It’s been one week since I left my old job, and I now feel strong enough to talk about what has been the most psychologically challenging work experience of my life. For behind the walls of that company lurked the most maudlin cast of characters. People who simply could not work anywhere else, because no one else would have them.
My time there might have been funny, had I not needed to collaborate with these kooks on a daily basis. Two years with these people, and the following is all I remember of them. They may have said other things in this time. But honestly, I cannot remember what it would’ve been, since I spent my days drowning in the constant flow of idiocy:
“I know I shouldn’t talk religion at work, but would you like to go to The Passion of the Christ with me and my church group?” (This, as said by the same person who wanted me to sign a petition banning gay marriage.)
“People cannot tell the difference between a well-designed web site and one that is not well-designed. People only care about information and functionality.”
“As of today, I am going to be your creative director.” (This was spoken by the poorly dressed man detailed below. This was the day I started looking for a new job.)
“Does my snowman sweater clash with my Santa earrings?”
“You’re spending too much time making your work good. Our clients don’t want good work.”
“If you have any work that needs to be done, you shouldn’t be taking lunch breaks.”
“You want to concept some ideas? Fine. You’ve got one hour. Go.” (And he proceded to TIME me.)
If only there was a better way to capture the ineptness, the ignorance, the stupidity. The saddest part is, most of these quotes are from one person — my boss. What a fucking lunatic. Since he only went to Super Cuts once every 4-5 months, he actually had more hair on his neck than on his head. A waterfall of whiskers flowed out of his nose, which meant that his boogers and his food were never more than a strand of hair away from each other. Which leads me to another point — TO ALL THE MEN OUT THERE, JUST KNOW THAT MOUSTACHES LOOK GOOD ON NO ONE. THEY MAKE YOU LOOK LIKE A CHILD MOLESTOR.
His lack of judgment also extended south. Some of the more memorable wardrobe choices included shoes with soles so thin, they had molded themselves like Play-Doh to the shape of his foot. He also fancied short-sleeve, thread-bare oxford shirts, usually worn with a stained polyester Mickey Mouse tie and navy blue Docker-type pants. The wear-pattern of his wallet was solidly imprinted on the back pocket. And the smell — everywhere he went was this aroma of rotten powdered donuts and unwashed hair. I remember having to use his stinky old car to deliver materials to a client one day. I opened the door and was instantly bathed in his essence, which also had baked into the upolstery. Like the Shroud of Turin, his shape was visibly etched into the seat.
Then there was my art director, who minutes before a creative presentation would say to me, “I’m not going to have any layouts for you to present. I’m not done. I just wasn’t feeling the concepts.” Or my office mate, who told her boss that I told her my salary, and that she wanted to earn the same as me (she was never so much as reprimanded for this). On most days, I felt like the only sane person in the asylum. Calling everyone crazy would’ve been futile.
I’m now back at my old job. The corporateness and fakeness and pomp that originally drove me away is now my salve. I can deal with mundane meetings and ridiculous rules. In fact, I now revel in them. It has finally dawned on me that deliberateness of these practices protects us all from individual idiocies and whims. But give me a few months. I’m sure I’ll be bitching about these things in due time. But right now, I am bandaged in red tape and I am healing.