"What was a longshoreman?" ... A verb tense chosen to set the tone of future NPR queries? It may not be long before "What was a union?"; "...a worker?"
Longshoremen are past tense, yet we are told they are powerful. Both are according to Renee Montagne, who also clues us in: they are on the West Coast, so are not the same corrupt East Coast longshoremen we know from "On the Waterfront."
Just a couple of things are off. "On the Waterfront" was fiction, a movie made in 1954 by a director eager to please red hunters. And beyond ominous remarks about a "powerful union," Montagne's piece was free the slightest mention of work conditions, corporate behavior, or any actual issues in the dock shutdowns.
Mercifully, this setup skipped a recent shtick NPR indulges in: introducing "history" by with feature film audio. Or maybe the omission showed some journalistic lines are not to be crossed—after all, "On the Waterfront" was set on the wrong coast.
In any case, the "history" here was superficial background to Montaigne's storyline that dockworkers and their outmoded "union" cost the economy millions a day, and just need to get with it—
MONTAGNE: Well, other unions have realized in this last - certainly this last decade that they needed to give up certain benefits to survive. Have the longshoremen gotten to this point?Even if some comments to NPR's site challenged the narrative, it was already Mission Accomplished, when the broadcast reached its target audience: white-collars who've had any conception of workplace democracy educated out of them.
Even if there were challengers in online comments, it was Mission Accomplished: NPR reached its target audience of white-collars who have had any conception of workplace democracy educated out of them.
On to the first fully equipped day at my new locale. Buildings in this complex are sparkly glass boxes, full of high design furniture. It's like walking into Scandinavia—just without the social democracy and benefits.
A jam-packed day's festivities began with an early call to assemble, now that two units once separated by several city blocks have been combined into one happy family. Without booking a facility conference room, the only likely space to meet is such that everyone stands in a couple of converging aisles; the awkwardness of this did suit the makeup of the new happy family.
The newly added group's boss, Simone Legree, was ready with a spiel she was eager to get out. To wit: her staff have "strict productivity goals" daily, with ten people to do $7 million annual hospital billing. Staff are allowed two 15-minute breaks and a half hour lunch; they have to account for any other time spent, whereby they haven't met the daily goal. "Don't talk to my people" was her point, which she was in a hurry to make known and publicly rationalized.
Well, the only member of Simone's staff I'm likely to speak to is A. Friend, and I already knew to avoid her desk. A. has been harassed ever since falling into Simone's clutches, several years ago. A. and I are about the same age, but the median age in the unit is 30-ish. Simone's behavior can only come from sheer bias against A.'s age and her dressing plainly (most of the others wear heels and the height of mall fashion). Simone is no younger than A. or me, and in the looks department, she has a particularly pinched and unpleasant face. So for years she's tried to drive out the oldster, the better to surround herself with younger, dressed-to-the-nines women; presumably, their allure is supposed to rub off on her.
In the two days I've been around this group, it's no secret there are favorites. A. tells me she is "written up" if she's seen reading an e-mail from a family member. On the other hand, it's fine that the plastic-looking blonde across the aisle from me takes frequent face and hair touch-up breaks. Blondie also has TV windows open throughout the day.
Our end of the room has windows, which prompts Blondie's announcing to all who pass her desk: "I'm getting plants." Said as if it's an astoundingly brilliant thought, yet in a particular kind of bland tone. It strikes me as sort of a mid-West suburban Queen of England manner, of knowing she can count on people to fall over themselves admiring her least raise of a pinky. Though I may well be over-thinking this: it could be just that the botox keeps her face from moving.
The morning meeting's other main order of bullshit was from the overall manager: "Just because we've moved over here, doesn't mean the dress code has been relaxed. And no matter what you might see other people in the building wear, there are no sneakers." The department has always been thoroughly pretentious about controlling garb for office staff—almost inevitably women, and easily intimidated—and the administrators have no such sway over faculty, lab or IT staff. The real meaning, of course: "just because the bigwigs exiled you out of their sight, don't you peons think you can relax."
