Life Lesson #45: She Works Hard for the Money. So You Better Treat Me Right.

So as you probably know by now, I work two jobs.

My day job is for a textile manufacturer that produces bedding and bath products. Towels, sheets, comforters, pillows, curtains – all that sort of stuff. Specifically, I play the part of Assistant to the CEO.

My night job is for a restaurant-turned-bar once 11 pm rolls around. Beer, well drinks, shots, top shelf – all that sort of stuff. During this show, I play the role of Bartender.

On the surface, these two roles are worlds apart. When I’m part of what people like to refer to as the Professional World, I try and look the part. Never jeans, usually heels, and a generally respectable shirt. At this particular moment, completely alone and not having said a word for the past two hours as my boss is out for the morning, the phone has yet to ring and I am in what seems like an isolated igloo, I realize my day job is one of much (if not just shy of complete) down time. I do little beyond make appointments, answer the phones and create reports. I try to keep myself from passing out with boredom by writing, reading any article I can find on the internet, and emailing furiously with any of my friends who will give me the time of day.

With my space heater blasting on my legs and my eyelids half closed, I count the minutes ‘til five pm comes.

On Friday nights, my appearance and duties take a dramatic turn. I’m usually surrounded by people, and as the night progresses, to an almost claustrophobic amount. The music is loud, people are yelling, and it always seems as if the temperature is at a steady 101 degrees Fahrenheit. I make drinks, try to keep the bar clean, and chat it up with everyone around me. I know that if I don’t show some cleavage and try to make my often exhausted-looking face somewhat respectable, my tips will be compromised.

But as different as these two jobs seem to be – and I thought always were – something happened this morning at my 8:30 to 5 that, well, is making me think that these two might be a little more similar than I give them credit for.

First, let me tell you a little bit about my Arch-Nemesis.

When I first started working here, I was genuinely nice to A.N. and tried to bother him as little as I could. When I started realizing he didn’t have any answers for the few things I asked him, I thought maybe I wasn’t being clear enough. When he patted me on the shoulder and gave me that oh-aren’t-you-the-cutest-even-though-you-are-retarded look, I started getting a little ticked. But I kept it to myself. When he started raving to me about the diet drink he takes and how I should think about trying it, I bit my tongue. Hard. Even when he didn’t get a signature I needed because he threw out the document, blaming it on me not being clear enough (because putting it in his inbox in a folder titled SIGNATURES with a post-it on top: PLEASE GET SIGNATURE AND SEND BACK TO MY DESK BY THE END OF TODAY was obviously confusing), I stayed mum.

Well, I just can’t take it anymore.

A.N. is, without a shadow of a doubt, one of the most annoying, egocentric, horribly dressed individuals I’ve had to work with. Some things he does that drive me to the breaking point:

He smacks his lips when he eats. And he will do so when on the phone with people.
He tries to make his voice sound all professional on his voicemail. He comes off sounding like a stupid game show host. Almost like Guy Smiley.
Oh, and he requests that when you leave a message, you “speak clearly and be sure to repeat your number at least once so it can be written down”. Um, okay. Because I’ve never left someone a message before. Asshole.
Instead of walking directly to the men’s room, he always takes the long way by my desk to see what I’m doing. “Keeping busy?” F off.
He calls me Kid. I’m twenty-five years old. He’s thirty-one.
He calls me to ask if I just called him. Which I never do. This would be somewhat tolerable if we didn’t have caller id on our phones. We do.
He wears those heinous mustard or purple colored suits with matching shoes. And will usually top it off with an obnoxiously loud tie.
He’ll take that stupid tie and put it over his shoulder when he’s sitting at his desk. I have no idea why.
He tells me I look tired about three times a week. Which, p.s. to any of you that do tell someone that: it’s rude. Do I tell you your hair looks bad or you look like you gained a few pounds? No. So don’t tell me I look tired.
No matter how many times I show him how to transfer a call, set up a meeting in Outlook, or scan something into the copy machine, he will inevitably ask me a few days later. Because he doesn’t listen to a damn word anyone says.

