big boss man

I officially entered the "working world" just after I graduated from art school in the spring of 1984. Yeah, I had jobs before that, but my actual "career," if you will, actually began with a series of freelance jobs in the summer of that year forebodingly immortalized by George Orwell. 

In early 1985, I was hired as the art director for a small, but popular, chain of ice cream stores in the Philadelphia area. My boss was a slick, slimy, fast-talking, deceitful, underhanded, arrogant piece of shit named Len. He was the first in a long line of asshole bosses that I would work under for the rest of my life. Len would ignore me most of the time, preferring to keep himself busy with a Pac-Man machine that was tucked into a corner of the employee breakroom. For a good portion of the work day, Len and his two puppet vice-presidents would hover in the soft, colorful glow of the video game — placing bets, cursing loudly and smoking cigarettes. The breakroom was just a few feet from my tiny workspace and I found it difficult to concentrate over their raucous behavior. Every so often, Len would barrel into my office, stinking of nicotine, and order me to bring everything I was working on down to his office at the other end of a long hallway. So, dutifully, I would carry an awkward armful of tracing paper and sketches and scribbled ad copy down to his office, where I would neatly arrange everything on a large wooden table opposite his huge desk. I would begin to point out and explain each ad concept or signage idea, gesturing to drawings I had made as a visual aid. After a few minutes, I would catch Len glancing around the room, looking everywhere but at me and my make-shift presentation. Then, he'd interrupt me and say, "I wish I had more time to teach you the marketing business." He'd follow that by feigning a headache and begin rubbing his eyes. "We'll have to continue this another time." he'd say, waving me off in the direction of the office door. I'd gather up all my stuff and leave. This little ritual would occur every few weeks. I worked for Len for a little over a year until I was let go.

As my career as a full-fledged graphic designer continued and evolved, my bosses grew increasingly difficult and infuriating. I had one that stood behind me and kicked my chair while I worked. At one job, while my immediate supervisor was wonderful, her boss was a terror. She would scream and stomp and demand... for no apparent reason, as the department ran smoothly and efficiently... except for her. At my next job, the owner of the company was a wealthy, out-of-touch guy who appeared gracious and charming, but was, in reality, a calculating, shifty, ruthless know-it-all who ran his business like a cheap conman. He lied to customers. He lied to suppliers. He lied to everyone. When he would review ad layouts I had done, he'd pick up a red pen to make corrections before he even glanced at the ad. Oh, there were going to be changes because he was the boss and that's what bosses do. They change things that don't need changing to constantly show they are in charge. I worked for him for a little under three years.

My next job was in the advertising department of a national retail company. This was a huge corporate setting, with multi-level management — a true example of the proverbial "corporate ladder." Weekly sales meetings were hours-long affairs with category managers duking it out with advertising executives, while the poor rank-and-file (me and my colleagues) scrambled to write down everything that transpired in order to produce an ad. When there wasn't a meeting, it appeared that the "higher-ups" in the advertising department had little to nothing to do. They would often be seen wandering aimlessly through the hallways of the company headquarters or sitting behind their massive desks staring off into space or sometimes even dozing. In the busy production department where I worked, we would often play a little game called "Walk Me Through Your Day," in which we would wonder what exactly these guys do with themselves all goddamn day. How would they keep busy and how could they justify their obviously large salaries? I didn't have a clue. One Advertising VP would often stumble into the production department and amiably attempt to "shoot the shit" with a roomful of frantic graphic artists on tight deadlines. We concluded that this guy was always high at work.

I worked in the marketing department at a law firm for nearly a dozen years. While I certainly had my share of day-to-day complaints, I genuinely liked that job. My boss was great... for a while. After a few years, her superior was replaced by a belligerent loudmouth man who made her workday a living hell. His noxious demeanor could be felt throughout the entire department and morale was at an all-time low. One day, he crossed the behavioral line with the wrong person and was escorted off the premises. His replacement was a shrewish hellion with a superiority complex who took an instant dislike to me. My boss, however, cozied herself up to the new marketing manager and the two of them were thick as thieves — turning herself against me in the process. In the meeting where I was let go, my boss — who at one time I considered to be my friend — sat silently as my work and my attitude were attacked and insulted.

