i got your number

I have always been terrible at math. I struggled with math classes from elementary school through high school. I find numbers intimidating. After high school, I attended an art school that did not offer any academic classes. That’s the one I chose specifically because I would never have to deal with a math teacher again. However, a small aspect of my job requires a rudimentary understanding of the most basic of math skills. In those instances, I use a calculator or my fingers or an entry-level equation scribbled on a piece of scrap paper. I hate math and I try to avoid it as much as I can. Numbers and I just don't  seem to get along. 

I like to think, with some exceptions (specifically the notorious “dropped cake” incident that, to this day, remains a contentious subject in the Pincus family saga), that I have a pretty good memory. I remember things from my childhood like vacations (because there were so few of them) and toys that I received as birthday presents. I have vivid memories of those birthday parties (at which I received the aforementioned presents). Of course, I remember lots of details from the numerous television shows I watched as a kid. That knowledge has netted me quite a collection of plastic trophies aboard many a cruise ship – a stellar achievement, if I do say so. 

In my current job, I am required to put to use my keen memory and my poor relationship with numbers on a daily basis. This requisite is not technically related to my job, per se, but it does allow me to enter the building in order to do my job. 

 

Every morning, for the past five years, I pull up to my workplace – a commercial printer - at around 6:30. The parking lot spaces are filled with cars belonging to the folks who work the night shift and there they will sit until the shift ends at 7. The entrance to the building leads through a small portion of the printing plant. It’s a space approximately the size of an airplane hangar which houses printing presses so large that the operator has to actually climb inside it to refill ink or clean press rollers. The paper itself, which comes in enormous rolls, is loaded onto the machine with a forklift. But before I am able to witness the final thirty minutes of the graveyard shift, I must punch a code into a small touchpad mounted on the outside wall next to the locked entrance door. It’s a four-digit number and It remains etched in my long-term memory since I first used it in 2021. I press the correct buttons – each one emitting a different electronic tone with each touch – until I hear a low “BEEP” letting me know the door has been unlocked. It is only then that I can enter. 

Once inside, I follow a designated safety path – delineated by bright yellow painted lines – that skirts the perimeter of the plant. At any given time, a speeding forklift, toting fresh rolls of printing paper or wooden pallets stacked high with printed material, could be crisscrossing the plant floor. These unwieldy drivers rarely yield to their pedestrian co-workers, so sticking to the painted walkway is wise. The path leads to an electronic timeclock. I never would have thought that, at nearly 65 years old, I still be punching a timeclock much in the same way I did at my first part-time job as a teenager. But, life is funny and career paths are funnier, so here I am. The timeclock also requires a four-digit code to start the process of logging my daily work hours. This is a different code than the one that allows me entrance to the building. This code is also stored in the “very important section” of my long-term memory alongside the entrance code. The VIP section is in a different part of my brain from the repository that catalogues such things as “Who played Grandmama on The Addams Family and “What song did Queen open with on the first night of the News of the World tour stop at the Philadelphia Spectrum.” No sir, those four-digit numbers need to be front and center, as they are extremely important and employed regularly. 

 

After I punch in at the timeclock, I turn on my heels and approach the locked access door to my office area. This door is also protected by an electronic lock that is deactivated by a similar keypad as the one outside the building entrance. It also uses the same building entrance four-digit code. Sometimes, if the many printing presses are running, it is difficult to hear the individual button tones as they are pressed. I have to rely on the green light at the top of the keypad to let me know that I touched the right buttons in the right order. If that is done correctly, I still have one more hurdle before I can begin work for the day. 

Just inside the office door is an alarm keypad. Why there is an alarm guarding the design department is beyond me. Aside from a bunch of outdated computers, a pile of cables and power strips and someone’s day-old lunch lying forgotten in the community refrigerator, there ain’t too much to steal. Nevertheless, the alarm is set long after I leave work for the day, so I’m not sure whose responsibility it is, but it's always set. Well, nearly always. Over the past five years, I have been surprised once or twice by an unarmed alarm. On most mornings, however, I have to punch in yet a third unique four-digit code to prevent the obnoxious wail of a siren from sounding off and summoning local law enforcement. That is a very unwelcome situation, especially before the clock strikes 7 AM. So, I enter the correct code until the comforting phrase “DISARMED CHIME” glows assuredly across the green LED display. Much like Indiana Jones navigating his way through a series of obstacles that are keeping him from his ultimate reward, I am ready to begin another productive day at work. That is after I fish around in the darkened hallway for the light switch. 

I have completed the above procedure approximately 1200 times over the past five years. On several occasions, I will sheepishly admit, I have totally blanked on one or all of the three unique four-digit codes. I have found myself staring at the outside keypad, looking at the ten buttons and the zillions of numerical combinations they present. Sometimes, it takes me several minutes to bring the correct information to the “immediate action” part of my brain. Sometimes it happens at every step of my entrance process – the front door, the timeclock, the office door and the alarm. Sometimes, I stare at each piece of equipment as though I have never seen it before, as though I have no inkling of its purpose or how to activate it. Sometimes, I instinctively lift my index finger, ready to punch in a number that I just plain cannot remember… and I stand there, frozen, finger extended, brow furrowed, trying to force the correct four-digit sequence to my frontal lobe where it would be useful. Sometimes, I can remember the code, but I enter it into the wrong device. Sometimes, I need to refer to a note I have stored in my cellphone – a sort of “cheat sheet” with all of the codes and the corresponding electronic instrument.

