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I Was Forty Something The First Time I was Gaslit.

I’ve spent 30 years in a whacky industry that is out of the public eye. No one goes to college to major in it.  It’s an odd business, and  it’s cyclically tied into the interest rate.  Every few years people spin in or spin out based on either their best offer or the whim of leadership.

So,  I’ve worked in a lot of places with a lot of bosses.  Some of those bosses have been good.  Some have been mediocre.  A whole lot of those bosses have been terrible, but the King of terrible goes to my last boss. Here’s the clinching story:

It was late on a Friday.  She clomps up to my desk in her cheap shoes, bad hair, and stretch marks and says, “I need you to put together a quick bullet pointed list of requirements for <InsertBusinessTaskHere>.

I said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that because I’m not an expert in that area of the business.  Moreover, the business leaders of that department are at an all day conference, however I’ll be glad to pick that up first thing Monday morning.

She said, “I need it today.  Why don’t you bring your laptop to my office.  I’ll dictate the requirements to you and you can write them down.

I silently thought, “Uh, you could just type the damned things yourself.”, but I dutifully grabbed my laptop and headed to her office.

For about a half hour she rattled on, and I typed on. For everything she said, I asked clarification questions to make sure I was getting it right.  And the lines I wrote, I read back to her to make sure I had gotten them right.

I was in the office until nearly 8PM that Friday formatting the document, filling in boiler plates of the template, putting on a cover page, and making it look nice.  I emailed it to her and put a printed copy on her desk.

Fast forward to Monday.  I arrive at my desk at 7AM as usual.  About 10 AM I hear the familiar stomping of her cheap shoes heading toward my desk.  When she arrived at my desk, she announced her presence by slamming the copy I printed for her down on my desk;   She then bellowed, “WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GET THESE REQUIREMENTS!”

I said, “Uh, from you?”

She said, “No you didn’t, I didn’t say any of this to you!”.

I said, “Uh, so where else would I have gotten it from?”

She snarled, “I don’t know, but this is entirely unprofessional and unacceptable!”.

I said, “Well, my apologies.  Tell me what I need to update, and I’ll be glad to make the changes,”.

The look in her eye grew joyous as she said, “You mean to tell me you don’t know what you missed?”

I said, “That document is damned near word for word what you said. I confirmed each statement you made with you at the time, so, if I missed something, it’s probably something you didn’t’ tell me.”

She spun around and walked away.  Over her shoulder she said, “Be sure to have the corrections on my desk ASAP.”

I said, “Uh, I’ll be glad to fix it, but you need to tell me what needs to be fixed, because you’re the one who dictated it to me.”

She said, “If you don’t know what you did wrong, it’s your problem, not mine!”, and continued to walk out of the office.

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Oscar the Crop Dusting Grouch

As a kid, my favorite TV character was Oscar the Grouch.  Okay, it really was probably Grover, but Oscar the Grouch was a close second.  Just last week, the puppeteer who ‘was’ Oscar the Grouch retired.  I was secretly sad.  I mean, I always like him, and I always wondered about him, I mean:

Why was he grouchy?

Why did he live in a garbage can?

Where did he go to the bathroom?

What did that garbage can smell like?

Anyway, there’s this young guy at work.  He’s like 30 something.  He often makes me think of Oscar the Grouch because he’s always complaining.  If being a curmudgeon was an Olympic sport, he’d take home at least a silver.    It’s like he’s practicing to be the world’s grumpiest old man.

So, when Oscar’s puppeteer announced his retirement, I was really thinking about Oscar all day.

As I was pondering what that garbage can must have smelled like, my young curmudgeon coworker walked by.  Slowly, but completely, the musky aroma of a silent but deadly fart engulfed our cube farm.

The young curmudgeon had properly timed his SBD move so that he was no longer in the office when the stifling aroma hit.

It was Killer.  It smelled as if he had been gluttonously feasting on ketchup covered onion smothered hot dogs with massive sides of baked beans, broccoli, and roasted Brussel sprouts, all washed down with a 12 pack of Gennessee Cream Ale.

Three cock roaches crawled out from under desks and coughed and gagged as they ran for the door.

About 20 minutes later he came back to his desk with a  piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe.  I blurted out, “Dude – You about killed us with the crop-dusted fart!”.

He sheepishly said, “Huh?  I didn’t fart.”.

The two thirds of the office that sat near me stared at him.  I stared at him.  He looked at his shoes.  We knew.  He knew.

I now not only know what Oscar the Grouch’s trash can must smell like, but I’m also worried about if and when the hairs inside my nose will grow back.

 

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Schooler Is Cooler

For 12 years, my parents sent me to Catholic School. The high school years did do me some good, but those grade school years consisted of standing in line, being punished, and being beaten and berated by nuns.  I will say that the junior high years made me tougher.  Hell, they made an entire school tougher.

