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My First Boss ( a continuing saga)
My first boss was a loser lummox of a big guy... used to be a classified ad salesman for the daily newspaper. I didn't know it at the time, but that's pretty far down on the old food chain. I was barely 20, had just dropped out of college over an argument about what I wanted to major in. I said Art. My Dad said education. End of story.
Back to the Boss-- his name was Bill and he was an incredibly lazy man. Big pot belly. He used to always brag about how he never had to do very much when he was selling classified advertising. But he was completely thrilled with his NEW post, supposedly "overseeing" a syndicated classified advertising clip art service, because here he REALLY didn't have to do anything. It was a department of three. Bill, me, and Russell the copywriter. Russell was a retired copywriter from the newspaper who worked part time. A real sweetie, smoked a pipe. So I did all the layout and production of the monthly clip magazine, Russell wrote the copy and Bill basically did nothing. I swear to God. He did absolutely NOTHING all day. He read the newspaper. Walked around. Made trips to stores etc. Phone calls. But what else could he have done? nothing really. He wasn't really capable of doing anything. I have no idea what salary he made but I'm sure it was at LEAST five times what I was making because I wasn't even making enough to rent some rathole apartment... which is why I ended up getting married (first big mistake) at the age of 20. Read about my Honeymoon with Al Unser: I kid you not.
Bill used to be fond of these weird figures of speech.. I think he was quoting from old hit parade tunes or something-- Hutsut Ralston on the Rillerah--that kind of stuff. He'd come in first thing and say "Rosin up the bow and hear we go!" corny stuff like that. He had nicknames for his wife and two kids. He used to refer to his wife as "The Big Mommu" (very flattering). His son Tom, he called "Totmondu" and his daughter Laura he called "Oila". But he was okay. He wasn't a bad guy to work for, it's just that the PLACE was bad. It was the classic commercial art sweat shop where they exploited artists and kept them down in every way they could. I only lasted a couple years there. I knew I'd eventually have to address the problem of finishing college.
Boss Number Two (a continuing saga)
Boss number two came after I finished the two years of college I had left. The university gave me a full scholarship (half merit/half need) so I went ahead and got to major in Art afterall. Specifically Printmaking and Filmmaking. When I graduated I went to work at the local CBS affiliate as a floor director. That's the person who stands by the camera and cues the on-air people 3-2-1 with their fingers. After a couple months I slipped into their art department and began my long and checkered career as a graphic artist.
My boss was named Roger. He was about 5'2", very round, bald and smoked. (That was back when people smoked at work.) He was only in his 30's but he looked a lot older-- like a heart attack waiting to happen. Roger took a fairly hands-off approach when it came to the art department. He knew nothing about art but was head of production so we fell under his territory. He was fine. I probably had two conversations with him while I worked for him. It was around the time that Monty Python's "The Life of Brian" was released so everyone started calling him "Wodja"-- he took it pretty well.
The best Boss, number three.
Boss number three was the best boss I ever had. His name was Tom but he went by "T". He was in his early forties, had a wife and two kids, and was a true self-made man. Never went to college, rose through the ranks at the daily newspaper from a go-pher in the press room to the Advertising Manager. Everyone at the newspaper loved him. I can't remember anyone ever saying an unkind word about him. He was the first and only person to be a real mentor to me. I can even remember interviewing with him because he asked the kind of questions that no one else has ever asked in an interview. He was actually figuring out if I could do the job. And once he was confident that I could, he gave me full support, backed up my decisions, promoted me and basically let me stretch out toward my full potential. I remember the first yearly review I had with him. He told me that he was so impressed with my work, and felt that they had brought me in at a low salary(it was still better than what I'd been making at the TV station) that he had worked out a three year plan for me in which time I will have doubled my salary. Yes. How many times does THAT happen? Working for him was wonderful. Every weekly meeting, I felt I learned something.
Here's the bad part. Before I even started working for him he'd been diagnosed with a rare form of lymphoma and he was basically dying in front of me. I watched him go through chemotherapy, lose his hair, days he was so sick but still managed to come into work because it was keeping him going. He told me what it was like-- how sick the chemo would make him, but he kept on fighting. Then there would be a small remission, a few good months. It was the saddest and hardest thing to have to watch. I worked there for four years. By the end, he was in the hospital most of the time, and I was engaged and decided to move to the other side of the state where my fiancee had gotten a job. A year later, T died. I wasn't told about it in time to go to the funeral, but I wish I had been. He was a wonderful boss, and a great influence in my life.
The most fun to work with Boss (#4)
Boss number four was almost as good as boss number three, but T was a tough act to follow. Brad was the art director at the NBC affiliate where I next worked. This was the job I found in a strange town after I'd moved there to be married. Brad was about 55 years old, divorced, gray haired, very distinguished looking. He had five children with his wife, but had recently come out as gay. He was a beautiful, kind-hearted man, and a real master at his craft. This was still pre-computer era, when we made on air cards and slides as visuals.
