Quittin’ Time!

Quitting my job was not nearly as interesting or amusing as the daily drama on Gossip Girl or The Real Office Workers of New York City – waa?  That’s not a real show?  It should be!  Bravo, I’m going to give you your next big hit.  Forget about the whiny, plastic, unbelievably irritating women in the other NYC reality show you air.  No, the other one.  No, the other one.  With your Orange County show, the women were mildy amusing but the NYC women are simply nauseating.  It’s more like Lifestyles of the Bitch and Famous rather than a reality show featuring pampered women with too much time on their hands.  If I saw one of them on the street, I’d probably direct my cab to run them down.  Bravo, I can do sooo much better for you. A small advance and I’ll submit the script to you by next week. 

Anyway, when I started working for Mrs. Garrett she acknowledged that the position was substantially underpaid and, in full disclosure, informed me that my predecessor made almost four thousand dollars more than I did even though I would be doing a lot more work.  More work, less pay, less filling, tastes great!  You know how they say illegal immigrants often take jobs that American citizens won’t take?  Yeah, well, they would take a pass on this one and head straight to the California lettuce fields.  Mrs. Garrett’s salary revelation should have triggered a Code Orange alert in my brain but she promised a flexible work schedule that would allow me to work on my Master’s degree and continue teaching.  When Pap threw in health benefits and tuition reimbursement as some of the perks I was sold.  Mrs. Garrett seemed apologetic about the pittance offered and blamed the poor salary on union rules, office politics, the university’s budget deficit, the NFL salary cap, and the rising price of gym memberships.  For the record, other than sending me on scavenger hunts in the rain, Mrs. Garrett is the ideal hands-off boss; no micro-managing or nitpicking and she was truly appreciative of my work.  Unfortunately, her managerial skills are non-existent.  She is the leader of an office that epitomizes dysfunctional.  For me, The Office was not merely mind candy, it was reality TV.  Being relatively new to our Institute of Higher Learning Mrs. Garrett looks to Pap, the Personnel and Budget Wizard, to make all of the personnel and payroll decisions because, well, that’s Pap’s job. 

Pap, however, is truly evil.  Or, if not evil, at the very least malignant like a Testse fly or a tick; a voracious, engorged, blood-sucking, Lyme disease carrying tick.  Pap is quiet and unassuming in appearance except for the elaborate scarves she wears 80s style with the corner over one shoulder and a big ol’ glitterty brooch on the other.  I can only assume her scarves are part retro fashion statement and part utility – not only does she pay tribute to the 80s, but she can also avoid the slow assed elevators in our building by parachuting to the sidewalk ten flights below.  I think the scarves also come in useful for the office magic shows where Pap’s slight of hand makes your vacation time and benefits disappear with a flick of her nimble wrist and a snap of her magic scarf.  Now you see ‘em, now you don’t.  Two weeks after I started working at the office, I asked about my health benefits and tuition reimbursement.  Pap looked confused as if I’d spoken in Klingon and said that she didn’t know what I was talking about.  Frustrated, I talked to Mrs. Garrett who told me to talk to Pap. Again, with a confused look, Pap shrugged her scarf bedecked shoulders and threw her hands up in a semblance of frustration.  I would quickly come to realize that this gesture was merely an attempt to deflect any lightning bolts headed her way.  Words you will never hear Pap say:  “If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’” and “May God strike me dead if ….” Pap has mastered the art of innocent angst, looking worried and concerned when she knows very well she has fucked you over.

Other than Pap, only one other person in my department made things difficult.  Juicy.  Juicy takes up space in the front office and occasionally dabbles at helping out the other head honcho in the department.  Juicy was not evil like Pap.  Whereas Pap was a machete in between the shoulder blades, Juicy was merely mace in your eye: an unrelenting irritant.  It’s not that Juicy hindered my work, but that she would do no work at all.  This left her with a lot of time on her hands to meddle, interfere with everyone else’s ability to get work done, and invent heroic stories of her own inexorable diligence.  When Juicy wasn’t updating her Myspace page or adding pictures to her Match.com profile, she was on the phone with her boyfriend complaining about how much work she did and how little work everyone else did. 