Here’s the deal.  I went to Duquesne Catholic Schools.  Duquesne was a hard as nails steel town.  Folks worked hard, and that work ethic was passed on to the kids, and the catholic school.  Maybe I’m being a bit obtuse here, but, here’s the story.

During the bitter winter of 1979, I was in the 7th grade.  At that time in Duquesne Catholic, Junior high held 6th  , 7th, and 8th grade in the Holy Trinity building.  The Holy Trinity building consisted of 8 cavernous classrooms spread evenly over two floors.

Anyway, the winter of ’79 was horribly snowy and cold. Snow piled up all over the city.  It was cold.  Like teens and low 20’s cold.

Let me drop one last tidbit here.  Duquesne Catholic Schools was bankrolled by the three local catholic churches.  Catholic Churches subsist on the monies donated to them by their parishioners.  Large chunks of the cash donated to the local churches was required to be sent along to the diocese, and then along to the Vatican.   I told you that story to tell you this story.

During the bitter winter of 1979, in the Holy Trinity building of Duquesne Catholic Schools, there was a massive and noisy boiler in the cellar. It kept us warm, but it often made clanging noises.  People would come in and look at it, turn wrenches on it, and it kept us warm, until one fateful day that the noisy contraption would no longer keep us warm.

At least one professional was called in.  He deemed it dead.  It needed to be replaced. I don’t know what the cost was, but it was way above what the school had in petty cash.  So, they called the churches.  The cost was way above what the churches had left after they had sent most of the money to the diocese and the Vatican.

So, the school had to apply to the Diocese for funds to fix the furnace.  The diocese reported back that it would take a week or so to appropriate the funds the furnace repair guy indicated that I would be a week or so from the time he got the funds to the time the furnace would once again warm the cavernous classrooms.

So, the Nuns and Priests and Shit made an epic decision. They certainly didn’t decide that us kids would have 2 or 3 weeks off.  The also did not decide that we’d have class in an alternate location.  They decided – and I’m not kidding – That they’d allow us to wear our hat, gloves, and coats all day long!  How wonderful!  As an added bonus, each cavernous classroom would have a tiny portable electric heater installed!

For two nasty February weeks, we sat bundled up in frozen classrooms the size of most houses.  If you got “really” cold, you could ask permission to stand by the tiny electric heater.  A guy named Mike spent the entire two-week frozen period shivering next to the heater with snot hanging out of his nose.

I don’t recall a single damned topic that was taught to me during that frozen period, but I do remember sitting in frozen classrooms – especially when listening to school closure announcements because it’s “Too Cold”.

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Breaking The Bourbon Tradition

I have this camp way up in the forests of northern Pennsylvania.  My Grandpap and some of his cousins bought it in 1929.    Even by today’s standards, it remains half way from nowhere.

It was a deer camp way back when, but now I mostly fly-fish the creeks and rivers.

From as early as I could remember, beer and bourbon have been a tradition.  I’ve also seen pictures that bear testament that this tradition is way older than me.    For years, I had done my level best to maintain that tradition; I always had beer and bourbon in camp, but that changed one spring day. . .

I got into Camp late Friday with the plan of fly-fishing sunrise to sunset on Saturday. I brought all of my gear in. I had a bourbon with a beer chaser.  Then, I sipped on another beer after a second bourbon.   Then, another round or two later, Greg finally arrives.  Then, we’re each having bourbons followed by beers.

At one point, I got my beers and bourbons out of sync (uh, see, there’s the unwritten Camp rule that beers and bourbons have to be 1 to 1, because if they get out of sync the world may stop rotating on its axis.

So, I tried to remember whether the bourbon or the beer was behind.  So, I chose one.  Then, I had second thoughts and tried to even up the other side.

Anyway, about 2:30 AM, I peed off of the balcony fell into bed.

The alarm goes off at 5 AM.  I swing my feet over the side of the bed.  I realize that I have a dull ache behind my eyes and hat I have a case of cotton mouth so bad that I’m unable to talk or swallow.,

My sorry ass dragged itself to the kitchen.  I chugged water, took an aspirin, and headed out to the streams.

Over the years, I’ve (regretfully) became used to fly-fishing with a mild hangover. But this wasn’t a mild hangover.  It was the grand-pappy of hangovers.

I got my split shots set and my drifts were fine – even though the sun had closed my eyes to squinted slits.  About 10:30 I figured I could use a break.  I waded to the side of the stream and sat down on the raised bank.   The water was flowing around my feet.

The next thing I know, I can hear a strange man yelling from the distance.  I begin to realize that my feet are still in the water, but the rest of me is laying flat on my back on the bank.  My sorry ass had fell asleep.   I jolted awake when I realized that some animal was licking my face.