I could probably go on but I think you get my drift. Basically, he sucks. And because he acts like he’s better than everyone else and pretends to know so much more since he started two weeks before I did, it makes me want to strangle him by his butt ugly tie and throw paint on his puce hued suit.

The ironic thing, though, is that he acts all smart and sophisticated because he is scared shitless. Of being found out. Of being fired. Of his boss (He is the assistant to the CFO). Of my boss. And in turn, of me.

See, with my role comes a certain amount of respect, even a little fear, from the rest of the company. Not because of what I do or who I am or anything like that. They could put a monkey in my chair and he’d get the same amount of esteem (and probably more visitors because who doesn’t love a monkey dressed up like a person). The truth of the matter is I’m the gatekeeper for the CEO of a billion dollar company. And while I think he is a generally nice and funny guy, he freaks a lot of people out. And sometimes yells. Loud.
So I am his screen. You have to email me in order to get to him. You don’t get to talk to my boss unless I decide he wants to take your call. And you certainly don’t get to see my boss unless I say it’s okay.

It may have taken me a little while to understand that my lame job actually does give me some power, but trust me, I got it now.

Rewind to earlier today. As usual, Arch-Nemesis strolls by my desk at about 8:40.

“Hey kid, how’s it going?” he asked as he sauntered by.

“Fine, thanks,” I mumbled in return.

“Looking a little tired today, hu?” he said.

“Hm, really? Didn’t notice.”

“Well, Tom [his boss’s name] was looking to meet with him later to go over some budget stuff. Can you fit us in?” he asked as he hunched over me, probably trying to get a look at my boss’s calendar.

“There is some time,” I responded vaguely.

“Well, I think Tom wants me in their as well to take notes, but I’m going to lunch at 1. Let’s schedule it for after 2,” he said.

Now I know completely well that any time after noon today will work for my boss. And I know he could care less when I schedule a meeting with his CFO. But Arch-Nemesis doesn’t know that. And I’d rather be stuck listening to his voicemail on repeat than give him the benefit of telling me what time to make an appointment.

“Listen, I’ll schedule when it works for us, not you, okay? When you get back to your desk, send an email request and I’ll see what I can do.”

I know. Totally bitchy. Unbelievably passive aggressive. But you need to understand. I am a very nice person if I like you, if you treat me like an equal, and if you’re honest with yourself. But once you start treating me like I’m less than you, or giving me unnecessary attitude, or act condescending, I will lose all respect and tolerance for you.

Which is the same exact thing I do when I’m at the bar.

There are all sorts of people out on a Friday night. First daters having a drink to loosen up before dinner. To get through dinner. To get the other in bed at night. Couples that have been together forever that sit there, not speaking. That hit on other people to piss each other off. To turn each other on. Small groups of friends. Large groups of coworkers. Old college buddies. People who’ve just met. My friends. The friends of the other bartender. Both our friends. People we know but could do without. Quiet. Loud. Funny. Drunk. Sad. Sober. Silly.

No matter what, when one of these people approaches me, I start by giving them the same warm greeting. I don’t care if they have a hundred dollar bill in their hand or smell like they just pissed themselves. Who am I to judge?

But once someone starts acting like a dick, everything changes. Because again, being behind the bar, I get to be the one in charge. I can serve you. Or not. I can serve you promptly. Or not. I can charge you the actual price. Or not. I can buy you back some drinks. Or not.

You can go complain to the manager that you’re not being served fast enough or getting attitude, but nine times out of ten, they’re going to side with their employees. Because they know you probably did something to piss us off.

Life Lesson #45: I know that in some situations in life, being a hard-ass is called for. No one wants to be the chump who gets walked all over. On the other hand, there are ways to go about life to get what you want. And more often than not, it’s by being courteous and respectful. And what I think is maybe the most important aspect of all this ranting and raving is that it’s not necessarily the CEOs and owners and managers of the world who are going to get you what you want. It’s the people trying to make a living, just like you and me.

I’m going to tell that to A.N. in a moment. I can hear his footsteps creeping up for what has got to be the fourth time today.