So here I was, 56 years old and back on the streets, looking for work. I was getting too old for this. After six weeks of collecting unemployment, I got a job at a small company that printed take-out menus for restaurants across the country. After a lifetime of working under the watchful, sometimes unjustifiably suspicious, eye of a boss... I was now in my very first supervisory position. I was officially the "Design Coordinator" and my staff consisted of three graphics designers. One worked at a desk across the hall from me, where he sat in a darkened office and produced beautifully-designed menus. He had little to say and gave off a very menacing vibe. I would assign work to him and he would silently listen to my brief instruction — never questioning, never nodding. He'd take the paper work from my hand and it was just understood that I would get the first drafts of designs when he was damn good and ready. I never gave him a deadline for fear he would kill me if I did. The other two artists were in Ukraine. That's right. Ukraine. I never met nor saw either one. We corresponded via Skype and exchanged assignments by FTP file transfer. The process took a bit of getting used to, but it worked fine. It was understood that I was their boss.

I made the conscious decision to be a different kind of boss than those I had worked for in my past. I believe I truly was. I allowed my staff to create at their own pace. I offered no criticism unless it was asked for. I offered no assistance unless it was requested. I never ever asked "What are you working on?" or "When will this be finished?" I sometimes made a list of current projects in order of priority, but never did I make unreasonable demands. I figured that these people were adults and they were hired based on their ability. They knew their jobs and didn't need someone to constantly tell them what to do. They knew what to do. And I let them do it. 

To be honest, that company was barely keeping itself afloat. Every day I came into work, I thought would be the last day. After a year the company was purchased by a larger commercial printer and suddenly this shitty little job became a really good job. Until the new owners didn't see the monetary return on their investment they hoped for and I was let go.

In my current job, I'm back to being a staff artist. I am no longer in a supervisory position. That's just fine. I know what is expected of me. I do my work and no one leans over my shoulder. My immediate boss is my son's age.... and he's got his own work to do.

And I really don't think about who my horrible bosses are irritating today.

Well.... maybe I do a little.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

a man of means by no means

In the late 1990s, I worked for a local chain of floor covering stores in the Philadelphia area. Among other things, my primary responsibilities were to produce full-page newspaper ads and full-color, multi-page circulars for insertion into the Sunday newspapers, My boss was the owner of the company. He was a soft-spoken, pleasant guy who, due to some extremely wise investments, had  accumulated more money than you or I would ever see in a zillion lifetimes. He founded, and later sold, several well-known retail chains in the Philadelphia market. He was also partners in another business with some of his family members

Did I say he was pleasant? Actually, he was pretty ruthless.

Like most folks in his income bracket, he believed that once you achieved that level of wealth, the rules of society no longer applied. I witnessed him go the wrong way down a one-way street. I saw him park in spaces clearly marked "No Parking." I was present when he negotiated an annual advertising contract with the Philadelphia Inquirer that he had absolutely no intention of fulfilling. He just wanted the rock-bottom price and he got it. As head of advertising for the company, I saw, as the end of the year approached, that we would fall short of our advertising commitment. My boss just smiled and waved me off, explaining that he would just renegotiate the contract in the new year, with no regard for late fees or penalties for non-fulfillment of the contract.

He forged and fabricated documents that were submitted to suppliers for advertising reimbursement. He lied to customers and suppliers about stock, delivery dates and installation schedules. He made up a wild promise to get a local news station to produce a commercial for his stores for no charge.

And, every once in a while, he would stop me from working on an ad that had to hit a deadline, to run out and get him a cup of coffee at Starbucks.

After three years in his employ, I was contacted by a former boss who offered me a position at her current employer. The job paid more money and was thirty minutes closer to my home. I didn't waste a second on my decision to leave my job. I hung up the phone, marched into the office of my boss at the floor-covering company and tendered my two-week notice. He didn't bat an eye. He actually smiled — the smile of a comic-book villain. "Can you give me the weekend to make a counter offer?," he asked with a tone that implied no one ever turned down his offers.

"Sure," I replied, "I can wait until Monday."

So, Monday rolled around and I already made my decision, but I was anxious to entertain his counteroffer. He arrived at the office a few hours after I did. I was busy packing up my personal belongings from my work area, as I knew I would be leaving in two weeks. Once he got settled, I was invited into his office. I came in, taking a seat opposite his large, dark wood desk. He leaned back in his dark brown leather chair and began.

First off, he offered me a considerable raise — an amount of which I had previously asked, but was denied. He wasn't close to finished. Next, he offered airfare for me and my immediate family to Orlando, Florida once a year. He was well aware of my family's affinity for Walt Disney World. Lastly, he offered to pay for my Phillies season tickets. At the time, my wife and I were rabid baseball fans and were the (proud?) owners of three Sunday games seats at the new home of the Philadelphia Phillies Citizens Bank Park. After presenting the final piece of his generous counteroffer, he leaned back in his chair and waited for me to say "Okay."

