“The key to being a good manager is keeping the five people who hate you away from the four who haven’t made up their minds.”—Casey Stengel
Today, as everybody knows, is National Boss Day. People’s impressions on bosses vary, of course, depending on whether they have one or whether they are one. We have been on both sides of this one, mainly the boss side, but have spent enough time laboring in the vineyards to get a pretty good idea of how the other half feels.
My first job was working in a Syrian bakery in downtown Lawrence, Massachusetts. The owner’s name was Ghazwan but he looked a lot like Bud Collyer to me. You remember Bud. He ran a little TV program called Beat The Clock, in which contestants were asked to perform a series of tasks in a very limited period of time, usually failing, but producing some great comedic moments as they struggled with their burdens.
There were not many great comedic moments in Ghazwan’s place. The ragged crew was kept busy scurrying from one machine to another, catching bread loaves before they fell to the floor, dumping them in a vast container, grabbing a large paddle and shoveling more loaves in the oven. The very hot oven, I might add, made hotter by the fact that the protective gloves doled out to the paddle-wielders had holes in the tops of the fingers.
Ghazwan’s idea of a good time was to have everybody moving at top speed, occasionally running into one another, while he yelped out orders and complaints, always decrying the quality of labor available in Northeastern Massachusetts as compared to, say, Aleppo. I lasted six hours in this place.
Next up was a taxi driving opportunity. If that sounds like fun to you, try it sometime. It might be a lot of laughs—and profitable, to boot—to drive a cab in New York City or Chicago, not so much in Lawrence, Mass. First of all, at the end of the day you had to refill the gas tank. With your money. Then you split the rest, fifty-fifty, with the cab owner. And there wasn’t much to begin with. In Lawrence, people took the bus. Or walked. My customers came chiefly from the bars at closing time, a sad lot, often besotted and confused as to the location of their residences. One night, I had to half-carry an old lady—and a heavy one at that—up a couple flights of stairs, the alternative being to leave her outside her apartment in the dead of Winter.
On Christmas Eve, late, I arrived at one of the bars to escort home a middle-aged gentleman of pleasant demeanor who was not yet quite ready to leave. He bade me sit and talk with him, have but a single drink, lighten his depressing Christmas mood with some conversation and good cheer. What the hell, I figured, it’s Christmas. This sort of behavior, of course, was EXTREMELY contrary to taxi company policy. I had a couple of drinks, spent about a half hour and took the fellow home, a long, slow ride in a raging blizzard, made even worse by the slippery roads and decidedly unsatisfactory tip. By the time I got back to cab headquarters, the place was closed and the owner was standing out front, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, no display of Christian Charity emanating from his furrowed countenance. The length of time he had been there was measurable by the little pyramids of snow on his shoulders and his hat. I’m sure he thought I had left Dodge with his fine automobile. He said nothing, nor did I. Just handed him the keys and went on my way, never to return. That job lasted one week. Not great, but better than the short visit to Ghazwan’s.
When I lived in Austin, I had a very brief encounter with the fast-food business. I worked in a Moore Burger for a little more than one morning. The place was owned, of course, by the clever Mr. Moore, who would sell you a Moore Burger or, if you were not too hungry, a Less Burger as an alternative. The place was administered by a Napoleonic little manager named Maverick (which I personally think was made up), who liked to holler at everybody. I don’t do well with hollering. Sometimes, I punch. Anyway, at lunchtime, the traffic was impossible and little Mr. Maverick was beside himself with agitation, racing hither and yon, micromanaging every detail and generally getting in everyone’s way.
“Calm down,” I told him. “You’re in the way. You’re slowing everybody down. Go have a cigarette or something.” This impudence was met with great indignance, more hollering and threats of disemployment. “Save you the trouble,” I told him and quit, walking off in my white Moore Burger suit, green bow tie and fancy VFW-like hat. He was still screaming as I disappeared in the distance. It didn’t occur to me at the time he might want his uniform back.
I DID have a good job once. It was with the IRS, of all people, and I lasted the full term of six months despite the overwhelming boredom inherent in processing income tax returns with a key-punch machine. It paid good, though, and my boss was great—a good-natured dyke named Bella, who liked to bowl. Occasionally, at the end of a particularly onerous day, we’d go out to the alleys and knock the hell out of a few helpless bowling pins. The redeeming quality of this job was the fact that eighty percent of the employees were young women, many available, a few aggressively so. I might be there today if income-tax processing season wasn’t limited to six months. It was almost as good as being an 80-year-old guy in a nursing home. You could take appointments.