He gave me one of his old art cards that he had done in the late '50's in air brush. It's a beautiful piece of work. A title card for a local show called "On the Go"-- it's hand lettered (he was a REAL master at that) and with a stylishly air brushed illustration of a red sports car going around the bend on a mountain road overlooking the sea (on which there is a ship) and a jet whisks across the sky over top the show name. It was such an honor to work with him because he was so skilled in the then dying arts. We got along wonderfully. He never really felt comfortable with the "role" of boss, and preferred to work as colleagues, so we did. What I remember most about working with Brad, is laughing. We used to laugh almost the whole day as we'd work. We'd make fun of the people who worked in the building-- especially the on-air talent, who were always ripe for making fun of. I had a great time there.
A couple things got in the way. First, Brad had been afflicted with Hogkins Disease most of his adult life, but it was getting worse as he got older. I felt like it was a really weird coincidence that my very next boss would also have a terminal illness. He didn't go through as much agony as T had but I know there were days when he was feeling pretty awful. And most of the time he'd have to call it a day by lunch. That was sad. The other thing is just a few months after getting married, I became pregnant. I worked up to the beginning of my ninth month then was on maternity leave. I had hoped to be able to come back to work on a part time basis after Ben was born but the management decided they couldn't "allow" that since then everyone would want to be able to do that. (As if that would be some sort of problem?) So in the end, I only worked with Brad about a year and a half. He was the most fun person I ever worked with.
The UN-Boss (number 5?)
After having Ben and realizing I couldn't possibly tear myself away from him for more than 30 minutes at the most, not to mention being able to afford daycare, not to mention being able to TRUST a stranger with my sweet little guy... I freelanced from home for several years. The next job I had was teaching at the college. It was a catholic women's college, one of the few women's colleges left in the country and also one of the first and oldest. Some might see the irony in the fact that I dropped out of college rather than major in Education to become a TEACHER like my father had wanted--and then me ending up a teacher for nine years of my life. (Longer than I'd worked at any other single job)
Well circumstances, timing, and luck led me to that job. I was hired by the Department Chairman at first to teach as an adjunct (per class basis) but the next semester was made half time faculty. Teaching at a women's college was an extraordinary experience. I've always felt the need to "believe" in what I was doing...sometimes that was pretty hard to do. If I felt like I was promoting something that was essentially flawed, or junky... it really gave me a bad feeling. As a freelancer, I turned down jobs that I couldn't believe in. I remember turning down a job illustrating the packaging of computer simulated historical "war" games. (Uh- no thanks) In contrast, my best freelancing assignment was for the American Red Cross.
Teaching at a women's college was easy to believe in. I really felt like I was helping young women develop the skills that would lead them to decent employment after college--and ultimately an independent life. Something I had to struggle to figure out for myself. I know I wouldn't have been as interested in teaching at a co-ed school. Giving male students more breaks that they already have going in, just didn't do it for me. In some ways it was like a mission for me. I can get in to missions. During that period, I didn't really feel like I had a boss. I guess technically my boss would have been the academic Dean. She gave me my evaluations, and informed me of any increases in salary I'd get. But the whole experience was so autonomous, I never really felt like I was working under anyone. I was there to serve the students' needs.
A few years ago I had one of those epiphanies, or should I say a rude awakening? where I suddenly flashed on the fact that my son was entering high school and before I knew it he'd be off to college, and how the hell would we pay for it? and I better stop this part time shit and get a "real" job that paid a "real" salary... etc....I guess, basically, I just freaked out. I made the decision to leave and within weeks had landed the dream job of my career as graphic designer at the public television affiliate.
The Dream Boss at the Dream Job #6
Uh, let me clarify that. Dreams come in all varieties--and this Boss, at this Job was clearly the nightmare variety. I'm not really sure I can fairly characterize Dave. I've been thinking about it for some time, and I can't seem to express what he was like without making him come off like a pathetic character that you can't help but feel sorry for. I guess that's how I feel about him now, that I no longer have to work for him. During the year and a half I worked for him, I felt a lot differently.
Dave began as a native of a neighborhood in Baltimore named Dundalk. Anyone from Baltimore will know the connotations that implies-- but for those who don't, let's just say Dundalk is renowned for its ignorance, bigotry, and hatred of all things OTHER than Dundalk. They have a peculiar way of talking. We call it Dundalkese--but I could probably use that dialectizer program and either select "Redneck" dialect or "Moron" and come pretty close.