A. Friend, who's been unable to wear anything but sneakers, had to speak up here, "Do I need a doctor's note for my plantar fascitis?"
"Yes," said an annoyed manager.
From my side of the work group, She Who Is With Child is always on the lookout for any chance to broadcast the fact—as well as looking for any possible work bandwagon to join. So she jumped in, "Do I need a note if I'm pregnant and my feet are swelling?"
"We'll talk about it later."
Yes, they are hypocrites who play favorites. Their dress code is so meaningful, yet wearing jeans on Fridays is encouraged when the wearers cough up $1 for department fundraising. As the shindig wound down—and for all the "strict productivity goals" determining her staff's use of time—Simone began gushing about how great it is to meet, and that "once we're caught up from the move, I think we should get back to Morning Huddles: they're so useful"
That's a nutshell of my workplace, in all its varieties of sucking, and, sucking up.
Soon after the meeting broke up came a news flash: lunch will be delivered at noon by the department administrator. Huzzah: there was the usual office excitement over free food—which turned out to be platters of craptacular Jimmy John's subs.
It was easy for me to hold out for lunching later on something more palatable. I tried to make myself inconspicuous about the non-eating by talking to A. Friend and sticking to that spot. Until the administrator headed toward us...
Unlike the previous old goat, this guy has an affable manner, and a "Hi, how are you?" for everyone. Along with remarking on the weather, that's as much conversation as I'd ever had with him, though our paths often crossed in the other facility. Now, what he opens with is, "I hear you lost your walk"... I don't know if he'd previously overheard me talking about the office move, or what prompted this.
Whichever, his remark was in a tone not far from "Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah,!" Later, A. agreed that it was extremely weird for him to pounce on me and bring up that subject, and that his tone was pointed.
But while the administrator was in my face, I just said, "Oh well, I guess that would have changed soon, because I have to find another place to live since the stealth sale of the building I've lived in for eight years..." What the hell; I was so pissed off, I blandly brought up the other hostile real estate takeover ruining the year for me. Anyway, he began making sympathetic noises about home moves.
Soon after the administrator had pounced, the department chairman arrived—to be pounced upon himself, by Simone Legree. She began to schmooze mightily with the Great Man; from the corner of my eye, he sure seemed to be looking for an out.
Well, I had one: retreating to my desk, even if the office space was filled with the sounds of Simone's yakking and the GM's humoring her. It went on for some minutes, until I heard, "Oh! You haven't met my staff"; a beeline was then made for the desk of Blondie.
In the course of this venting, I do prefer being vague about where I work. But here I have to say that it is a medical department, which I'll call the Department of Mmm-mmm-ology. The new broom who swept me out of the old location is Doctor Broom, Chairman of the Department of Mmm-Mmmology.
Upon being introduced to him, Blondie said, "Oh, are you a mmm-mmmologist?
My desk is positioned for a perfect view of the good doctor, who was taken aback for the merest fraction of a second. No doubt concluding that you can't expect much from the help, he quickly replied, "Yes, and a practicing one..." He went on to make some shop talk, which I barely follow (and don't expect Blondie does at all).
After the Great Man had finally left the building, Simone came rushing back to Blondie and laughing, "I can't believe you said that to him!"
"Well, things are new to me—I'm trying to learn them."
"Oh, he's just so personable—that's it coming out!"
After more raving about the GM, Simone proceeded to bring her sub-lieutenants to Blondie's desk. It was an actual procession, as one by one they were led over, while Simone guffawed, "I can't believe she said that!... He took it so well!..."
This throughout the afternoon, as Blondie defended herself:
"Well, he saw me and just thought, 'You're so pretty'..."Somehow, this starts to seem like such a good idea...
"Well, what can I say; sometimes the blonde comes out..."
No comments:
Post a Comment