Other days, I knock out those numbers like I was tying my shoes.

When you reach a certain age, daily routines seem to make life boring. But for me, every day is an adventure.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the sporting life

I am not particularly athletic. My brother — now, there's an athletic guy! He has played on various softball teams. He has participated in several marathon runs. He has bowled. He has golfed. He was on the wrestling team in college. He bikes. Me? Not even close. 

Except that one time.

Back in the early 90s, I worked for a legal publisher. I was a layout artist, responsible for the composition of several dozen newsletters dealing with specific aspects of the legal industry. This was the first job I had that could be considered as part of the "corporate" world. Prior to this, I was employed by small companies with a client base that did not stretch beyond the Philadelphia area. At this job, however, I dealt with coworkers in several different states, across many departments and sub-departments. My department itself, was divided into different divisions, with each one made fully-aware of their responsibilities and how they were to interact with the other divisions. It was very regimented and very structured. I got used to the culture and, to my surprise, I enjoyed it. It was also the first job in which I actually socialized with my coworkers. Previously, at other jobs, I came in to work, did my job and went home — with little to no interaction with co-workers. At this job, there was a very close camaraderie among co-workers. I ended up going to after work "happy hours" with co-workers, as well as other friendly, so-called "morale building" extra-curricular activities.

I was hired in March and as spring rolled around, I was recruited to join the company softball team. Although I was a pretty avid baseball fan, I had zero skills on the field. I worked with a group of guys who rivaled my brother in athletic ability. Of course, there were also a few who were at my level of ineptitude, so the playing field was evened, so to speak. But, everyone was very enthusiastic about the upcoming softball season. We would be playing other teams comprised of employees from neighboring office complexes. Once the team was assembled — a co-ed group, as dictated by league rules — we decided to get in a little practice before our first scheduled game.

Oh, man, did we suck. We were terrible in the field. With a few (very few) exceptions, we were terrible at bat. All that was missing was the mocking tones of Bizet's Carmen serving as the accompaniment to our version of the beleaguered Bad News Bears. Nevertheless, we all had fun and, I think, that was more important than anything. Actually, a cooler full of beer. That was most important.

On the day of our first scheduled game, the team spoke excitedly throughout the day. After work, we gathered at a nearby public park, where a ballfield had been reserved for us to play a team from a computer software company from our industrial park. As we lazily batted balls around and half-heartedly fielded grounders, a van pulled up and a group of guys claiming to be the software team exited. We collectively stared as these guys looked like professionals, right down to their matching jerseys and well-worn spikes. An impartial umpire, hired by the corporate league, called for the game to commence. And commence it did... much to our dismay. We got our asses handed to us, as ball after ball flew over our outfielders' heads and each infield grounder was played in an uncannily accurate recreation of Bill Buckner's infamous play in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. By the third inning, the ten run "mercy rule" was implemented and we all got to go home early.

As the season progressed, things didn't change. We didn't get any better. The competition, however, did get better, as the "ten run rule" came into play earlier and earlier. But, we didn't care. We were there to have fun. And have fun we did, After a few games, the cooler full of beer went from one to two per game. Our team laughed off poorly executed plays. We snickered at swings made at purposely bad pitches. Our opponents, at times, grew angry at our on-field antics, but we didn't care. We were having fun. 

We adopted the team name "OBI," which stood for "one bad inning. (We even got t-shirts with a logo I designed depicting a hapless fielder watching an easy ground ball pass between his ankles.) That was our typical downfall — one bad inning. It usually came early and it was usually enough to end our games early, too. But, still, we were having the most fun of anyone on the field. 

One game, a few guys from our on-site printing plant showed up to play. They belted enough long balls to rack up a win for our team. (Granted, the other team was playing with a bunch of first-timers, as their regular players were away at a conference.) Our celebration prompted our self-appointed manager to suggest that we — as a team — visit a nearby batting cages to get in some extra practice. The team returned his suggestion with a look of dumbfoundedness and rousing chorus of "fuck you!" We still weren't interested in getting better. Most of us were only interested in getting together and drinking beer.

We ended the season with just that single win, surrounded by a whole bunch of empty beer cans.

But, boy! did we have fun!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't talk to strangers

I'll never learn.

I have been working at my current job for a little over four and a half years. The job is fine, something I have been doing in one form or another for over forty years. Everyday, I arrive at work two hours before my scheduled shift time. I sit in an empty, quiet office — all alone — and I knock out a lot of work. Quickly. Efficiently. And — most importantly — uninterrupted by the banal, droning, meaningless, inane conversation carried on by my co-workers. When my co-workers arrive at work, I do not participate in any of their conversation. I work. I am very focused, mostly because my job requires me to be focused. I cannot understand how my co-workers can carry on lengthy conversations about reality shows and films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and problems with various family members. One day recently, I overheard a particularly loud co-worer make multiple phone calls to line up a cleaning service for her mother's house. I heard every painful detail of the process loud and clear... and this person's desk isn't even in the same office as mine. She's down the hall, and yet, it was as clear as if she was sitting next to me.

My co-workers know very little about me. Some, I'm sure, don't even know my last name. I have had many, many jobs over the past forty years where I was personable, friendly and talkative with my co-workers. But now... at this point in my life... I just don't feel like it anymore. I don't need to feign interest in the lives of a bunch of people I merely work with. The extent of my conversation with my co-workers is limited to work-related subjects. Period. I don't want it to go any further than that. I'm not rude. I just don't initiate conversation and I don't care to "jump in" to an existing one. I just want to do my work, get paid and go home.

