Read Online Bossypants by Tina Fey - Free Book Online
Authors: Tina Fey
Tags: Humor, United States, General, Biography & Autobiography, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Biography, Essay/s, Form, American wit and humor, Women television personalities, Women comedians
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grimness.
There was a resident named Mr. Engler who wore a wig on top of his hair like a hat. He came downstairs once a week to get his Meals on Wheels, which were left with me. I developed a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest style of professionalism. I’ve always been a Zelig that way. I’m the jerk who starts to drawl when talking to Southerners and I get very butch very fast when playing organized sports.
“Here we go! Hands on knees, ladies!” So when it came to the weird residents at the Y, I leaned right into the role of respectful, put-upon caregiver.
“Mr. Engler, your meals are here.” He would say nothing and make no eye contact as he slid the containers toward himself with his Howard Hughes fingernails. “You have a good day, sir.” I would go back to folding towels with stoic dignity, like Michael Learned on Nurse.
“Sir, may I see your room key?” I’d bark across the lobby like a young Betty Thomas on Hill Street Blues. The residents weren’t allowed to have guests up in their rooms, and every now and then a guy would come in with a friend wearing a big coat and a hat and you’d realize it was a woman. These borderline-homeless guys were sneaking women up to their rooms, which only goes to show that women continue to corner the market on low gag reflex.
Not all the residents were catatonic. There was Joe the mail guy. Joe had a big white mustache and a friendly Daffy Duck speech impediment from missing teeth. He straddled the worlds of the residence and the office because he had a part-time job sorting the mail. “Morning, Joe.” I’d smile like Marilu Henner in Taxi. “Whath’s up, kid?” Joe would fire back. We’d goof on our coworkers and laugh it up at the members who gave us a hard time. All that was missing was the studio audience and an eighty-thousand-dollar-an-episode salary.
Donna worked the phones. A heavyset redheaded gal with no makeup and big fleshy hands, Donna was harder to play opposite. Generally, if she was complaining about some work situation, you could pass the time by agreeing with her, but it had to be done in a specific way. All the complaining had to be done with very few words and no dramatic flair. To rant and rave would be too show-offy. Donna would never “hold court” and you shouldn’t either. Her complaints were like little WWII telegrams of bad news.
DONNA: They’re making us work on Thanksgiving.
ME: No way. Are you kidding me?
DONNA: Members want to work out.
ME: That sucks. Weren’t you gonna go visit your daughter in Indiana?
DONNA: Postponed.
But do not try to get ahead of Donna and initiate the complaining, no matter how sure you are that she’ll agree. Because Donna will leave you hanging every time.
ME: Can you believe they’re cutting our lunch down to half an hour, lowering our pay by ten percent, taking away our insurance, and making us eat dirt?!
DONNA: I don’t go to doctors. I like dirt anyway, so… fine by me.
Donna was an enigma wrapped in bacon wrapped in a crescent roll.
One Monday, Donna came in and said that her husband had had a heart attack over the weekend. And, by the way, she didn’t open with this. She slipped it in about twenty minutes into her shift. She said her husband started having chest pains on Saturday. On their way to the ER, he made her stop at Burger King because he knew once he got to the hospital “they’d never let him have that stuff again.” She didn’t say anything else about it, but I covered the phones for her a couple times that day while she went to the bathroom, presumably to cry.
That’s the main thing I learned in that job—how to be a considerate coworker. Cover the phones for someone so they can pee. Punch someone’s time card in for them after lunch so they can stop and buy a birthday card. Help people when their register doesn’t add up. Don’t be a tattletale.
I’m the kind of person who likes to feel like part of a community. I will make strange
There was a resident named Mr. Engler who wore a wig on top of his hair like a hat. He came downstairs once a week to get his Meals on Wheels, which were left with me. I developed a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest style of professionalism. I’ve always been a Zelig that way. I’m the jerk who starts to drawl when talking to Southerners and I get very butch very fast when playing organized sports.
“Here we go! Hands on knees, ladies!” So when it came to the weird residents at the Y, I leaned right into the role of respectful, put-upon caregiver.
“Mr. Engler, your meals are here.” He would say nothing and make no eye contact as he slid the containers toward himself with his Howard Hughes fingernails. “You have a good day, sir.” I would go back to folding towels with stoic dignity, like Michael Learned on Nurse.
“Sir, may I see your room key?” I’d bark across the lobby like a young Betty Thomas on Hill Street Blues. The residents weren’t allowed to have guests up in their rooms, and every now and then a guy would come in with a friend wearing a big coat and a hat and you’d realize it was a woman. These borderline-homeless guys were sneaking women up to their rooms, which only goes to show that women continue to corner the market on low gag reflex.
Not all the residents were catatonic. There was Joe the mail guy. Joe had a big white mustache and a friendly Daffy Duck speech impediment from missing teeth. He straddled the worlds of the residence and the office because he had a part-time job sorting the mail. “Morning, Joe.” I’d smile like Marilu Henner in Taxi. “Whath’s up, kid?” Joe would fire back. We’d goof on our coworkers and laugh it up at the members who gave us a hard time. All that was missing was the studio audience and an eighty-thousand-dollar-an-episode salary.
Donna worked the phones. A heavyset redheaded gal with no makeup and big fleshy hands, Donna was harder to play opposite. Generally, if she was complaining about some work situation, you could pass the time by agreeing with her, but it had to be done in a specific way. All the complaining had to be done with very few words and no dramatic flair. To rant and rave would be too show-offy. Donna would never “hold court” and you shouldn’t either. Her complaints were like little WWII telegrams of bad news.
DONNA: They’re making us work on Thanksgiving.
ME: No way. Are you kidding me?
DONNA: Members want to work out.
ME: That sucks. Weren’t you gonna go visit your daughter in Indiana?
DONNA: Postponed.
But do not try to get ahead of Donna and initiate the complaining, no matter how sure you are that she’ll agree. Because Donna will leave you hanging every time.
ME: Can you believe they’re cutting our lunch down to half an hour, lowering our pay by ten percent, taking away our insurance, and making us eat dirt?!
DONNA: I don’t go to doctors. I like dirt anyway, so… fine by me.
Donna was an enigma wrapped in bacon wrapped in a crescent roll.
One Monday, Donna came in and said that her husband had had a heart attack over the weekend. And, by the way, she didn’t open with this. She slipped it in about twenty minutes into her shift. She said her husband started having chest pains on Saturday. On their way to the ER, he made her stop at Burger King because he knew once he got to the hospital “they’d never let him have that stuff again.” She didn’t say anything else about it, but I covered the phones for her a couple times that day while she went to the bathroom, presumably to cry.
That’s the main thing I learned in that job—how to be a considerate coworker. Cover the phones for someone so they can pee. Punch someone’s time card in for them after lunch so they can stop and buy a birthday card. Help people when their register doesn’t add up. Don’t be a tattletale.
I’m the kind of person who likes to feel like part of a community. I will make strange
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