Your Firing Technique Stinks

I think our new Area Manager, Mr. Hole, must be one of the slimiest, stupidest weasels I have ever had the displeasure of being terminated by. He is the sort of guy who lies even when he doesn't have to- he isn't satisfied with being a weasel, he has to be a skunk too.

For example, he's been firing the office temp for two days now...the temp is a great worker and she's a lot of fun to work with, but she's just a temp. You don't have to give excuses to temp workers when you lay them off- you just tell them that the job is over and notify the employment agency that the assignment is done. It's simple. I've been on both ends of the process.

But Hole seems to have missed this crucial management lesson. Instead of simply telling Tempy that the assignment was over, Hole dragged her into a private conference Friday. He told her that she was finished in one week, the he gave her a long speech about "growing the company".

If you are getting fired, the last thing you want to hear is how much better off the company will be after they stop wasting money on your paycheck. Tempy was no exception.

Tempy, who I am gonna miss working with, told Hole to stop talking.
Please, she said, you don't need to explain. I understand.

He ignored her and went on for forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes.
Tempy is a big woman and she said she was finding it hard to keep from knocking Mr. Hole on his ass.
I laughed, yeah, I know...so what did he say, I asked?

"He said you and Tom were the problem and I was "guilty by association" but the fucker refused to say' guilty of' what."

"Really? He told me that I was guilty by association with you two. He also copped-out when I asked what I was G-by-A of...I asked about the Warcraft site, it wasn't that."

Mr. Hole told us not to talk to each other about what he said- it was one of the first things we learned when we compared notes. He was trying to play us against each other but he's so bad at it that instead he has united us in our loathing of him and his crew of stooges.

This morning, Hole just couldn't leave it alone. He called Tempy into his 'office' again and told her that she shouldn't smoke near the windows where the client could see her. The outdoor smoking area is public and it's all visible from the window, so Tempy sarcastically asked if maybe she should walk around the corner and hide behind a bush.

Hole said that would be satisfactory.

Then he asked her if she could find a way to cover up her (neck, arms) tattoos. She's very dark-skinned and you can barely see them. A lot of the younger , prettier white ladies have small, visible tattoos, it's important to note, and none of them are getting in trouble. Our dress code is supposed to mimic that of the office, and small tats are OK.

After she told me all this, I asked her if she thinks she would have got so much grief from Hole if she was white, cute and stupid; not black, obese and three times as smart as him?
I pointed out that it sounds to me like she is being discriminated against, that no one else has been asked to smoke elsewhere and that you can see three tattoos on this floor alone- all on white skin. He must certainly be following some hidden agenda, otherwise why not just say: thanks, the job is over, have a nice day, g'bye etc?

Why all the explaining?

Hole hasn't given me my notice yet, but it's just a matter of time. Right now I'm the only trained employee they have so they can't fire me until I train my replacement. Our attitude conflict has escalated to the point of silent avoidance. If Hole has a question for me, he has to use a proxy, as I no longer acknowledge his presence.

I can't believe he doesn't fire me for that.

Weak.

Love Your Job

Julie could feel him watching her. For eight years of endless toil she had only been a number.

78.

That was her number. It was printed on a tiny square of paper and inserted into every garment she produced.
Her latest assignment was sewing "Made in the U.S.A." labels onto the elastic waistbands of men's underwear.

She had asked her boss, Mrs. Boyle, how the shorts could be
made in the USA when the crates they came in were marked "Made in China".

Mrs. Boyle told her that it was only the crates that were made in China and that if she liked her job, she'd better shut up. Julie loved her job , but sometimes it seemed to her as if Mrs. Boyle didn't recognize that dedication. After all, it had been two years since her last raise. She decided that she would work harder.

It was in this state of heightened productivity that she started noticing the "irregulars". There were more 'irregulars' than 'regulars'- in fact, hardly one single pair of the no-name jockeys seemed to be stitched together quite right.

Some of the briefs had the flies sewn shut. Others had loose seams clumsily reinforced with pointy-edged metal staples.

One crate contained a thriving nest of live rats.

By the time her shift was over Julie was exhausted. She'd run out of yellow 'I-irregular' tags nearly an hour ago and Boyle had forced her to 'pass' the rest. She tried to argue, but she was tired and her English was not quite up to the task. Boyle had adequate Spanish, but went no hable when it was in her own interest to do so.

Boyle was one of Julie's favorite English words. Boyle was a bitch.

Boyle was also an ass-kisser. On the rare occasions that the factory floor was visited by a male supervisor ,Boyle made sure to monopolize his time, taking credit for the girls' work and blaming any mistakes on whichever senorita had the least seniority.

Now Boyle was talking to a tall white man wearing an expensive suit and a cheap hardhat. The man's dark eyes scanned the room , where, guided by Boyle's pointing finger, they came to rest squarely on Julie's thin, stooped figure.
He stared.
Beneath his unnaturally copper tan, he was turning a furious red.

Boyle beckoned with crooked finger. Julie felt a wave a of panic as she switched off her machine and walked across the concrete floor.

The man was yelling at Boyle in English and looking at Julie- he expected Boyle to translate. He needn't have bothered, thought Julie. The man was using mostly profanity and Julie was fluent in profanity- it was the first English she had learned. She picked it up from missionaries in Honduras as a child. One mischievous Peace Corp volunteer had briefly convinced her that "fuck you" was an affirmative, English for si. Hilarious.

The man was yelling as Julie approached.

"...tell this stupid fucking cow that we don't allow goddamn fucking irregulars anymore. This isn't Fruit-of -the Motherfuckin' Loom for christ's sake!"

Boyle nodded, looked at Julie.

"Ceño."

Julie frowned.

" Vergüenza"

Julie blushed.

The man continued.

" Tell this stupid bitch that I'm going to dock her check every time I have to send another batch of irregulars back here for re-tagging."

He picked up a pair of white shorts from the conveyor belt, waving it back and forth as he bellowed. A pink newborn rat dislodged from the undergarment and was hurled across the room where it landed, stunned but unharmed, in a pile of spuriously regular irregulars.

A moment later an adult rat scurried out of the darkness and retrieved the squealing pup; whether it's intent was to nurse or to devour remains unknown.

The man turned away in disgust and walked towards the exit.

Julie barely noticed the rats. She was waiting for Boyle to translate.

"Same old shit," said Boyle.