Unfortunately, I broke my own rule this week. I'm not sure why or what compelled me, but I did. And I learned why I should keep to myself.

There's a guy who comes into work at 3 o'clock, a scant 90 minutes before I am scheduled to leave for the day. I acknowledge his arrival with a nod or a quiet "hey" uttered under my breath. But that's it. It was almost a month until I found out his name is Tom. Tom sits at a computer at a desk about ten feet behind me. He sits and I sit and we tackle our respective work until 4:30 rolls around. Then I grab my water bottle, my cellphone that has been charging on a pad by my computer monitor and I leave. Sometimes, I raise a hand in parting salutation as I head for the office door.

But this week, a conversation... sort of..... erupted. I still don't remember what prompted it, but I think he brought up the subject of — of all things — "collecting autographed photos." A nerve was struck! Until recently, I collected autographed photos starting way, way back at a time when my son was still in a stroller. (He's now 38 and — SURPRISE! — no longer requires a stroller for getting around.) I have over a hundred photos, all proudly displayed on the walls of my basement. Tom (my late-in-the-day co-worker... remember?) mentioned that he, too, collected autographed photos. We exchanged a few brief anecdotes about obtaining said photos, all the while I kept thinking to myself "Why am I having this conversation?" I glanced at the office clock and quickly ended the conversation and quicklier made my exit.

The next day, Tom lumbered in to work as usual at 3 o'clock. I was busy doing last-minute corrections to an ad that was due to print at day's end. Tom took his usual place behind his computer monitor. But, then, he loudly cleared his throat in a very obvious attempt to get my attention. I turned around to see Tom produce a large photo album from a cloth tote bag he had carried in with him. "I brought this in to show you," he proudly announced as he placed the album on a communal work table and spun it around to allow me easy access to open and peruse its contents.

I opened the book and turned each page. Tom had accumulated quite an impressive collection of autographed photos. The overarching theme was old Westerns. Shows like The Virginian and a number of John Wayne feature films were represented with color and monochrome glossies personally inscribed by the hands of James Drury, Clu Gualger, L.Q. Jones and other "stars' of the same "mid-fame" stature. There were a few I did not recognize and their illegible signatures didn't add any help. However, there they were, perched on a horse alongside the Duke himself, although Mr. Wayne's signature was conspicuously absent from any photo in which he appeared. There were photos of Ernest Borgnine, Ben Johnson and more recent names like Tom Selleck. There were non-Western stars like Mel Brooks and Don Rickles. Towards the back of the volume, cleaved as if in some sort of invisible separation, were a succession of female stars, including Raquel Welch, Debra Paget, Angie Dickinson, early television staple and future game show hostess Ruta Lee, horror icon Caroline Munro, Debbie Reynolds, Adrienne Barbeau and — my favorite — Doris Day. The book ended with a photo of President George W. Bush, who Tom sheepishly admitted was probably inscribed with an Autopen. I nodded approvingly as I closed the book. "This is great, Tom.," I said as I returned to my desk for the final hour of my workday.

There's another guy at work. He's a tall man with white hair and a perpetually confused expression on his face. I don't know exactly what his position is, but he does have his own private office and he often wanders the hallways loudly singing the wrong lyrics to classic rock songs. Just before I got ready to leave for the day, the tall white-haired man walked into the office which I sometimes share with Tom.

"I hear you brought in pictures of naked broads!," he bellowed through the smirk on his face. Tom explained that he brought in his collection of autographed photos as a follow-up to a conversation we had the previous day. The tall white-haired man hefted the book into his large hands and began to page through it. "Where are the chicks?," he demanded, as he turned each page after disappointing page. He commented on a few of the photos of men until — midway through the tome — he arrived at the first female image. "Woah! Ho! Ho!," he exclaimed as he closely examined a photo of Doris Day, bringing the book right up to his face. "She's got a fuckin' great body!," he stated as he gave the black & white image the ol' "once over." From then, he gave his un-asked for impression and assessment of every single photo of a woman included in Tom's collection, punctuating each lascivious comment with words like "boobs," "hooters," "knockers" and "chest." He even threw in a stray "sweater meat." He went off on a detailed commentary of Adrienne Barbeau when he reached her photo, injecting his already creepy remarks with uncomfortable analysis of her ample endowments. "Wow!," the tall white-haired man continued, as he poked an exploratory finger at the decidedly not provocative photo of Debbie Reynolds, "Talk about a fuckin' hot body!" Tom and I said nothing. We were both taken by such surprise by these uncalled for assertions that we were rendered speechless — simultaneously! The tall white-haired man finally put the book down, leered for a moment at the closed volume and left the office. I gathered up my stuff and said goodbye to Tom.

And THIS, my friends, is why I don't talk to my co-workers.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't know nothing

See this graphic? I don't know what it means. I don't know what it's trying to illustrate. I don't know what sort of idea it is attempting to explain in simple, easy-to-understand pictures. I just Googled "marketing" and this came up. And that, my friend, pretty much sums up "marketing."

