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I was once employed as an engineering manager for a Fortune 500 corporation located in Southern California. The factory ran three shifts with 1,500 total employees, and manufactured residential control systems. The Teamsters were the union of choice for the shop rats. My boss was a genuine "tool" (weasel is an adequate synonym) named Claude. He was a condescending, hard-drinking, know-it-all who would frequently interrupt your work with mundane, uninteresting, personal drivel then whiningly complain that you failed to meet his subjective deadlines. Because of him, my peers and I worked a lot of unnecessary overtime, which of course since we were "professionals", went uncompensated. What a tool! Claude's self-image was that of a really cool guy; that is, he perceived himself to be like the cool teacher you had in high school; thought he was amusing and charming; like everyone hung on his every word and action. He'd show up unannounced in offices and conference rooms and bombard us with irrelevent and (usually) inaccurate did-you-know stuff about things that were common knowledge to a third-grader--stuff you'd known for years. Didn't matter. He'd blather on for an eternity anyway, and like I said, usually dead wrong. "Did you know seahorses can't have babies?" Self-satisfied smirk. "Sure they do. How do you think more seahorses have appeared over the eons?" I should have kept my mouth closed and simply nodded. "Have to be recreated from scratch." I wondered how Claude thought that bit of magic was accomplished? Knowing I should just shut up, I'd say something like, "The female lays her eggs in the male who fertilizes them, and pushes them out." "You're saying the male has the babies?" Open-mouthed, wide-eyed grin with a what-a-dummy thought balloon over his head. "I'm not saying it, science is!" (Falling down laughter) "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard! You need to read a book." "Really! And where'd you get your information about this mysterious recreation?" "I read it on a sign at an aquarium in Sarasosa." Too bad he didn't read the entire sign. "Sarasosa? I think you mean Sarasota." I should have saved my breath. The city in Florida (to Claude) was always Sarasosa, and we were the ones who got it wrong. Other daily "delights" were unfunny, corny, inane attempts at jokes he'd punctuate with spittle-flying, grating laughter. I'll spare providing an example here, dear reader, in order to keep you interested in reading the rest of this blurb. Well, okay here's a elementary school attempt Claude thought was hilarious: Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet eating her curds and whey. Along came a spider that sat down beside her and said: What's in the bowl, bitch? Then there were Claude's political opinions... Churchill flew Spitfires, Truman tried to have Dewey assasinated, Nixon actually won the 1960 election, but Joe Kennedy bought off the electoral college, LBJ tried to take over Canada and on-and-on. Worst of all, Claude required one to three of his staff to accompany him (almost daily) for lunch (on the company) to discuss business, which we seldom did. Three martinis were standard, the first usually a double, which Claude ordered for all in attendance. (Didn't you know all "good" businessmen drink martinis to stimulate their thinking process? Oh yeah, it's common knowledge.) Didn't like martinis? Preferred something else? Didn't touch alcohol? Too bad! Tough titty! The lunch victim(s) nursed the first cocktail in an attempt to become brain-dead to Claude's continuing monolog. We clued-in the servers, who all despised Claude though he thought they wanted to have his children, to substitute soda for subsequent drinks (for us). The best thing about the lunch was that Claude snoozed in his office the rest of the day allowing us some catch-up time. We came up with a plan to save ourselves from the pain of the lunchtime experience, which was to disappear to undisclosed locations (restroom, factory floor, accounting office, early lunch break, etc.) shortly before noon. Our plan failed when Claude became aware of our tricks, and started hanging around sometimes an hour prior to the midday break. Naturally, since he wasn't doing any of his own work (whatever that was), to keep from being bored he'd stick his unwanted nose into our projects. Big bosses (the political and/or clueless kind) call this activity mentoring, supervising, helping...whatever. Plain and simple it's egocentric tampering. Paraphrasing Ronald Reagan, "I'm from the executive offices, and I'm hear to help you!" Is there anything worse than unasked for help; unasked for advice? I mean, it's really great