that decision was a good
one. I mean, sometimes things just happen as they'll happen.”
“Yeah, well
that's a pretty vague statement.”
Something
had changed in the room. The air had become thick and humid and it was
beginning to boil. I never lost eye contact with him though. And I think this
is why...
“Okay,”
Clara annunciated while reaching out to put a hand on my shoulder, “I think
that we're just going to take a quick caucus...if that's okay with everyone.
Just five minutes or so. And we'll be right back.”
And, with
this, the three of us (Malcolm, Clara, and I) stood up and exited the double
doors just behind where we'd been seated.
And this is
where these events truly come to be hilarious for me. Let's just call them; the
caucuses. Like in a courtroom movie! All this. All these meetings and all this
seriousness! And for what? A part-time, event-based job? Who's ever heard of
such a thing?! But no. This was about something bigger than that. It was about
something much bigger. It was about not suffering an injustice
without a fight. And it was about all those other workers still on the payroll
who, one day, may meet with a similar end. Workers who didn't already have another
job like I did. Many of whom were older ladies just trying to supplement their
social security when they should have been resting and enjoying their
retirement. There were people working for Aramark and the PCPA who actually needed
the job. And I wasn't about to let them think that I'd gone out without a
fight.
“Okay,”
Clara spoke in a low tone just after the thin, wooden door had clicked shut
behind us, “So I thought that just a little break would be best. And I think
that it would be best to stick to getting your job back. I know it's
frustrating but...you just sounded a little hostile in there.”
“She's
right,” Malcolm backed her up, “I could sense a little anger coming
through.”
“I wasn't
angry. I was just breaking his balls a little. I mean, obviously he's been
dishing enough of it out.”
“Well,”
Clara humored me, “You have to decide. Do you want to break his balls and say
that you really stuck it to him? Or do you want to try and resolve something
today?”
She still
didn't get it though. There was nothing that would ever be resolved here. So I
didn't answer her question directly.
“I'm fine.
I can behave.”
“Okay,” she
seemed glad to hear this, “Now, I think what we want to try to get back to is
the customer service stuff. You may have left your bar but it was only because
you needed to get the supplies necessary to provide good customer service.”
“Well,
that's the truth,” the inflection in my voice made it apparent that I was
wondering where she was going with this.
“Yes,
but...Mick. There's obviously a piece still missing to this puzzle. I just
mean...and don't take this the wrong way but; is there something you're not
telling us? That you haven't told them?”
“No.
Absolutely not and that's the plain, boring truth of the matter. I don't
know what happened to those cups that night. I may have miscounted them to
begin with. It's a possibility. Or, someone may have come by and snatched a
stack. That's certainly a possibility as well. And believe me, I've thought
about just coming up with a lie...even now. Just claiming something like, 'Oh,
I forgot this whole time. A guy from the show did actually come by and ask for
some cups so I gave them to him. It must have slipped my mind.' That would be
so much easier than going through all of this and I'd probably still have a job
right now. I might even have a chance if I got back in there and told them that
now! But I can't. Because I don't lie. Well,” guiltily, and I closed my eyelids
tight for a moment, “Not around the workplace anyway.”
“That is
correct, Clara,” Malcolm spoke up for me now, “Mick has never and would
never. And he's been completely transparent with us throughout this entire
process. I believe him. And he is getting kicked in the ass for telling
the truth here.”
“Alright,”
Clara sighed almost disappointedly, “In that case, there is something
else. Another option that I wanted to propose to you for just a moment. What if
we could arrange, through this meeting, to change the status of your
termination so to speak. To alter it in their system so that, to future
employers, it would show that you were re-hirable.”
“I'd be
down with that. In fact, I actually considered that as I viable outcome to this
meeting before leaving my day job just before coming here. Because, I don't
think I could ever come back to this place to work. I have no respect for this
company. I always loved the job itself, don't get me wrong. But can you also
imagine the hell they'd make my working-life upon my return. The shit would
never end. So yeah, I'd be open to that. If you can get my back pay for that
call that I got skipped over on somehow worked into the deal too...then, yeah,
I could go for that. I'd be willing.”