When I'm not drawing pictures of dead people or visiting cemeteries or watching fifty-year-old TV shows or shitting all over Ringo on the internet, I go to an actual job. I work for a large commercial printer that produces thousands upon thousands of circulars for supermarkets and other customer-friendly retail businesses up and down the east coast. I work in a small office with a dozen other graphic designers who, on a daily basis, toil over the whims and nonsensical ideas of any number of individual store owners or "marketing experts" with "a vison." That "vison" translates to every single circular looking exactly the same week after week after week. Despite this, every so often, a completely composed circular is disrupted just hours before it gets sent to press by some yutz with a "brand new idea." Understand that these stores are selling canned vegetables and paper towels and frozen chickens. The same products are included week after week. But, still, they want things to STAND OUT and GET NOTICED. They use phrases like BIG PUSH and BLOWOUT SALE and other meaningless jargon. A circular that should take a few hours to compose, ends up being stretched over several days because someone binge-watched Mad Men this weekend and fancies themselves the Don Draper of the grocery world.

I've been doing this, in one capacity or another, for over forty years. I've seen it all... and most of it has been bullshit. Sure, I have met and worked with genuine "marketing" professionals. These are people with legitimately clever and innovative ideas that have the potential to motivate and inspire customers. But, for the most part, true "marketers" are harder to find than a kosher ham sandwich or an honest politician. Instead the World of Marketing (sounds like a theme park) is filled with spineless, wishy-washy dishrags with no real ideas. I can't figure out how these people (and I have met dozens of them) are able to advance themselves to positions of authority. They get to a corporate level where final decisions are placed in their hands, yet they never want to commit, fearing a wrong decision will result in a dressing down from their boss. Instead, they shoot out monosyllabic emails that read: "Thoughts?," then sit back and wait for their underlings to come up with something. If submitted ideas are good, they will take the credit under the guise of "team leader." If a bad idea is chosen, they are the first ones to point their finger at the source. I saw this practice for the dozen years I worked in the marketing department of a large law firm. I never saw so many useless, lazy people with no original ideas. They just spewed buzz words and asked for "infographics" or some other new trend they just read about in a marketing publication. 

Once I traded in my "business casual" for the "down-and-dirty" world of pre-press (a big room of artists churning out quickly-composed ads for huge print runs. Google it, if you really care), I thought I'd never have to deal with that corporate mumbo-jumbo again.

I was wrong.

One of the companies I create circulars for on a weekly basis is a chain of supermarkets based in New York. They are a family-owned business, with ten stores located in affluent areas of Long Island. I deal with a young lady who is experiencing her first job right out of college. Here, she is able to apply her useless marketing degree for the sole purpose of selling an extra pound of strawberries – just by adding a big red "burst" that says "SWEET!" on top of the picture. My entire interaction with her (and everyone at this company) is via the internet through a collaboration website called Ziflow. All communication is through messaging on this website. Considering that I get the bulk of my instructions from her, she is an inarticulate communicator. She has a very difficult time explaining exactly what it is that she wants. Plus, her spelling is atrocious. Sometimes I have to stare at and reread messages several times before I can understand what I am supposed to do. She has no concept of proportion and sizing, however she uses terms like "lower the opacity" regularly. Oh, when she says "lower the opacity," she really means increase the opacity. But, after three years of doing these circulars, I have come to understand and interpret what is required.

Just this week, while working on this week's circular for this particular supermarket, I started getting messages from someone named "Norman" – a name I had not seen before. Norman instructed me to add a burst here that says "Great For Your Family!" Another message changed a headline that read "CATERING" to "Check Out Our Catering!" The next message asked for my thoughts on – and I quote – "reconfiguring the front page into a graphicly-pleasing hierarchy"... or some such third-year marketing bullshit. I merely replied that my job is to follow the layout with which I am provided. Surprisingly, he didn't press the issue.

I make no design suggestions. Zero. Zilch. Although I have been a graphic designer for over four decades, my role in my current job is not that of a designer. I am a layout artist – pure and simple. I do what I am told by the customer. I do not embellish, nor do I make any suggestions. I was told by my boss on Day One that we, essentially, produce trash. The circulars that we create have a shelf life of one week and are never ever looked at again. In that one week, they are just glanced at by the consumer. The target audience is someone looking for a good price on a box of Cap'n Crunch or a family pack of pork chops. We are not producing great works of art. We produce easy to understand presentations of everyday grocery items. If the consumer wants to see the Mona Lisa, they can go to the fucking Louvre. They are never gonna find it in a supermarket circular.... no matter what a store owner wants.

I Googled "Norman" and discovered that he has recently been hired by this chain of supermarkets with the title of "Merchandising Director" or something corporate-sounding like that. His job description is a run-on sentence of some of the thickest bullshit I have ever laid eyes upon. Immediately, I had flashbacks to my time stuck in marketing meetings at the law firm and watching a bunch of idiots with marketing degrees pat each other on the back while bandying about phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical juxtaposition" and "let's table that offline, but not until this afternoon, because I'll be out of pocket until 1 o'clock"... whatever that means. Norman, I quickly surmised, was a corporate asshole. And he proved me right after instructing me to add a big red burst to a picture of cherries that screamed "More Fruit, Less Pit!" His next decision was to make sure the words "Veggie Mac Salad" appear on one line, even though those words appeared on two lines in a featured block of various deli salads for over a year. Once I adjusted the size of the text to get "veggie" to drop down to the next line, Norman went home to tell his family that he made a crucial corporate decision at work today that will net the company untold profits. Later the same day, he indicated several places where he wanted the word "WOW!" to appear in a big red burst.

When Monday rolls around, I will be treated to another barrage of Norman's genius. Noman will pose passive-aggressive scenarios regarding whether a headline should say "Meat Sale" or "Sale on Meat." Norman will wait until an hour before press deadline to rearrange the placement of wedges of cheese or to question the height of a dollar sign.