I did not.

Instead, I felt I had to struggle to keep myself from busting out in loud laughter. Who the fuck did this guy think he was?

I imagined the future of these offers. I would have to beg for the salary increase. This guy wasn't giving up money that easily. I would have to beg for the plane tickets. He wasn't about to buy airplane tickets for a trip he wasn't going on. I would have to beg for the Phillies tickets. I imagined him giving my tickets to his family members or business associates, in order to secure a better deal on product. Oh yeah, I wasn't going to get any of his promises. See, he had forgotten that, for three years I watched him fuck over everyone in his path. I declined his offer and two weeks later, I was working in my new job.

Five years ago, I read that this guy passed away, My wife asked if I planned on attending his funeral. I had no plans in doing such a thing. Mrs. Pincus reminded me of my relationship with him. He had attended my son's bar mitzvah on an obligatory invitation and his wife was a teacher at my son's elementary school. But, I reminded my wife of the callous and heartless boss he was and how he treated his employees on a day-to-day basis. 

I didn't take his counteroffer. I didn't attend his funeral and I didn't have to get him coffee. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

please release me, let me go

In 1997, my very first job in the corporate world was obviously drawing to a bad end. I worked for a national publisher of books, magazines and newsletters for the legal trade. It was a great job with a great working environment and nice co-workers. However, for the entire two years of my employment, the threat of the company up and moving to Florida always hung over our heads. There was a small, West Palm Beach office and the CEO spent a good portion of the year there and rumors circulated regularly about the suburban Philadelphia office shutting down. But, we soldiered on.

A black cloud fell on the production department (where I worked laying out over 35 monthly newsletters). There was a drop in morale and a lot of employee turnover. My boss, Babs, suspiciously began arriving late several times a week, until I confronted her, asking if she was looking for another job. She confirmed that she was. I so began to seek other employment as well. 

I came across an ad in the "Job Opportunity" section of the Sunday Philadelphia Inquirer (may I remind you that this was 1997) offering the position of art director at a start-up ad agency specializing in the real estate business. I called and made arrangements to meet the fellow I spoke with at a restaurant in a hotel near my job, so I could just go into work after the interview had concluded. Along with my portfolio of samples, I brought my years of varied experience — production, design, illustration — my marketing ability and my sense of humor. I shook hands with a guy who vaguely resembled media bad-boy and one-time child star Danny Bonaduce — someone who I seriously despised — but I went ahead with the interview. We spoke at length. I walked him through my work and work experience. He painted a stunning picture of the work he had lined up with a fairly large client — RE/MAX realtors, as well as several small local business. He told me about his previous job at another ad agency and his desire to start his own. He hired me on the spot. I told him that I had to give a reasonable amount of notice to my current employer. he was anxious to get started, so he requested that I give just one week notice. I reluctantly agreed.

I left the interview and drove to work. As I walked across the parking lot, I thought about how I would tell my boss that I would be leaving. I didn't get the opportunity, however, because as I entered my department, Babs was being escorted out by company security. Just a few minutes earlier, she had given her notice and her superior deemed her a "hostile employee" and ordered her removed from the premises. With my boss gone, I gave my notice to the next person up the corporate ladder, began gathering the few personal items I had on my desk and counted the hours until I started my new job.

The Happiest Place on Earth

Monday morning arrived. I took my new, shorter commute to work. I climbed the stairs to my new office, where I was to be the art director for an ad agency — a position I dreamed about since my graduation from art school. I hung a few pictures I brought with me (including a newly acquired framed print celebrating Walt Disney World's 25th anniversary) and tried to make my new digs my own. My new boss — the Danny Bonaduce doppelganger — was anxious to begin work. He explained that we would mostly be producing newspaper ads for a slew of RE/MAX agencies in the Philadelphia area. The more explanation I heard, the more I understood that very little creativity would be involved. These ads would be jammed with grainy, black and white photos of homes, accompanied by a description of the dwelling that would require a translator to read, based on the amount of abbreviations in each brief sentence, (4BR w21/2B, LR, eiK, DtchGr, FnBSM. That means "four bedrooms, two-and-a-half bathrooms, living room, eat-in kitchen, detached garage, finished basement.") Each ad would be packed with two dozen individual listings, totally devoid of any design, structure or spacing. The idea was: the more homes that could be crammed into an ad, the more money my boss made — based on the "column inch" rate he negotiated with the newspaper. (Column inches are units used by newspapers to determine the cost of an ad. The particulars are a bit complicated, so let's just say that it is very difficult to get a cheap rate from the largest newspaper in the fifth largest market in the country.) My new boss, as I soon discovered, did not fully understand what was involved in negotiating a good rate. He panicked when he realized he had to nearly double the listing content of the same size ad in order to turn a profit. I started to get a bit nervous about the career move I had just made.