Dave left Dundalk when he was drafted during the Viet Nam war, and somehow ended up in the Green Beret force of the Marines.(Or so he claims) During the height of the Viet Nam war they must have needed bodies pretty badly because Dave wasn't college educated and barely high school educated. I can only imagine the carnage he must have seen, and the amount of blood that's on his hands. A terrible thing. Some men became pacifists as a result. Dave became an alcoholic and an avid deer hunter. He didn't use a gun, though, for hunting. Dave was a bow hunter. Liked to rip that arrow out of the animal's flesh, I guess. Dave had worked at the television station for twenty some years, much of that time in an alcohol induced hangover. He was married four times--several times to women who either already worked at the station or were secured a job AFTER they married Dave. In the recent past though, Dave cleaned up his act and took the Lord Jesus Christ as his savior. He married a bartender about 20 years younger than him named Dana, a lady with a name as androgenous/either-or as her persona. Soon after marrying Dave, Dana was hired by the station. Dana and Dave have a daughter named "Tristan". They don't realize that Tristan is a boy's name, though-- they think it's a pretty girl's name). There's a lot of gender confusion going on in this family. First of all there's macho-Dave, 58 years old and still wears skin tight Levi's, who is such a devout and expressive homophobe one can only wonder what's really going on. Then there's Dana, who at first glance is a very buxom attractive redhead, until you see her walk or have any interaction with her. Then-- like Austin Powers ripping off the spy's face mask you realize-- she's a MAN, MAN!!!! she can barrel down a hallway in her nylon workout uniform with more machismo than any man I've ever seen (except possibly for Dave).
Dave's dad was a sign painter and I think that's where he got the idea he could go into the graphics field. And I guess things were all right in the 70's. Dave could whip out a marker and dazzle someone with his "sketching" of an idea. What that masked though, was a complete inability to use words, or express anything in writing. (In fact, I'm pretty sure he's functionally illiterate) When computers came on the scene he must have crapped his pants-- but he jumped with the program and he loves to order up new electronic toys for himself-- even if he can't figure out how to use them, refuses to take a class in anything and try to actually LEARN how to use them, and continues to blow up one computer hard drive after the next. My first day there, Dave's hard drive had just melted down and nothing was backed up. Essentially everything he'd worked on for the past few years was gone. Dave's response to a crisis like this is to rant and rave, pace around from room to room like a hunted animal on psychedelics, get frantic, swear, hit walls, etc...After a month or two of observing him, I realized he had absolutely no understanding of computers, design software, or his job. Watching him working on something was incredibly painful. Especially for me, since as a teacher I was used to instructing students on the most efficient way to use the programs. Dave was a hunt and peck typist on the keyboard, and even worse with a mouse. When I would look at a file he had worked on, I could visibly see the convoluted struggled he'd gone through to make the thing, and how stupidly and unprofessionally it had been done. Until I came though, I don't think anyone else knew that. I think Dave had successfully fooled the rest of the staff, who, by the way, were no computer geniuses either. They did know what they wanted for on-air production though. And Dave's work had acquired a reputation that was nicknamed "the TBT" --Thick, Bold, Tumbling.
In any kind of crisis, Dave's response would be to yell. I think he actually was kind of hard of hearing-- probably from all those mortar rockets going off in Viet Nam--but whenever he'd talk to me he'd boom it out in this loud intimidating voice. And his FACE! He had this intense scowl that he'd carry around with him. He looked like Captain Ahab about to whip the crew.
And Dave was a control freak in the sense that he HAD to know where everyone was at all times. It was such an obsession that it really was a sickness. His focus was expecially keen on his best friend and love object Phil. Phil was an animator who'd worked at the station for thirty years. Dave had a pet name for Phil-- he called him Fuzzy and Phil called Dave-- Waldo (because he was always looking for him). Dave was so totally in love with Phil he couldn't even see it, but I could. His whole face and demeanor would change when he was near Phil. And he HAD to be near Phil. When he couldn't find Phil-- he'd pace through the room over and over looking for him, saying "Where's Fuzzy??"
So I guess given my recent history prior to this job, and Dave's clobber-'em management style, I think it's safe to say that this was not going to be a good match for me. It wasn't. But it was amazing to me how Dave could turn his incompetency into MY problem. Actually his incompetency was everyone's problem, but rather than address it, management took the easy path and did nothing. Eventually someone will bring a lawsuit against Dave for harassment and creating a hostile work environment. It's only a matter of time. However, if he's smart and continues to hire people who belong to his born again Christian church, he may very well avoid that problem.
All I know is, boss #6 has so far effectively soured me on the idea of ever working for someone else again. I will freelance, write books, be a computer consultant, or whatever--but what I WON'T do is submit to the tyranny of an incompetent boss again. Life's just too short for that nonsense.
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(c) Sally Mericle, 2001
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