To borrow a line from Ursula, the Sea Witch: "It's what I live for."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my wife

I remember my first job in the corporate world. After years of working for small, "mom & pop" businesses, I started working in the production department of a large legal publisher. Initially, it was great. It was very structured and very regimented. There were procedures to follow and meetings to attend and a corporate hierarchy to adhere to. Within my department, it was more relaxed. But outside the doors of our small office, there was a specific, though unwritten, protocol that dictated behavior. I enjoyed it... until I didn't.

A few jobs after that, I worked in the main office of a large retailer. I sat in a cubicle in a room filled with a dozen other graphic artists. On a daily basis, we cranked out newspaper advertisements like machines. Here, too, there were meetings and procedures and protocol. Again, I enjoyed it... until I didn't.

After that job, I dove headfirst into the real corporate world. In 2007, I was hired to join the marketing department of a large law firm with offices up and down the East coast. I was the sole graphic designer in a department that consisted of fifteen colleagues. There were tech people and copywriters and event planners and a bunch of people who had the title of "manager" but had no actual staff. I was never quite sure who or what exactly they managed. Over the course of my dozen years at that job, there was a revolving door of perky young ladies who shared one brain among them. They smiled and carried little leatherette portfolios and had meetings with attorneys. I was not sure what they discussed at their meetings. I suppose it was some sort of marketing plan. When any one of them breached my office doorway to explain the sort of informational marketing piece I would need to produce as a result of a meeting, their explanation and instruction was offered to me with all of the articulation of Mushmouth. I could only imagine when these young ladies went out with their friends or attended a family gathering, when asked what they did for a living, they say "I work at a law firm." When further pressed for the nature of their actual job, they'd reply: "Y'know.... work with the lawyers."

There was a guy in my department who also was bestowed with the title of "manager." He may have even been a "senior manager." I wasn't exactly sure what he did either. He butted into everyone else's business. That is, when he wasn't in a meeting. And he was always in a meeting. He had meetings scheduled to cover his entire day. When one would end, he'd hurry down the hall to attend another meeting. Sometimes, he'd have to leave a meeting early so he could be on time for the next meeting on another floor. He had breakfast meetings and lunch meetings. He was always rushing down a hallway with his laptop in one hand and a half-eaten danish or sandwich (depending on the time of day) in the other.

On a monthly basis, our Marketing Department would have its own meeting. These hour-plus affairs were tedious. The standard procedure was to go around the big meeting table and, one-by-one, explain what we are currently working on. There was so much indecipherable corporate jargon tossed about, one would have thought it was an English as a Second Language class. Most of the time, I had absolutely no clue what was being discussed. The metaphors and symbolism where confusing. Phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical advertising" were bandied about like they were included in everyday conversation. One guy — the meeting guy — would even mix metaphors to make things even more obscure. He'd say things like "herding ducks" and "getting our cats in a row." And then he'd rush off to another meeting before what he said could sink in.

But even with all the corporate policies and structure and protocol, there was one thing I absolutely hated — hated! — about the corporate world.

The one and only.

I got married in 1984. This summer, my wife and I will celebrate our forty-first wedding anniversary. I love my wife. She is my companion. She is my best friend. She is the one person I can always count on for anything. We have been together for so long, one of us sometimes speaks what the other one is thinking. Like Anna and Hans (before he was revealed to be a jerk), we finish each others sandwiches. We're like Lois Lane and Clark Kent. Like Rufus T. Firefly and Mrs. Teasdale. Like Catherine and Heathcliff (if they end up together at the end of that book. I actually never read it.) We're like Calvin Coolidge. Put together! We have so much in common. I'll say it again, she is my wife. My only wife.

There is a term within the corporate world that angers me. It infuriates me. It makes be cringe. I don't find it funny or cute or endearing. As a matter of fact, I find it stupid and demeaning and insulting. The term I am referring to is "work wife." Eeechhh! Just typing it makes my blood both boil and run cold. I don't know who coined that disgusting phrase, but I curse them! 

Over the course of several jobs in the corporate world, I have had a few female colleagues to whom the term "work wife" was applied. These were women with whom I had a close working relationship. There were a couple with whom I could commiserate over a lame decision made by a superior or some dumb new corporate policy. Others were fellow artists who could help with a new perspective on a difficult task or offer a different way to tackle a problem. I would sometimes go out for lunch with these female co-workers and think nothing of it. It would be no different than going out for a bite with a male co-worker. But, there are folks within the corporate world who can't keep their fucking mouths shut and who feel the need to stir the fucking pot, creating "controversy" where none exists. 

The term "work wife" is supposed to be cute and and little dangerous in a playful sort of way. I find it dangerous in a dangerous sort of way. I am not one of those people who hides things from my wife. I don't sneak anything behind my wife's back. I don't say things like: "Oh don't tell my wife!" or "I hope my wife doesn't find out." My marriage is not a sit-com. I am not Ralph Kramden trying to keep another hare-brained scheme from Alice. But there are certain people in the corporate world who think that scenario is funny. But, it is only funny on TV. They like to hint at more than just a friendship... which, of course, was ludicrous (as well as nobody's goddamn business anyway). But, that's how the rumor mill grinds in the corporate world.

