Once upon a time, I was young and naive . . .

Like every good fairy tale with a beautiful princess (me) and an evil villain (the Devil), this story begins with a once upon a time.

Once upon a time, I was young and naive. I believed that, while there might be evil people in the world, I wouldn't run in to many of them. Then I met my current boss.

He wasn't even my boss when I met him. He had been lurking for some time in the underbrush at my employer, making other people's lives miserable. My co-workers would complain about him, telling outrageous stories about how difficult he was, what a control freak he could be, how he would make a simple meeting scheduled to last for thirty minutes into a half-day of mindless droning interspersed with fiery ranting. I would laugh and laugh. I thought: What whiners. What babies. He can't be that bad.

Then the ax fell on my wonderful, understanding, hardworking boss, and the Devil showed up, throwing away her potted plants and shredding anything that looked like it might complicate his job. Of course, he didn't really know how things worked, so he turned to me. He promised me pretty things, like a promotion and a raise, a title, an office, and my own secretary, if I could help him make sense of his new responsibilities. I was already in a weakened condition, because I missed my old boss. So I took his proferred apple, and became Eve, fallen from grace and ensnared by the Devil.

I've had 2500 days with the Devil. That's 26o work days a year, for 11+ years. For each year, subtract 1 actual sick day and 9 mental health days [110], three weeks of vacation [165], and 8 holidays (New Year's Day, Presidents' Day, Memorial Day, July 4, Labor Day, Thanksgiving (2 days), and Christmas) [88], and you get 2500 days.

Of course, if this really were a fairy tale, there would be a tidy little ending where the Devil would get his comeuppance and I (or at least someone) would get to live happily ever after. I'm working on it, believe me. But in the meantime, misery loves company. So meet the Devil. You're gonna love working for him.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Levels

The Devil is obsessed with levels. This is kind of ironic, as people sometimes refer to circles, or levels, of Hell. Maybe not as ironic as a black fly in my Chardonnay but . . .

Anyway, the Devil asked me to return a telephone call to a reporter the other day. Hey, why am I complaining? It should make me happy that the Devil trusts me to return a call of this nature, right? However, the truth is that the Devil wanted me to call because he wanted to send a message. Here's how our conversation went:

Devil: Minion, are you busy now? (A completely rhetorical question as: (1) he must have been able to discern that I was, in fact, busy; and (2) it wouldn't matter anyway because whatever I was doing would be less important than the task he had in mind.)
Me: Not at all, Devil. Let me just move all these big law books and files out of the way so you can set down that message slip you’re carrying.
Devil: Good. I'd like you to return this call (as he hands me the message slip).
Me: Oh, it's Reporter Guy. Do you know what he's calling about?
Devil: I think he's calling about the letter we wrote last week. That's why I'd like you to return the call.
Me: Because I signed it?
Devil: No, because I don't think it's time to elevate this matter to my level yet.

Translation: Reporter Guy wants to write a story that his editor will put on the front page of the local section. I don't want to cooperate. So by having Minion return the call, I am sending the message that I disdain Reporter Guy and his newspaper. Also, when people read Minion's quotes in the paper, they'll know this isn't a very important matter for our company. If it were, why would we let Minion comment on it?

Another example: Late yesterday, after the receptionist and all of our support staff had left for the day, the telephone rang in our division. The Devil answered it. The caller asked for someone on staff. The Devil said to the caller: "She's gone for the day." The caller said (probably assuming this was a perfectly normal question) "Could you transfer me to her voice mail?"

This made the Devil angry. How could this caller assume that he, the Devil, knew how to transfer a call to voicemail? This was a clerical function, beneath the Devil's level. So the Devil says (I'm not making this up): "I don't know if you realize it, but you've reached the Division Director here, and I just don't think I can transfer you."

The caller (no doubt awed that he had reached the Division Director there) asked the Devil to take a written message. The Devil hemmed and hawed, scrabbled around for paper and pencil, told the caller that the Division Director was not accustomed to taking messages (heh-heh), and finally told the poor guy to ring back and wait for the automated answering system to take his call.

The Devil has found his niche, and he's making sure that no one else is ever elevated to his level.

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