“Good,” she
sounded relieved, “But what we're going to do is go in there and try this one
more time. I think you should go over the night in detail from beginning to end
and, as I've already said, stress the customer service stuff. And I'll
just take it from there. I may, just to warn you, call another caucus like this
and I may ask for one with just Brendan and myself depending on how things are
going. And thank you,” she said to my lastly, “This is very big of you right
just going back in there. And it's for people in your situation right now that
I'm just glad to be doing this job.”
“That's
true,” Malcolm put his hand on my shoulder now, “I truly respect you for coming
all this way with it. I think most people would have just given up and not
wanted to deal with all the stress involved here. But we're glad to be here
with you, buddy. We all have to stand united.”
It was nice
of them to say these things and I took them to heart. And if Clara may have
shown that fleeting lack of faith in me, it was only because she was just now
beginning to realize that, as she put it herself, there were still
missing pieces to this puzzle. Or, more specifically, pieces that were
there but she was only now beginning to see. Pieces like the fact that this termination
wasn't at all about the night in question. Pieces that contained the word
'retaliation' on the management's part for me having shown some sort of
backbone.
Once the
meeting resumed, however, nothing much more was really ever accomplished so for
as me pleading my case and them being receptive to it. I went over the
night...again...in detail. And this time, I even picked out little features
such as the fact that my polyester jacket (the latest required uniform) had
been suffocating me so much in the summer heat that I couldn't even think
straight. Suffocating me so much, in fact, that the bartender working next to
me actually went in search of the 'summer uniforms' that we'd heard were in
already. She could tell I was dying in that thing. Which meant that she'd left
her bar too! But it was a nice gesture on her part. I also went into the fact
that my register had been acting like a piece of shit all night. The
touchscreen was 'sticking' as I liked to call it; which basically meant that
there was a 10 second delay every time I tried to ring someone up by pressing
one of the keys. There was a long delay with the credit card processor too. And
what all this amounted to was added stress to an already busy night
which may have caused me to not to be able to perform my job so well or operate
as smoothly as I would have liked.
“But this
is all just hypothetical, right?” Will finally grew enough of a spine
to actually speak in this meeting...and it was directly in Brendan's ear.
“Well,
yeah!” Brendan instantly agreed with his palms turned up at us again and then
went into a soliloquy (from which I'll spare you) about how he did, indeed,
believe me to have been stealing from the company.
And so...
“Okay,”
Clara, as she'd promised, took it from there, “If you guys don't mind, I think
that we're just going to call another short break again. We won't be more than
a few minutes.”
“Take all
the time you need,” came Brendan's mask of a shit-eating grin.
And the
door clicked shut behind us once again.
“Okay,”
Clara seemed a bit discouraged but not surprised, “This isn't going well.”
“Does it
ever?” I asked lightheartedly. But seriously. I really wanted to know.
“Usually a
little better than this,” she answered but was clearly not too amused by my
question. She was in full-on business mode now. “So I think what I'm going to
do is ask Brendan if he'd step outside with me for just a moment to discuss
what we've already sort of gone over. I'll ask him about changing the status of
your termination and just sort of test the waters to see where they are on
that. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” I
replied without any sarcasm, “At this point, I don't think I could ask for much
more than that. Unless, of course, we take this to arbitration.”
“Yeah. But
Mick,” Malcolm interjected, “If we go there, you've got to understand. They
have all their ducks in a row on this thing. At least this way, you're
still sort of getting a win, in my opinion.”
And he
wasn't entirely wrong here. I had actually thought of this outcome
before coming here and would take the deal. But I'm not sure that I
would have called it 'a win' per se. And I did feel that if I had a
little bit more information as to how these so-called arbitrations went down
then I, just now, could have better planned my course in which future to take.
