6 Places I Have Worked, Part II
This is Part II of the Final Installment of the Me-me-meme.
I had to quit my job at the hospital so that I could go to school. While in school I worked as a driver for Clayton Surgical.
Clayton Surgical had two drivers: me and Duane. Duane looked like he belonged to an outlaw biker club, but he was a simple man. A wee bit of a “slow adult.” He was in his late-30s and worked for Mr. Clayton since high school.
Duane was loyal to a fault to Mr. Clayton. “Duane, stop at the 7-11. I want to grab a cup of coffee.”
“No way,” Duane would say. “Mr. Clayton says we have to make these deliveries this morning. We have no time to stop. Besides, what am I going to write on my log?”
“Just write, ‘Stopped to get coffee for Jim.’”
Nope. Not Duane. I’m not sure if he was afraid to lose his job, or afraid to let Mr. Clayton down. I think the latter.
Regardless, I made him stop. He’d drop me off and I’d get my coffee. He made a couple of stops.
He didn’t lose his job. Neither did I. As a matter of fact, I got a promotion.
Mr. Clayton expanded to three stores and an off-site warehouse with custom wheelchair shop. I managed the warehouse/shop. We still had two drivers, but we also had three shop guys and two custom seating salesmen. These, suddenly, were my guys. And it was my first management job.
I’ve told several stories about working in that warehouse:
- I called an honest-ta-goodness psychotic man psychotic. He grabbed me around the neck, started kissing my head, and told everyone in the shop how much he loved me.
- I pulled a quadriplegic out of his wheelchair because he pissed me off. We became enduring friends.
- My boss thought we were playing basketball instead of working, so he camped out in his van behind the warehouse. I scared the crap on him by knocking on his window and told him that the next time he wants to know if I’m playing basketball to call me.
- Woolly Bear smoked a lot of weed, with the boss’s son. But he worked his ass off for me.
All those are great stories, but I’d like to tell you about the Demerit Board.
I’ve tried to institute the Demerit Board in almost every job I’ve ever had since. It never worked. But with this crew at this particular time, it worked perfectly. Perfectly.
We had a little kitchen in our shop. Every Friday after work, Mr. Clayton let us stick around and knock back some beers. Everybody in the shop would stick around. It was a great time to tell stories and jokes and bust-nuts. We had a great time. It was team building, but not quite at its finest.
Team building at its finest was the Demerit Board. The Demerit Board was hung in the shop. Everyone’s name was on it: the drivers, the shop workers, the salesman, and mine. Anytime anyone made a mistake in his job anybody else could ascribe a demerit to him and put a check next to his name on the board. There was no arguing. If you got a demerit, you got a demerit. Fair or not fair, it policed itself.
On Friday, whoever had the most demerits would have to buy and get the beer.
We had the cleanest, safest shop on the planet. Orders were placed on time. Shipments hit the shelves quickly. Weekly inventory was done on time. Everything hit on all cylinders. It was a manager’s nirvana.
For a long time I never bought the beer. One Friday, while cleaning up, Woolly Bear realized this and said, “Fuck it. Jim, you’re buying the beer this week.”
“But I have only one demerit,” I protested.
He walked up to the board and hit it with 10 or 15 slashes. “Not anymore.”
Them’s the rules. I bought the beer.
:::
I’m counting that as two jobs: one company, two jobs. I only have two left to go.
If you liked that, maybe you will like this:
- Me-me-meme
- 6 Places I Have Worked, Part III
- 6 Places I Have Worked, Part I
- Nonsequitors for 2008-04-23
- 5 Places I Have Lived
No Comments Yet