Little did I know that my brand-new, padded swivel chair was poised at the fiery portal of Hell.

As the days and weeks went on, it was apparent that we were not making the amount of money (and profit) that Danny had envisioned. It was also apparent that Danny had absolutely no idea how to run a business. The more I observed how he did things and how he spoke to various people on the phone, the more I realized that I had been sold a lie during my interview. I came to realize that he was just an account agent (read: salesman) at his previous job and was jealous of the boss, convincing himself that he could be the boss and do, y'know, boss stuff. This was not the job I had been promised. I was not the art director. I was the only one doing any work. I answered the phone. I did the filing. I maintained a hand-written spreadsheet (I'm an artist. I still don't understand Microsoft Excel.) tracking contracted ads and ad placement. While I did this, Danny sat in his office, reclining in his comically large, leather-upholstered chair, feet up on his desk, and spoke loudly on the phone with friends from high school, telling them he owned an ad agency now. After his morning of phone calls, he would go out and bring back lunch — for only him — and noisily slurp it down at his desk. (Once, he even borrowed my car to go get his lunch... and still didn't ask if I wanted anything.) In the afternoon, he would continue his phone bragging, pushing my completed ads aside. Their approval (of which he and he alone determined) would wait until he was goddamned good and ready. Soon, I learned that he had a strained relationship with his wife and dreaded going home. This office — this tiny, second-floor shit hole office — was his sanctuary. He was "king of the castle" here and I was his loyal subject. During the course of an eight-hour work day, he did no actual, work-related work.

I worked quickly. I deftly assembled the ads, tweaking and closing space where I could. My mouse cursor whizzed around my monitor and I tracked it with my full attention. Danny, however, with nothing to do, would wander around the office, sometimes making his way towards me to watch me compose ads. He would stand close behind my chair, his hot breath uncomfortably warming my neck. He would point out errors on my screen, only to rescind them when he saw I just hadn't gotten to it yet. Sometimes, he stood so close to my chair that he kicked the wheeled base with his big feet. By this point, I was barely speaking to him, only conversing when absolutely necessary and only if it was work-related. When he began to kick my chair, I couldn't take it. I bit my lip and politely asked — through gritted teeth: "Could you not kick my chair, please?" He seethed and growled back at me: "It's my chair." He did not move. He stayed behind me, almost daring me to continue this. I did not.

When I left work in the evening, I would come home and have little to say to my family. On weekends, I would silently count the hours until I had to return to work on Monday. At times, I actually fought back tears. After only a few weeks, I actively began searching for another job. One evening, after Danny left, I called another agency who had advertised a position. I spoke to a woman and arranged an interview later in the week. The next morning, Danny confronted me about my looking for another job. It seems he came in early to check the last number dialed on my desk phone. He screamed and berated me, telling me that he pays me well (he actually did pay me very well) and I had no right to look for another job. He made me promise that I would cease my search. He also increased my salary again, as gesture of good faith. "Fuck him!," I thought, as I agreed to his terms out loud.

My torture continued. As a matter of fact, it got worse. Danny was constantly in a foul mood, as his wife began divorce proceedings. The RE/MAX ads grew smaller, thus generating less income. He undermined my designs for brochures. His belligerence almost ruined my relationship with a local printer, a fellow I had known for years.

Finally, I lined up another interview. This one required me to sneak out early in order to drive nearly forty-five minutes, where my prospective new employer graciously offered to stay later for me. I did something I hadn't done since I was a kid. I faked being sick. Here I was — 36 years old — and I was pretending I was ill so I could leave. Danny bought my act and I dashed to my car and frantically drove out to the interview. Once again, and for the second time in my career, I was hired on the spot. When asked when I could start, I replied, "You'll see me on Monday." I came home with a smile on my face, something my family hadn't seen in a while.

I arrived for what would be my final day of the most hellish work experience of my life (and I worked for my father-in-law at one time). I decided I would be nice and give Danny a full two-weeks notice, so he could find a suitable replacement for me. Of course, I would wait to tell him after I got my paycheck. Too bad for him, he waited until late in the afternoon to pay me. As soon as the check was folded neatly and safe in my wallet, I cleared my throat.