I have actually had co-workers refer to a female co-worker as my "work wife" right to my face... even after I have expressed my feelings towards the term. To all of my female former co-workers who have been labeled my "work wife," please understand that it was not me doing the labeling. While I enjoyed our friendship and our relationship as working colleagues, I have just one wife. Just one. And she's probably checking this blog post for typos right now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's too late

I have been working at my current job at a South Jersey commercial printer for three and a half years. Every morning, I leave my house at the same time. I drive the same route... mostly... unless there is a scheduled opening at the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, in which case, I take the far less traveled Betsy Ross Bridge that eventually takes me to the same place on Route 130 in Pennsauken, New Jersey. I drive into the nearly-empty parking lot at work around 7 AM, just in time to see the small night shift climbing into their cars. I punch my entrance code into the keypad at the door and enter. I walk through the cavernous printing plant, a building roughly the size of an airplane hangar. The printing presses are whirring madly and spitting out stacks and stacks of full-color advertisements for supermarkets up and down the East coast. Some of the presses are a little smaller than a football field, allowing the operator to actually enter the press to fix a paper jam or check the flow of ink. I follow a designated walkway, cordoned off from the bustling "print floor" by a series of guard rails. I am kept safe from a potential run-in with one of the many forklifts arranging and rearranging wrapped pallets stacked with printed circulars. Just before I punch another code into another keypad allowing me access to the pre-press area where my computer sits on my desk, I wave "hello" to a guy in the Shipping Department.

Since Day One, this guy — a pleasant looking fellow always sporting a backwards baseball cap with the company logo emblazoned across the front... er... back — is hunched over his computer screen, diligently striking the keyboard and checking his entry against an LED readout on a nearby scale, piled high with taped cardboard boxes. But, he always raises his glance and pauses his work to offer a "good morning" to me, usually accompanied by a single, friendly wave of his open hand. I, of course, return the greeting with a "how you doin'?," consciously changing my words, so as not to sound like an unimaginative parrot. I open the door to my department and that's the last he'll see of me until I have determined that all my work for the day has been completed and I decide to head home.

I shut down the internet and all open programs on my computer, grab my cellphone from its charging pad and start towards to door. When I open the door, there's the guy. Right where I left him, Still hunched over his computer screen and still check the corresponding weight of a different stack of boxes on the scale. As I pass, I wave and say, "See ya! Have a good night!" He replies, "Have a good night. See you tomorrow." Except on Fridays, when his parting message includes a direct request for me to have a good weekend.

And that's it. This has gone on every single working day since May 4, 2021. Over the course of time, our conversation has briefly — briefly — included short discussions about the various t-shirt designs I have worn to work and a couple of times we talked about the previous night's Phillies game. Aside from that, it's been just "Good morning" and "good evening." and that is all.

Oh... did I mention that I don't know this guy's name?

Hey!

In the late 90s, there was a sitcom on ABC called Spin City. It was a fictional and comedic portrayal of everyday activities in the office of the Mayor of New York City. The show first starred Michael J. Fox, until the ravages of Parkinson's Disease affected his physical and vocal abilities. He was replaced in the show's final seasons by Charlie Sheen. The show featured an ensemble cast, filling the various roles of the Mayor's staff. Among the characters was the Mayor's timid and gullible speech writer James, played by actor Alexander Chaplin. In one episode, James was strolling down the hall while conversing with press secretary Paul Lassiter (Our first exposure to ubiquitous character actor Richard Kind). As they talked, they passed a guy carrying a stack of papers. James says, "Hey!" to the guy and the guy says "Hey!" back. Paul interrupts himself to ask James "Who was that?" to which James replied, "Oh! That's my 'Hey!' guy." Paul is confused, even after James offers a lengthy explanation about how he sees this guy everyday. He doesn't know his name or where in City Hall he works or what he does or who he works for. But, when they see each other in the hall, they heartily exchange "'Hey's." The explanation doesn't really satisfy Paul's inquiry, but he lets it go because James is decidedly on the quirky side. At the episode's conclusion, I believe that James becomes upset because his "Hey!" guy got another job.

I believe that the guy in the shipping department has been working for my employer for many years. I never asked his name, though. Nor will I. I will just continue to say "good morning" in the morning and "good evening" in the evening.

I think 42 months is too much time passed for me ask his name now.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

this ain't goodbye

A few months ago, one of my co-workers announced intention to retire. There was a gathering at a local restaurant to congratulate her on her retirement. I reluctantly — very reluctantly — agreed to attend. The company agreed to foot the bill for the entire evening (including offerings for the bar, much to the delight of many of my co-workers). I figured "A Free Meal is a Free Meal," so I went. I sat at a long table and very quietly ate my specially-prepared, vegetarian-friendly meal while all of my co-workers related stories and anecdotes about Sally, my retiring co-worker. I think her name is Sally, but I'm not positive.

Because I have very little interaction with my co-workers, I had to sort-of piece together her "work story" on my own, based on what I heard my other co-workers were saying. Apparently, she has been an employee of the company for over forty years. She began just after high school or college or some vocational training. She teased the owner of the company (who was seated at the table), recalling how she used to chase him from her office when he was a kid. (His father had previously owned and run the business.) People at the table asked about her future plans, now that work would no longer play into her day-to-day activities. At the end of the evening, Everyone thanked the company owner and congratulated Sally (maybe it's Sandy....?) one more time before parting. I even congratulated her by saying "Congratulations." before I exited. 

On Thursday of the following week, in strolled Sally. She took a seat at a desk, fired up her computer and began shuffling through a stack of papers. I thought, perhaps, I had dreamed up the retirement "party" I attended in her honor the Friday before. Another co-worker, Theresa, greeted Sandy and discussed a few work-related topics before changing the subject to the retirement gathering last week in Sandy's honor. So, I didn't dream it. It did happen! Theresa went back to her desk and Sally (or Sandy?) began to work.

