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You Ain't
Curing Cancer
In
every job I've ever had, there is that one employee who takes it upon
themselves to be the martyr. That one single worker who, regardless if they
can climb any corporate ladders or stay a bottom rung dweller, feels the
need to take their position so seriously that if you asked "If you LOVE it
so much, why don't you MARRY it?" you'd swear they would. They're the ones
who hyperventilate over new letterhead. They're the ones who act as if the
Beatles have entered the room when they get that brand new nametag. A
Midnight Madness Sale? Look out! The über-employee is foaming at the mouth
and going into franchise hysterical pregnancy.
So
that last bit was over the top… I'm on a roll.
I
first realised this strange breed when, for a very short time, I was
employed in the Bridal Registry department at my local Elder-Beermans.
There were no raises, no bonuses, and no friggin' way you'd suddenly become
head manager. Yet this girl Stephanie was lil Miss Model Employee and ate
and breathed china patterns. On her days off she'd call the department,
wondering how business was and if any new brides registered… and what they
wanted. After she'd clock out, she'd stay behind until the last light was
shut off and the last door locked, just to make sure the store didn't open
in the morning to find a miniscule flake of dust on the tiles. Stephanie
would tattle to the manager if she caught you wearing casual socks, and once
ratted out a girl who she felt wore too much perfume. I was able to keep my
tongue behind my teeth around her, up until the time I overheard her tell an
overweight female employee that she "just didn't have that Elder-Beerman
image". At that point I considered it open game and, well, ripped her a new
one. That felt good. Damn good. Sure, I only added the flames to her
martyrdom stake, but consider me the village posse.
While
I was employed at the dentist's office, I thought I'd be safe from any Super
Employee for it was just me, the dentist, and his receptionist. What I
didn't know is that one out of three employees think their hearts can only
pump enough blood to survive if they marinate in their work. That one was
the receptionist who I'll call Jean… because that's her name. There was no
hope of advancement for her. She wouldn't suddenly turn from a pumpkin into
a dentist overnight. There was no overtime or "Employee of the Week", but
Jean acted as if the doctor passed out gold stars to more than just flossing
patients. I actually caught her once in the basement taking apart the
saliva traps. Yeah, all that yummy stuff the dentist suctions from your
mouth has to go someplace. Saliva and blood to the sewers and bone, amalgam
filling material, and tooth chunks stay in this "trap", to be emptied once a
month. And yes, that was my job. But anyway… I caught her down there
taking it apart because she felt it didn't look clean. I asked her how
clean, when empty, a saliva trap should look and her answer was this: "I
should be able to see my face in it." Am I dedicated? Yes. Dedicated
enough to see my face smiling back at me from a saliva trap that's located
in a basement? Har har hardly. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the most
anal retentive employee of them all? Jean.
Typical martyrs aren't supposed to complain about that which they give up
for the good of those around them. Joan of Arc and Jesus Christ, as
examples, probably didn't do a lot of "I'm missing my child's spelling bee
because I have to take insurance claims home and finish them." Jean said
this every time her lips parted. The kooky thing was, she didn't have to
take anything home with her other than her body. The dentist constantly
told her, almost exasperatedly, that once it turned 4pm, she was done for
the day and he could ask for no more. Evidently, Jean thought this was
dental code for "You worthless piece of shit, after you're done filing those
claims you will shine my shoes and starch my lab coat!" followed by an evil
dental cackle of power. When my dentist retired, he told me how much he'd
miss me and thanked me for putting up with Jean's delusions for five years.
I couldn't hear him. I'd already gouged out my tympanic membrane with a red
hot poker to save my soul from her ramblings. Jean's probably in another
dental office somewhere obsessing over the way magazines should be spaced
out an inch apart in the waiting room, angled just so to catch the light off
the aquarium.
Now
I'm a waitress, and I'm still shoving my fingers in my ears to block out the
high-pitched whines of the resident manic employee. She (nameless to
protect my ass, not hers) likes to bark orders as if she's Patton, and as if
she's any higher up on the food chain than any one of us. Will her telling
me to pick grains of salt out of the carpet by the waitress stand make her
Queen Waitress? Nope. Will her suggesting that someone use their
fingernails to clean out the crevice near the dishwasher suddenly turn a
manager's head thus promoting her to CEO of the franchise? Hell no. She
could lick the dishes clean whilst balancing two trays on her head and still
not make assistant to the assistant bartender. She speaks of folding
silverware as stamp collectors speak of their trove. She, too, likes to
make sure no one has slipped in and is getting paid their $2.13 per hour
wearing anything but black socks. When a new menu comes out, she's as happy
as a deathrow inmate that was just pardoned by the governor. She has that
fire in her eyes, that spark that just screams to us sane folk "Get a
life!" She would be the type to hold her wedding in the restaurant, wearing
her uniform and her diamond proudly. I would gag in the nearest hat.
So the
moral of this story is this: if you have a job, do it and do it well. Just,
please, pahleeaze, don't think that thousands of lives depend on whether or
not there is an even amount of coffee filters in each receptacle. The sun
will not explode if you call in sick one time due to pneumonia. And
finally, I'll slap the bossy right off your face if you ever again suggest
that I park several blocks away to make more room for the customers. |