Because, if I could talk to a judge and lay down for him or her concisely all
the devilish, little details in this case... If I could somehow explain to
someone who'd actually been placed in the power to make decisions... Then
perhaps I would be able to explain factors like how I'd never been
signed off on anything even halfway relating to my position as a bartender. I'd
never signed or even so much as initialed any document stating that I
wasn't supposed to ever leave my bar...which was Brendan's first rebuttal. And
in 4 years; no manager had ever so much as told me that I couldn't. And
maybe I could explain to said judge just how much more cost-effective it would
have been for this company to simply install some security cameras and how this
would have prevented us all from even being here just now. I could have explained
to this arbitrator that, back when I was in college and working at a convenient
store, there were not only security cameras on us at all times; there was also
a device wired to the register that showed exactly what we were keying in and
charging people in relation to the items for sale that the customers put up on
the counter. Every key we ever touched popped right up on the video footage and
it couldn't have been that expensive to install and would have been damn
sure less expensive than keeping the entire staff in the offices of the PCPA
after hours to ensure that their stupid cup-count system was correct. And maybe
I would have been able to explain to this judge that Aramark never had
any intention nor the desire to install such cameras or devices for the sheer
reason that it suited their interests so much more to dwell in grey meetings or
arbitrations such as this one rather than just operating in the black and
white...the clear and concise. Because I wasn't afraid of security
cameras. Because I'd done nothing, or never would have done anything
questionably wrong at that job.
“If you can
get me that back pay,” I had to mention again, “Then, yeah. We can work out a
deal.”
It goes
without saying that this wasn't about the money. But that back pay for the
first grievance that was filed...for the concert I'd been skipped over on; that
was enough for me. That would be them admitting that they were wrong. That
they'd fucked up. And I would hang that check on a wall somewhere.
When we
went back in, Malcolm and I took our chairs again but Clara remained standing.
“Um...Brendan.
Would it be alright with you if I could just speak to you privately outside for
just a moment?”
Woodman in
his corner, despite the fact that this question wasn't even addressed to him,
rolled his eyes again and began to rub his temple. Maybe he had a Cake cover
band gig to get to. Fucking dork-ass loser.
After just
those two left the room, though, it did kind of leave the rest of us in an
uncomfortable (to say the least) position. But this is where the HR lady
finally came in handy. She finally found a fucking use for herself...and
it was just so fitting. The lady could small talk! And small talk with me, she
did. And since she hadn't really said anything thus far; she also hadn't
pissed me off. So, luckily, I did find it fairly easy to shoot the shit with
her about only the most mundane topics ever concocted. The weather. The news.
Upcoming events at the PCPA. And even food. And just this mindless chatter did
cut down on most of the tension that would have otherwise unraveled everyone's
minds as we sat there in silence. It was still awkward. Will was still sitting
there across from us with his shit-his-pants face on. And Woodman was still
slumped over there in his corner and rubbing his temple. Just not as awkward as
it could have been.
After what
couldn't have been more than just a seemingly long 5 minutes, Clara and
Brendan returned to the room whereupon she immediately called Malcolm and I to
stand back up again and join her outside...again. And when the door closed,
this time, she explained to us that Brendan (who'd remained in the boardroom)
was now 'testing the waters' of her proposition...mostly, I'm assuming, just to
see if it was even logistically feasible. And they stayed in there on the other
side of those closed doors for quite a while. So long, in fact, that the three
of us moved down the hallway just a bit to a little nook where there were a few
chairs set up around a coffee table. And, amongst ourselves, we talked easily
now without having to feign an air of enthusiasm while blankly staring off into
space.
Eventually,
Brendan popped his head back out the door again and requested that only Clara
return with him leaving just Malcolm and I to sit at that coffee table for the
time being. And again, all of this covert, behind the curtains shit couldn't
have possibly been any funnier to me. And more than anytime today thus far, I
felt that all I had to do was sit back and enjoy the show.
“Well,
buddy? What do ya think?” he asked me as I flipped through some copy of an
interior design magazine.