to hear what your doing wrong, how you can improve from someone who doesn't have the first clue about what's going on and/or the technical moxie to even understand. Suddenly some office clown who majored in history is teaching engineers about science. Madness! I once heard Claude giving another manager a lecture on how to improve his racquetball game, which Claude liberally criticized. The irony was that the guy had just given Claude a 21-1, 21-4 beat-down on the court. Having said all the above, I am not sure how Claude accomplished this, but he was continually promoted; kicked-up the corporate ladder until he became a senior vice president. Not only did he drink heavily at lunch, he continued after hours, and frequently arrived in the morning smelling of booze and wearing yesterday's clothes. Go figure. Now, what I have to say next appears on the surface to be idiotic, but stay with me. See, rather than find new lunch buddies, Claude promoted some of us behind him, which if not for our wives wanting more income, we'd have refused. Ever hear anyone else bitch about being promoted? Then one lucky day a headhunter found Claude a plum of a job (COO) in Boston. At his going away party we really celebrated, but not for the reason Claude presumed. Although he offered a few of us nice jobs, we finally rejoiced in saying good-bye to Claude forever. ...or so I thought. A few years passed, during which we regularly told "Claude stories" to friends, colleagues, and neighbors. In fact, they seemed to be so entertaining that I even considered compiling them in book form. So far I haven't, but I do have one good tale to repeat as follows... A work colleague, Jeff (who had never met Claude, but heard the stories), and I traveled to Boston on business. We finished Friday afternoon, but weren't scheduled to fly home until late Saturday afternoon. Jeff suggested we entertain ourselves (and satisfy his curiosity) by calling Claude and having dinner. Alas, Claude had an engagement, but he asked us to join him for a champagne bunch at ten the following morning. He gave me directions to his home in an uber-ritzy neighborhood. Jeff and I checked out of the hotel nine-thirty Saturday, and headed for Claude's. We were genuinely awed as we drove through his neighborhood. The estates and properties were truly breath-taking. However, the peace and serenity of the area was momentarily interrupted by a man standing on his lawn cursing and gesturing violently. Around him were the remnants of a white picket fence mowed down by a careless motorist who didn't make the turn. Deep-rutted grooves were all over his manicured lawn, including snaky, fish-tailing tracks that were quite deep leaving huge gouges. Part of the sprinkler system seemed to be up-rooted as well. Jeff beeped the horn and waved as we passed, inspiring the man to pick up a piece of the fence to throw in our direction. It was a comical sight. After another five minuites of twisting and turning we ended up at Claude's address. There was a gate that stood partially open, and a bit askew as if it had been rammed. We followed the curving driveway, but the car that had preceded us opted to take a straight line. Ruts were cut into the lawn and several trees had large chunks of bark removed. The ruts led to a new Mercedes-Benz sedan that was mired down up to its axles. The front end was unrecognizable, and the side of the car was dented and streaked with white paint. We parked in a circular driveway and entered the house through two, enormous doors that stood wide open. Moaning came from a room off the main hallway, which turned out to be a beautiful and expensively furnished library. A few items spoiled the ambiance: there was a huge, gaping hole in the ceilng and the room smelled of cordite. I found the source of the moaning and called for Jeff. "Meet Claude," I said pointing to a disheveled, semi-conscious lump lying on the floor. "Holy shit," said Jeff, "he's got a gun!" Indeed. Claude was holding a twelve-gage shotgun. "I'll get those ja-ja-giant g-grasshoppershh!" slurred Claude in a pukish voice lolling about on his back. He eyed us strangely. "Let's get the hell out of here!" said Jeff a bit panicky. I agreed not wanting to be mistaken for a metamorphosis through Kafka-vision by Claude. I never saw nor heard from my ex-boss again. Rumor was he died about a year after our visit. I surmised it was alcohol poison that "done the bloke in". Copyright by Gene Myers Author of "After Hours: Adventures of an International Businessman" web site: www.strategicpublishinggroup.com/title/AfterHours.html Also available from www.amazon.com New! "Songs from Lattys Grove" August 23, 2010
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