"Danny, " I nervously began, "can I talk to you for a minute?"

He stopped mid-step and pivoted around. He didn't say a word. He just raised his eyebrows to indicate that he was ready to hear what I had to say.

"I am giving you my two-week's notice. I have another job."

"You son of a bitch!," he spat, "I thought you weren't going to look for a job. I thought we had an agreement."

"Well, I have another job and I'll stay for two weeks." I didn't owe him any explanation. He was lucky I didn't just walk out.

"Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I'm gonna have to close! You can't do this to me!" Then, his tone changed. "How dare you do this to me, you ungrateful bastard!"

Well, Danny's luck just ran out. "There is no way I'm going to take another two weeks of this bullshit," I said. Danny continued ranting as I gathered up my mug and the few small tchotchkes that littered my desk. I never looked up. I could hear Danny screaming as I descended the stairs.

Unfortunately, I left my Disney World poster hanging on the wall. But, that was a small price to pay in order to leave that eight-month nightmare.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

tell me something good

I entered the working world a little over thirty years ago, when I graduated from art school. I worked in a small composition house for a while, then another small composition house, then another and another. After nearly ten years, I landed a job in the corporate world — the sterile land of cubicles and departments and a multi-tier system of management hierarchy. It was a far cry from just me and a typesetter doing paste-up and taking turns making coffee. It was structured and regimented and everyone knew his or her place and set of responsibilities. I did however come to appreciate the corporate atmosphere — its rules and its protocol — and I eventually found it pretty amusing.

In my first job, my boss was the owner of the business. She was very nice, but clueless when it came to design. I guess that's why she hired me and she seemed pretty pleased with my work. Over the five years that I worked for her, I was awarded several increases in salary, although not with any regularity. Desktop publishing was just coming into fashion, but it was becoming the industry standard at a lightning pace. The small composition house had become a dinosaur in a short five years and, sadly, closed. (Even more sadly, they closed while I was on vacation.) 

At my next job, my supervisor left on maternity leave, never to return. I took it upon myself to do her work, as the other idiots in that place would have banged into the walls without any sort of guidance. Based on the amount of extra work I was doing, I asked the owner for an increase in salary. The owner hesitated, hemmed and hawed and finally replied, "No one got raises this year." I corrected her, clarifying that I was not asking for a raise for everyone. I was just asking for me." She said she would consider it. My next paycheck included the slimmest of increases and I promptly went on the search for another job.

I dove head first into the corporate world when I was hired to do layout for a national publisher of legal periodicals. For the first time in my career, a computer would be my sole piece of work equipment. My primary responsibility was the layout and production of 45 newsletters — some monthly, some weekly. My work was assessed by my boss annually and I was given an increase in salary accordingly. Such is the way, I would come to understand, in the corporate world.

I eventually left that job (participating in that other corporate ritual — the "exit interview") and soon found myself in the marketing department of a large, after-market auto parts corporation whose mascots are three cartoon guys, one of whom smoked a cigar until 1990.* Once again, my progress and accomplishments were annually reviewed by my superior. After a couple of years, the novelty of the review process wore thin. I found out that, based on an edict from the executive powers above, managerial staff was expected to be extra critical of employees in their review, sometimes required to make up faults and setting unreachable goals to show that there is no such thing as a "perfect employee."

At review time, I was usually very busy and under tight deadlines. Any break in my daily routine would set my work behind schedule. So, when my boss announced that it was time for my review, I said, "Look, I'm really busy. How about I save us both some time. I'll tell you what you're gonna tell me, okay? I'm a hard worker and a conscientious worker. I'm opinionated and I've got a big mouth. Anything you'd like to add?" He looked at me. He looked at the printed pages in his hand. "Nope," he said, "that just about covers it." He went back to his office and I went back to my actual work.

Where the magic happens.

I have been at my current job for eight years. I have had the same boss for eight years. She knows me pretty well — my strengths, my weaknesses, my quirks and, most important, all of my schtick. I guess she knows me very well. Just this year, my sub-department (how's that for "corporate-speak?") has been shuffled and rearranged and whittled down to my boss and me. So, when review time came, I lumbered into my boss's office. She sarcastically said, "Okay. Let's get this bloodbath over with." I replied, "Seriously, what are you gonna tell me that you haven't already told me in eight years?" I silently read the printed assessment of my achievements over the past year. We discussed my job for approximately three minutes and then "bullshitted" for the next twenty. The corporate world requires that she submit a detailed review of her employee's performance. Whatever.

My raise kicks in Friday.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


* Have you figured out which company I'm talking about?