Head Like A Hole
Did you ever feel like you had been banging your head against the wall for, like, years, but you didn't realize it until you finally banged it so hard that you knocked yourself unconscious, and when you woke up you thought to yourself, yeah; I've got to stop doing that?
It's like that for me, working for Gilbert.
The offices of Gilbert's company, iWorks, are just this side of a disaster area about to be condemned by local government officials. Seriously, I would nominate the location for an episode of that reality show, Hoarders, but I think they only feature individuals in their home who collect junk for years until someone has to be called in to haul it all away for a fee.
You may think I exaggerate, and with cause since I've been known to do so, but just to give you an idea of the degree to which Gilbert hoards junk and forces us to live, work, and move among it, he recently bought an old moving truck, filled it with a small fraction of the decrepit, obsolete equipment cluttering the back room where the poor service technicians hang out, and parked it in the parking lot of the building, where it just sits.
The landlord is thrilled, I'm sure.
When I started working for the company last September, Gilbert took a moment to consider where to put me. Then he said, "Why don't you sit here for the time being," indicating the small meeting room with the very large table. He cleared off a corner of it for me to put my stuff. The rest of the table is piled high, and the room is full of upended furniture topped with banker's boxes full of files from the 1980s. There are a couple of old TVs, about 16 broken computers, some things that look like curtain rods, and a not inconsiderable amount of dust, and I've been sitting among them ever since.
Until last Friday, when Gilbert said, "You'll have to move temporarily; there's an auditor coming in and I'm going to put him in the meeting room to work. You can sit at Marge's desk." Then he helped me move all my stuff over there. Marge comes in twice a week for a couple of hours to help Mrs Gilbert with whatever it is she helps Mrs Gilbert with, and she has a small desk in the corner of the main office where Mrs Gilbert, the accounts receivable clerk, and Rex all sit.
Rex likes to sit in there; he says he likes to listen to the girls chatter all day. Me, I would go insane, but I figured it would be fine for a few days; maybe even better than fine since Marge's desk faces Rex's, and he and I are on the same level, hierarchy-wise, and often need to work together on projects. So yesterday I sat there, and it was pretty good. I asked Rex some questions about technical stuff and he was very helpful, and that, combined with the logistics of being out of Gilbert's line of sight and therefore line of fire, resulted in me having a very productive day.
So today I came in and went to my desk and before I even sat down Mrs Gilbert said, "We have to move you; Marge is coming in today." I tried to suggest that it might be less troublesome for everyone if instead of moving me again she moved Marge temporarily, but she was having none of that. Instead, she called Astro in and ordered him to move this printer and that filing cabinet and squeeze a small table in the corner so I could sit there. Rex started to help with the moving of things, and one of the service techs was also called in to help.
I shrugged and said, "Whatever you want," and left the room to go talk to the Web developers about a project we were working on.
By the time Gilbert arrived a half hour later there were three guys in the main office, moving stuff around under Mrs Gilbert's orders. I heard Gilbert say, "No, no! Put everything back!" Then he came into the room where I was, looking like the top of his head was about to blow off, and ordered me to come into his office and close the door.
Then he tore me a new one: the disruption, naturally, was all my fault.
And that's when I woke up from having banged my head to unconsciousness and said to myself, Self, you need to stop doing this. I love Gilbert, I really do. I've known him for more years than I'm willing to admit to you here, Gentle Reader, and by virtue of that alone I'm devoted to him as a friend. That's not even counting all the times he was there for me when I needed him to be, and there were lots.
But at work, he's an asshole, and I'm done.
It's like that for me, working for Gilbert.
The offices of Gilbert's company, iWorks, are just this side of a disaster area about to be condemned by local government officials. Seriously, I would nominate the location for an episode of that reality show, Hoarders, but I think they only feature individuals in their home who collect junk for years until someone has to be called in to haul it all away for a fee.
You may think I exaggerate, and with cause since I've been known to do so, but just to give you an idea of the degree to which Gilbert hoards junk and forces us to live, work, and move among it, he recently bought an old moving truck, filled it with a small fraction of the decrepit, obsolete equipment cluttering the back room where the poor service technicians hang out, and parked it in the parking lot of the building, where it just sits.
The landlord is thrilled, I'm sure.
When I started working for the company last September, Gilbert took a moment to consider where to put me. Then he said, "Why don't you sit here for the time being," indicating the small meeting room with the very large table. He cleared off a corner of it for me to put my stuff. The rest of the table is piled high, and the room is full of upended furniture topped with banker's boxes full of files from the 1980s. There are a couple of old TVs, about 16 broken computers, some things that look like curtain rods, and a not inconsiderable amount of dust, and I've been sitting among them ever since.
Until last Friday, when Gilbert said, "You'll have to move temporarily; there's an auditor coming in and I'm going to put him in the meeting room to work. You can sit at Marge's desk." Then he helped me move all my stuff over there. Marge comes in twice a week for a couple of hours to help Mrs Gilbert with whatever it is she helps Mrs Gilbert with, and she has a small desk in the corner of the main office where Mrs Gilbert, the accounts receivable clerk, and Rex all sit.
Rex likes to sit in there; he says he likes to listen to the girls chatter all day. Me, I would go insane, but I figured it would be fine for a few days; maybe even better than fine since Marge's desk faces Rex's, and he and I are on the same level, hierarchy-wise, and often need to work together on projects. So yesterday I sat there, and it was pretty good. I asked Rex some questions about technical stuff and he was very helpful, and that, combined with the logistics of being out of Gilbert's line of sight and therefore line of fire, resulted in me having a very productive day.
So today I came in and went to my desk and before I even sat down Mrs Gilbert said, "We have to move you; Marge is coming in today." I tried to suggest that it might be less troublesome for everyone if instead of moving me again she moved Marge temporarily, but she was having none of that. Instead, she called Astro in and ordered him to move this printer and that filing cabinet and squeeze a small table in the corner so I could sit there. Rex started to help with the moving of things, and one of the service techs was also called in to help.
I shrugged and said, "Whatever you want," and left the room to go talk to the Web developers about a project we were working on.
By the time Gilbert arrived a half hour later there were three guys in the main office, moving stuff around under Mrs Gilbert's orders. I heard Gilbert say, "No, no! Put everything back!" Then he came into the room where I was, looking like the top of his head was about to blow off, and ordered me to come into his office and close the door.
Then he tore me a new one: the disruption, naturally, was all my fault.
And that's when I woke up from having banged my head to unconsciousness and said to myself, Self, you need to stop doing this. I love Gilbert, I really do. I've known him for more years than I'm willing to admit to you here, Gentle Reader, and by virtue of that alone I'm devoted to him as a friend. That's not even counting all the times he was there for me when I needed him to be, and there were lots.
But at work, he's an asshole, and I'm done.
Labels: boy friends, real world work