Role Reversal
When I opened the Subterranean Circus with my good pal Dick North and girlfriend Pamme Brewer, somebody had to be the boss. It fell to me and I slowly began to realize there are negative aspects to the job which I had not considered. First, whatever your previous relationship had been with your employees, now it was different. You could no long be ‘just one of the guys.” You were now, for better or worse, “The Boss,” with all that entails. You could be a benevolent ruler, a hale fellow well met, generous in spirits and rewards….you were still The Boss. Your modus operandi would be critiqued, your failures would be second-guessed, some of your regulations resented. It’s just human nature but it still took a little getting used to. I like to think I was a reasonable Honcho. In the twenty-three years of the Subterranean Circus, I fired only six people, three for sheer defiance, a couple who could never be on time. Most of them were friends, which lends credence to the widespread advice given to business managers never to hire friends or family, not to mention girlfriends. You fire the latter, no more relationship. Or, on the other hand, if the relationship founders first, you’re stuck with a cranky employee. All things considered, I’ll take being the boss over the alternative, warts and all. The financial benefits are obvious. Your success is not dependent on someone else. And you always get the best parking space.
A Boss Of A Different Color
If you think being the boss of a moderate business or even a giant conglomerate is challenging, consider what it must be like for Kim Jong Un, Dear Leader of 25 MILLION North Koreans. Whew! Not only do you have the day-to-day minutiae of running a country to consider, you’ve got to be constantly on guard against uprisings by malcontents and coups by devious underlings. Why, just last week there were rumblings of concern when Kim didn’t show up at a celebration of the anniversary of the ruling Working Party, hints that something might be amiss with the authoritarian leader who had not been seen for over a month. Why would anyone want such a job, one might ask, considering the significant downside. Well, we’re here to tell you it’s because of the significant perks bestowed on these Great Leaders. Like what, you ask? Well, like these:
Perk No. 1: You get to operate the world’s largest game of Simon Says. Think about it. Twenty-five million people hanging on your every word, the ultimate ego boost. “Okay—everybody take one step forward who will not be shot today! Oh oh! Not so fast, my friends! I didn’t hear any ‘Simon Says’ in there.”
Perk No. 2: You get to have your own fun firing squad. You don’t have to actually KILL people, just the threat is enough to settle down folks who may be spoiling your day. You just round up all the miscreants and bring them to the rifle range, where they are blindfolded and stood against a wall. Then the firing squad marches in, their hands to their mouths, muffling laughter. Finally the command—READY! AIM! FIRE!—and the rifles go off, largely over the heads of the troublemakers, who moan and flail about. The leadership slaps knees and falls to the ground in hysterics. Of course, there is always the opportunity for error in these matters. “Hey, Nguyen—I think you shot a little too low.” Oopsy.
As we go to press, as they say in the newspaper business, Kim has finally emerged from seclusion, bracing himself with a large crutch. Turns out he has a bad case of the gout. Even for Dear Leaders, life is not always just a bowl of cherries.
Boss Joke (politically incorrect for Redskins fans)
An American Indian walks into a café with a shotgun in one hand and a bucket of buffalo manure in the other. He says to the waiter, “Indian want coffee!”
The waiter says, “Sure, Chief, coming right up.” He gets the Indian a tall mug of coffee and the fellow drinks it down in one gulp. Then he picks up the bucket of manure, throws it in the air, blasts it with the shotgun and walks out. Nobody sees him for the rest of the day.
Next morning, the Indian is back, shotgun in one hand, bucket of buffalo manure in the other. He walks up to the counter and says to the waiter, “Indian want coffee!”
“Whoa, Tonto!” says the waiter. “We’re still cleaning up from yesterday. What the hell was all that about anyway?”
The Indian smiles proudly. “Me in training for upper management,” he says. “Come in, drink coffee, shoot the shit and go home.”
News From Thoroughbred Land
It was a big week in Marion County. First, Bull Ensign climbed into the Great Silver Van and departed for Miami. Next, Bill and Siobhan went to the OBS sale and found a playmate for Ava. She’s from Irish heritage, so we’re calling her Micki for the time being. Ava is thrilled for the company, especially since we marched her mother, Dot, down the road to Chris The Neighbor’s place for weaning. Ava’s original outrage has slowly disintegrated, assuaged by the appearance of someone who will actually run with her. Shamu, the 30-year-old gelding has been recalled for nanny duty and is performing in his usual exemplary manner.
Top Two, Bull Ensign Under Tack At Eisaman Equine; Bottom Ava And Micki At Play In The Fields Of The Lord
Next Week
Bill and Siobhan are going to Kentucky where Siobhan is speaking to the EPM Society on Thursday and Friday, thus there will be a four-year-old column in place of the usual new one. This sort of thing happens now and then, even if Irana gnashes her teeth over it. We’ll be back the following week with pictures and tales of the Bluegrass, though we’re thinking it may be more or less brown by now.
That’s all, folks….