Now.... please.... stop me if I'm wrong.... but, doesn't "retirement" mean that you don't go to work anymore? That's always been my understanding. My brother just retired last year. He doesn't go to work anymore. He goes to the gym during the day. He goes out to lunch with his other retired friends who don't go to work anymore either. He plays poker on Thursday afternoons — during the time when he used to go to work... which he no longer does, because he is retired.

But, Sally (or Sandy?) I suppose, hasn't had the concept of "retirement" properly explained to her. Since her "retirement," she comes into work two days per week and... well, I'm not sure exactly what she does. When Sally's (or Sandy's) retirement was announced, another graphic designer was hired to take over Sally's (or Sandy's)  workload. So, for several months now, Sally (or Sandy)  has come in every Thursday and Friday and.... oh, I don't know.... doesn't retire.

All I know is, when I retire, I will not come to work anymore. I will relax and travel and enjoy a life that I worked an entire life for.

Who am I kidding, I'll retire when I die.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stop right there, I gotta know right now

Ever since I unceremoniously lost my job in Philadelphia, I have worked in New Jersey. It is not unusual for people from Philadelphia (and its immediate surrounding area) to work in New Jersey. As a matter of fact, Philadelphians consider New Jersey to be a suburb of Philadelphia. 

My commute to work is about forty minutes and, understandably, I have to cross a toll bridge. Actually, I have my choice of two bridges that span the Delaware River. My preference is the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, a nearly 100-year old drawbridge that, at any given moment, halts traffic to open up and allow passage of a ship. This operation can interrupt my morning and/or evening drive by up to a full hour. My alternative is the Betsy Ross Bridge, a more modern but less traveled truss structure built high enough that it doesn't need to open. Ships just scoot right under it and so far no ship has been too tall for passage. The Betsy Ross Bridge, however, is difficult to get to and out of my way. It also sports a toll of five dollars as opposed to the Tacony-Palmyra's EZ-Pass-discounted three bucks. Most mornings, I take the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. I subscribe to a texting alert system that lets me know when the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge is scheduled to open. If I get that message before I leave for work, I change my route and head, reluctantly, towards the Betsy Ross Bridge. If I get that text en route, well.... then I'm fucked.

Once I cross one of those bridges, I navigate towards Route 130 and soon I find myself at work. Route 130 is an 83-mile stretch of busy Interstate thruway of which I only employ a small portion. One day, while driving along the route I drive every morning, I saw the flashing light of a local police vehicle in my rearview mirror. I obligingly slowed down and pulled to the curb to allow the officer to pass. But he didn't pass. He pulled right up behind me. Panicked, I steered my car into the parking lot of one of the many businesses on Route 130 and shut off the engine. The police car came in right behind me and parked. The officer stayed in his car for a few minutes before approaching my car. In those minutes, I tried to think of what I could have possibly done to warrant a traffic stop. I wasn't speeding. It's kind of hard to speed on Route 130 that early in the morning. As far as I knew my brake lights were in working order. The officer appeared beside my car and I lowered my window.

"Hello, officer.," I said

"Good morning," he replied and he asked for my driver's license and car registration. He walked around to the front of my car and leaned down a bit. Then he returned to my driver's side door. "You don't have a front license plate." he said.

"Yes," I explained, "They are not required in Pennsylvania, where I live." He nodded. I went on to say that I worked in nearby Pennsauken, New Jersey and I was on my way to my job.

The police officer squinted at me and said, in his best "Sergeant Joe Friday" voice, "I ran your license and there is a New Jersey plate with the same number that was reported stolen." I didn't know how to reply. Obviously my license plate — a blue, yellow and white plate with "PENNSYLVANIA" printed across the top — is not now, nor has it ever been a New Jersey license plate. It does not look like, nor could it be mistaken for a New Jersey license plate. I decided on the best response... and that response was "Oh."

The officer examined my driver's license and registration for a moment or two before handing them back to me. He said, "Okay. Have a good day, sir." He turned on his heels and walked back to his car. He got in, fired up the ignition and sped away, no doubt on his way to break up a murderous and desperate crime ring in the Greater Pennsauken area. I started my car once he was out of sight. As I continued on my drive to work, I played the whole incident over in my head. My explanation of the lack of a front license plate to an officer of the law in a neighboring state just stuck with me. That is until I re-thought about his nonsensical reason for stopping me in the first place. Look up there. There is a side-by-side comparison of the current Pennsylvania  and New Jersey license plates. Can you tell the difference? If you can, perhaps a career in New Jersey law enforcement is not right for you.

Ever wonder why New Jersey is the butt of so many jokes? Wonder no more.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

it's obvious

Twelve years ago, I was working in the marketing department in the main office of a national chain of an after-market auto parts supplier. I worked in a large room with a dozen other graphic designers, pumping out full-color newspaper circulars. It was a grueling process. We had to keep up with the various price changes and product switches from category leaders, along with the whims and fancies of several vice-presidents in charge of  "something or other." These guys would wander through the department and peer over the shoulders of my colleagues and me as we worked diligently on our computers, moving and adjusting our circulars, as per instructions determined in a weekly marketing meeting. In an effort to justify their jobs, a VP would — on the spot — instruct a particular artist to "change that block from red to yellow" ...only switch it back to red an hour later. This would occur on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis, forcing an artist to make a pointless change and carry said change across a dozen different demographic-specific versions. Things like changing the width of a dotted line around a coupon or flipping the positions of adjacent items in an ad were regular and anticipated changes... often made as the print deadline loomed closer. They were changes for the sake of change, mainly to reinforce the ego and control of upper management.