“I think
that I was ready to leave anyway. Honestly. And it's been good experience and a
steady record of employment for my resume...assuming they grant this sort of
plea deal and remove the 'firing' from my record. Plus...I don't know. I think
I was starting to feel the stagnation really kicking in there. Night after
night of the same old routine, ya know? I think it was starting to get to me.
Counting those stupid, fucking cups and then having to sit there in line...for
an hour sometimes! While the one, fucking manager on duty sorts through
everybody's shit. It's insanity, man. But I think that now, with a little bit
of bartending under my belt, I'll be able to find something...I don't know. A
little more real?”
“Yeah. I
hear ya, buddy. I don't think I could handle that plastic cup shit either.”
And this
was true. Malcolm worked in and only in (due to some weird rule that
Aramark alone had cooked up) the slightly fancier bars in the very same
buildings. And, in his bars, they actually used real glasses.
“Just
promise me something, man,” I peeped up from my magazine, “Promise me that
you'll try to get this awful system changed...in the new contract, I mean. Ya
know...for the sake of the people still working there who do have to
deal with that stupid plastic cup shit every night. And maybe try to get some
security cameras in there as well. Because this is just awful.”
“I know it
is, buddy. And I promise...I'll try.”
“Thank
you.”
When one of
the double doors to the boardroom opened up again, Clara slipped out and
quietly clicked it shut behind her. She then made her way down the hall to
where Malcolm and I were still seated and, from a standing position, proceeded
to give us the low-down.
“Well,
according to the HR lady, it would be tricky to get the status of your
termination changed in their computer system once it's already in there but
she's going to check out just what it would take to do so. I did also mentioned
the back pay again and they're going to get back to me on that also. So
basically, we're just going to have to wait. But the good news is, they did at
least seem acceptive of the terms of the bargain. So...don't worry too
much. I'll be in close contact with you, Mick. And they are obligated to get
back to me with an answer in a reasonable amount of time.”
“Alright,”
there wasn't much left for me to say, “Well, I did leave my bag in there so...”
“Right,”
she agreed, “The meeting is pretty much over at this point so all we
have to do is gather our things and leave.”
“Great.”
And into
the boardroom we went one last time. I lifted my satchel from off the floor,
nodded my head a couple times in the general direction of our opposition, but
didn't actually say anything to anyone. And then we were out. The three of us.
Back in the elevator again.
“And you
know what the most fucked up thing is?” I asked Malcolm.
“What's
that?” he smiled widely fully expecting me to let off some steam.
“Did you
know that last summer I actually cut my trip to India short for that fucker.
Woodman, I mean. No joke. I cut it a week short because he said he needed me back
there to work some shifts for him for a week-long opera. Which he didn't,
really. But that's what a good employee I was. I mean, that's how
dedicated I was to this joke of a company.”
“I'm sorry
to hear that, man. And I know that you're a great employee and that they
did really shoot themselves in the foot on many levels on this one.”
“Yeah. I
mean, it was hot over there anyway. And I was sick and everything. And probably
thankful to get back to the US. But it's like...”
The
elevator binged and we exited the building.
“So, Mick?”
Clara asked me as the three of us walked down the street, “What do ya think?”
And I knew
that she meant; what I thought about the deal but...
“Well,” and
I meant this in all seriousness, “I think...at least from what I've been
able to deduce anyway. I think that Brendan definitely has a little dick and
that's why he is the way he is. It's not his fault, though, ya know. It's
genetics.”
And we all
had a pretty good laugh over this.
So...while
they may not have been the Teamsters and this Portland of ours was certainly no
Detroit; I did find myself glad to have this particular union of ours in place.
This whole fiasco was well worth the two dollars or whatever it was that they
took from my paycheck each week. And they had represented me...to the
very best of their ability. Because I was smiling. It was worth it just
to see those looks of remorse, of anger, and of chronic irritation on the four
faces across from us who were and who would never again be anything more
than the representatives of a faceless corporation.
It was
worth it just to see the looks on Aramark's face.