That strange animal turned out to be a Golden Retriever.  The man yelling from the distance was the owner of the dog.

The Man said, “I’m just happy you’re not dead”.

I said, “Uh, yeah. I am too”.

Greg, who had been fishing a ways up stream comes walking back and said, “What was all the screaming about?”

I thought to myself, “I don’t recall screaming”.

I said, “I didn’t hear anything”.

Anyway, that’s why I don’t bring bourbon to camp anymore, but I do worry about the Earth not spinning on it axis.

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Marg From Across The Street

I’ve lived in the exact same house for 41 years.  I’m not that terribly old, but still – 41 years in the exact same place.

That amount of time does give a person a certain level of information.  I mean, I know everyone.  Everyone knows me and my habits.

Way back in my 20’s, the woman across the street was named Marg. She was a sweetheart.   She was a friend of my Grandparents and her kids were friends with my parents.   She sort of adopted me and mine as extra family members.

They say as you get older that you need less sleep.  Marg embodied that.  She seemed to be awake most of the time, and she was always fully aware of what was going on in the neighborhood.  Night and day Marg was always on watch.

I’ve always been up and out to work early.  One day, back when the only phones were land lines, I took a vacation day. Early in the morning, about 10 minutes after my usual departure time, the phone rang.

I answered it, “Hello.”

The voice on the other end said, “Hi, this is Marg. Marg from across the street.”

(I had figured out who it was at “Marg”).

She said, “You’re late”

I said, “Huh?”

She said, “You’re late.  I think you slept in.”

I said, “Uh, Marg, I’m off today.  I took a vacation day.”.

She said, “Oh, you’re off today.  Okay,” and hung up.

Fast forward 20 years.  Marg had sadly passed away and her son Jim moved in.  I had booked a vacation day.  About 6:30 in the morning the phone rings.

I answer it, “Hello.”

“Dave, this is Jim.  Jim from across the street.  You’re late. I think you slept in.”

I said, “Uh, Jim, I’m off today.  I took a vacation day.”.

He said, “Oh , you’re off today.  I’ll buy you a drink down at Clancy’s” and hung up.

I smiled as I flopped back into bed.  The neighborhood had my back.

 

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Drunken Bro Hoagies

So, I was in this bar one time. . .

It was named “Dicks Place”.  Everyone called it “Dicks”.  As I walked in,   I quickly realized that Barry and Bob (who are 60ish brothers) were about a dozen drinks ahead of me. I had no intention of catching up.

They decided they were hungry.  Dicks doesn’t serve food, but, if you walk out the back door, there is a pizza joint about 40 steps away from any of the barstools.

Barry says, “Bob, I’m a gonna order a steak sammitch, ya want anything?”

Bob says, “Yeah, man, half a steak hoagie.

Barry responds, “Okay.  I’ll order a whole steak hoagie, then  I’ll give you half.  Then, I’ll order another half a steak hoagie for me.”.

Now, remember that the pizza shop is no more than 40 steps away.  You can walk there in mere seconds – Trust me.  I’ve made that walk a hundred times.   But, Barry decided it would be easier to call in his order.

He frisks himself looking for his phone. He finally find it, and begins to peck away a the touch screen to locate the number of the pizza shop. He finally finds it.

Pizza shop:  Hi, Local Pizza Shop.  May I take your order?

Barry:  Hey, this is Dick down at Barry’s.  I wanna order some hoagies.

Pizza shop: You’re a dick?

(Note: Barry’s phone is on speaker an turned to max volume.  I recognize the voice as the son of a family I’ve known for 50 years).

Barry:  No.  I’m not a dick.  In at dicks trying to order a hoagie.

Pizza Shop: What kind of hoagies do would you like?”

Barry:  I want a whole steak hoagie, and a half a steak hoagie.  I’ve had dental work done, so I need half of that whole cut into quarters, so that’s three pieces, and that half cut into quarters, so that’s two pieces too”.

Pizza Shop:  So, you want a whole steak hoagie cut into four pieces, and a half a steak hoagie in one piece”.

Barry:  No.  That whole needs to be in three pieces, and that half needs to be in two pieces”

Pizza Shop:  Okay, so, I’m gonna give you a whole hoagie, cut into a half and two quarters, and a half a hoagie cut in half, right?”

Barry:  “Yeah, can you deliver to Dick?”

Pizza Shop:  “Yeah Dick, we’ll have those hoagies right over to you”.

About 15 minute later, the saloon door swings open. In walks the guy who was on the phone in the Pizza shop.  As he walks by me, he says, “Hey, how are you.  Did you hear that drunken dick on the phone?”

(names have been changed to protect the innocent)