I had my own office down the hall several doors away from Juicy’s prying eyes.  I suppose that Pap isn’t the only one with magical powers because apparently Juicy could see through walls and watch me painting my nails, reading People, and napping instead of diligently working to reschedule a meeting or plan a peasant uprising.  That I was in my office busily working hours before she arrived in her latest Juicy couture, drenched in Juicy cologne, and spackled with glitter eye shadow did nothing to quell her gossip: she knew what I was up to in there.  I’m assuming it’s the multiple layers of pink and green Urban Decay donning her upper lids that made her two hours late for work every day.  I certainly don’t underestimate the one-eyed effort each eyelid demanded, and never would have expected for her to leave for work until she felt she had made her very best effort to paint a perfect slice of watermelon over each eye.  Two.  Hours.  Every.  Day. 

In spite of Pap and Juicy I enjoyed my job.  When I began to organize programs and work with the head honchos of the various academic departments, my job really began to be so much more fun.  I loved being the liaison between my office and all the other departments.  I also worked with officials and organizations from other schools, did research, prepared reports, organized departmental reviews, fixed Mrs. Garrett’s computer woes, of which there were many, watered her plants, got her lunch, and was in the early stages of brokering a Mideast Peace agreement.  In other words, none of this was in my job description but all of it was interesting and rewarding.  I was kept busy from the time I arrived until I left.  I never missed a deadline, Mrs. Garrett said I was indispensable, and I got great reviews until… there’s always an “until,” isn’t there?  Until I asked for a raise.  The earth ground to a halt.  You may have felt it.  I didn’t mean to tamper with the earth’s orbit but apparently my request just rocked their world.  They hemmed and hawed for a while and then said that in order to give me a raise, they’d have to give me a new title and according to some arcane union rules, this means that I would have to re-interview for my job, which I did.  At my re-interview I was told how much they liked my work, how others speak so well, of me, blah, blah, blah, and then I was informed that the “new” job would have more responsibility.  In addition to my already packed day they wanted me, among other things, to consult with students and work on curriculum matters.  Oh, and they also wanted to extend my workday.  Which meant not being able to continue teaching or finishing my Master’s. 

When I asked if the increase in responsibility and the additional hours tacked onto the workday came with an increase in salary, their faces screwed up in distaste as if I had just farted and waved it in their direction with the tail end of Pap’s scarf.  The answer was no, although Mrs. Garrett said it with a smile as if gently chiding a small child.  Pap smirked. 

So, after discussing it with Mr. Dingo — who was supportive in my decision to tell them to take their new job and kiss my ass — I went into Mrs. Garrett’s office a few days later and told her that I couldn’t accept the new terms and that I was quitting.  I don’t think she was expecting that response.  Her eyes got all big and round, she gasped for air once or twice, and a little bit of foamy drool appeared in one corner of her mouth as she turned both shades of Juicy’s eyelids. 

It’s been two weeks since I quit and in that time I’ve managed to do some much needed work on my thesis.  More importantly, I’ve been able to surf the Internet and add new blogs to my Google Reader.  My office spy, a/k/a Gay Best Friend, is also seeking to escape from the Venus Lie Trap and frequently reports that Mrs. Garrett has yet to find a new assistant.  It’s busier than ever around there and, without an assistant, Mrs. Garrett is a hot mess trying to stay on top of things.

I ran into Mrs. Garrett yesterday while on my way to the park for my morning run.  She looked like the seven-layer special at Dante’s bakery.  I asked if she was still working out in the mornings and she said that there wasn’t any time, she’s working fifteen-hour days and it’s busier than ever before.  Then she said, “You should stop by some time.” Um, right.  Although she didn’t say it, I could see the thought bubble floating in the air between us that said, “and please, for the love of God bring me some lunch!”