feeder, I’m not done!” he announced, as though he were visible to the naked eye, as though he didn’t move through secret passages and priest holes.
There were four other copiers on the floor. “Okay.”
The phone slammed down. He didn’t say good-bye.
Keller never says good-bye and he snaps at you whenever possible and, rather than leave messages on your voice mail—because you’re too wily now to pick up the phone when you see his extension on the display—he sends you blistering e-mails telling you what to do.
And he never thanks you. So when on those rare occasions you need something from him, you’re always polite and you always send a thank-you—as a reminder, as a dig, as an act of passive aggression. You know being thanked over e-mail bugs the hell out of him. You know this because the first time you did it, he wrote an e-mail back telling you never to thank him again. He already gets too many effing e-mails.
You write “okay” and hit Send.
More Phase One
S tacy Shoemaucher is a friendly-looking woman with chin-length black hair and faded lipstick. She’s wearing a double-breasted light blue suit, the sort that makes her figure seem frumpy and her complexion sallow. If she weren’t an employee of Ivy Publishing, she’d be an ideal candidate for next year’s makeover issue. We’re always looking for frumpy and sallow.
Her desk is pleasantly disheveled, and the walls of her office are decorated with those earnest and vaguely embarrassing posters that you expect human resources people to have, the ones with nature scenes that say things like “The mountain only seems taller up close” and “Success is more afraid of you.”
Stacy gestures to a chair and I take a seat across from her at the small round table in the corner. I must seem a little hesitant to her—this is my first trip to Human Resources—so she smiles encouragingly. Her lips curve warmly and her eyes crinkle in an amiable way, and when she asks, “What can I do for you?” I believe that she actually wants to help.
“I’d like to report a section C.”
Her smile wavers. “A section C?”
“Yes, a section C, subset 2.”
“Are you sure?” she asks.
“I’m sure,” I say.
She sighs heavily, the amiable crinkles disappearing completely. “We take dress-code violations very seriously here.” Then she retrieves a form from the filing cabinet along the wall and lays it on the table in front of her. She isn’t prepared yet to give it to me. “Are you quite sure they weren’t shoes? With the fashions today, sometimes it’s so hard to tell…. And Fashionista, such a trendy place. One time we had an editor come in complaining about a co-worker wearing a bikini but it turned out it was just Betsey Johnson hotpants.” She lets out a nervous laugh.
“They were slippers,” I say emphatically. “I’m positive.”
With great reluctance, she hands me the form. Since I read the employee handbook from cover to cover before coming down here, I’m very familiar with the form and I fill it out quickly.
She peruses the document. “Everything seems to be in order. If there’s nothing else…?”
“Actually, would you mind checking his file for me? I’m very much afraid this is his second such infraction.”
Jumping to her feet, she digs through the cabinet filled with personnel files and withdraws Alex Keller’s. “I don’t believe it. Nobody violates the dress code twice!”
His file is thin. There is nothing in it except his résumé, emergency contact information and a card with his current address and telephone number.
“He has a spotless record,” she says proudly.
Although I’m trying to memorize a long series of numbers—47386405074#11A—this grabs my attention. “Are you sure?” I almost snatch the file from out of her hands.
“That his record is spotless? Of course, I have it right here. There’s not a complaint in it, except your Section C, subset2, which will not be officially entered
There were four other copiers on the floor. “Okay.”
The phone slammed down. He didn’t say good-bye.
Keller never says good-bye and he snaps at you whenever possible and, rather than leave messages on your voice mail—because you’re too wily now to pick up the phone when you see his extension on the display—he sends you blistering e-mails telling you what to do.
And he never thanks you. So when on those rare occasions you need something from him, you’re always polite and you always send a thank-you—as a reminder, as a dig, as an act of passive aggression. You know being thanked over e-mail bugs the hell out of him. You know this because the first time you did it, he wrote an e-mail back telling you never to thank him again. He already gets too many effing e-mails.
You write “okay” and hit Send.
More Phase One
S tacy Shoemaucher is a friendly-looking woman with chin-length black hair and faded lipstick. She’s wearing a double-breasted light blue suit, the sort that makes her figure seem frumpy and her complexion sallow. If she weren’t an employee of Ivy Publishing, she’d be an ideal candidate for next year’s makeover issue. We’re always looking for frumpy and sallow.
Her desk is pleasantly disheveled, and the walls of her office are decorated with those earnest and vaguely embarrassing posters that you expect human resources people to have, the ones with nature scenes that say things like “The mountain only seems taller up close” and “Success is more afraid of you.”
Stacy gestures to a chair and I take a seat across from her at the small round table in the corner. I must seem a little hesitant to her—this is my first trip to Human Resources—so she smiles encouragingly. Her lips curve warmly and her eyes crinkle in an amiable way, and when she asks, “What can I do for you?” I believe that she actually wants to help.
“I’d like to report a section C.”
Her smile wavers. “A section C?”
“Yes, a section C, subset 2.”
“Are you sure?” she asks.
“I’m sure,” I say.
She sighs heavily, the amiable crinkles disappearing completely. “We take dress-code violations very seriously here.” Then she retrieves a form from the filing cabinet along the wall and lays it on the table in front of her. She isn’t prepared yet to give it to me. “Are you quite sure they weren’t shoes? With the fashions today, sometimes it’s so hard to tell…. And Fashionista, such a trendy place. One time we had an editor come in complaining about a co-worker wearing a bikini but it turned out it was just Betsey Johnson hotpants.” She lets out a nervous laugh.
“They were slippers,” I say emphatically. “I’m positive.”
With great reluctance, she hands me the form. Since I read the employee handbook from cover to cover before coming down here, I’m very familiar with the form and I fill it out quickly.
She peruses the document. “Everything seems to be in order. If there’s nothing else…?”
“Actually, would you mind checking his file for me? I’m very much afraid this is his second such infraction.”
Jumping to her feet, she digs through the cabinet filled with personnel files and withdraws Alex Keller’s. “I don’t believe it. Nobody violates the dress code twice!”
His file is thin. There is nothing in it except his résumé, emergency contact information and a card with his current address and telephone number.
“He has a spotless record,” she says proudly.
Although I’m trying to memorize a long series of numbers—47386405074#11A—this grabs my attention. “Are you sure?” I almost snatch the file from out of her hands.
“That his record is spotless? Of course, I have it right here. There’s not a complaint in it, except your Section C, subset2, which will not be officially entered
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