One day, one of my coworkers brought in a microwaveable meal for consuming in the noon hour. In the meantime, the package sat on his desk. It was a quick-serve bowl of pasta that had newly been introduced to the market. As artists often do, some of us assessed the package design and surmised a scenario for how it was created. The first thing that was noticed was a large out-of-place block on the otherwise well-designed package front that read "GREAT FOR LUNCH" in big, gaudy yellow type. The rest of the package featured a nicely-placed logo, a "beauty shot" of the fully-cooked product and a few small pictures of other available varieties of the same line. As a group, familiar with the modus operandi of a controlling VP — one who perceives himself as a "marketing genius," we figured that the design department at this particular company had just finished the final version of the packaging. Then, one of these VPs came by and insisted on the inclusion of the "GREAT FOR LUNCH" callout, reasoning that how else would anyone know it could be eaten for lunch. The designers had to scramble to change the design, staying late at the office to redo the design of every package in the line. Meanwhile, the VP went home at a normal hour and told his family: "I did marketing today!"

A dozen years later, I came across a similar scenario, leading me to believe...  nay, confirm... that some things never change and people "in charge" like to be in charge and like to let everyone know they are in charge. I ordered a box of foil wrapped, pre-moistened wipes to clean my glasses. After a few days, the package arrived. The box featured a clean, white design with the essential information presented plainly and pleasingly across the front of the box. The logo, the name of the product, how many wipes the box contained and a small row of icons indicating the various items on which the wipes could be used, besides eyeglasses. However, in capital letters in a spot of white space, were the words "IT REALLY CLEANS!" This was obviously the last-minute work of some corporate stooge who felt compelled to exercise his superior position over the lowly designers in the company's marketing department. "How will anyone know that this cleaning product really cleans unless we put it on the box?," he thought and, channeling Pharaoh in The Ten Commandments, he proclaimed "So let it be  written and so let it be done." Once again, a group of designers had to stay late at the office to implement ridiculous changes made by someone who has no business in the field of marketing.

Look, I don't claim to be an expert in marketing. I have, however, been exposed to bad marketing for over forty years. (To be fair, I've seen good marketing, too.) But, it seems that bad marketing is more wide spread. Hell, I worked in a marketing department for ten years under someone who didn't know shit from shit, yet she kept her job when I got let go.

I think that all of these so-called, self-proclaimed "marketing geniuses" should all meet for dinner at this place to discuss their various strategies.

After all, they must have the best food in town. The sign says so! Otherwise, how would people know?

Genius!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

people are strange

When I'm not visiting cemeteries, drawing silly pictures or leaving smart-ass comments on Facebook, I lead a pretty normal life. I got to work during the week and save those aforementioned activities for the weekend... except the smart-assing part. That I do on a daily basis. I work in the design department of a large commercial printer. My job keeps me busy pretty much all day, leaving very little time to interact with my co-workers.... and that is just fine with me.

I started this job two years ago, after being unemployed for a year due to massive layoffs brought on by the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic. After applying for numerous employment opportunities, a New Jersey printing company took a chance on a 60 year-old graphic artist with over forty years of experience in the field. My day-to-day responsibilities are, by no means, unfamiliar to me. I have done this sort of work at many different places throughout my career. To be honest, it's pretty mindless work — which is okay. At this point in my life, I don't need to impress or dazzle anybody with my innovative design ability. I just need a weekly paycheck and to not think about my job between 4:30 PM on Friday and 8 AM on Monday. So far, this job has fit the bill.

Like I said, I have very little interaction with my co-workers. I suppose they are all just as busy as I am. Besides, I greatly dislike obligatory office chit-chat. For nearly a year, I did my work in a large office with two other desks that remained empty most of the time. One desk is occupied for the last hour and a half of my shift by a guy who works until midnight. He nods when he comes in a three o'clock and I nod when I leave at 4:30. Other than that, nothing. I don't even know some of my colleagues' last names.

Sometime last year, a guy from another office in my department was moved to the empty desk in my office. His name is John or Joe or... actually I'm not sure what his name is. He is very quiet, kind of awkward and usually has a cockeyed smile across his face, like he just remembered the punchline to a joke he heard a few days ago. At our department's holiday party last year, I heard his voice for the first time. And — boy! — did I hear it. He went on and on and on about some comedian's routine that he saw on television. I don't remember the comedian, but John (or Joe) repeated every single word of this guy's routine. He even picked up where he left off after being interrupted by a waitress asking for drink orders. There was no shutting this guy up! After waaaay too long, he finally concluded his word-for-word account of this comedy act — which was neither memorable nor funny. After that, I don't think I heard him speak again.

Well, now, he is my office mate. His desk is situated sort of to my right and sort of back against the wall about eight or so feet away. In my peripheral vison, I can see him bobbing his head, I suppose, in time to whatever he is listening to through the wireless buds tucked into his ears. Every so often, he stands and lifts his convertible desk, working on his feet for several hours, Once in a while, he chuckles to himself or has brief — very brief — conversations on his desk phone. These conversations — as least from my end — include John (or Joe) saying — almost giggling: "No. No. You have the wrong number." (I realized that the owner of the company is also named "John" (or Joe) and he must be getting a lot of calls for the owner.)

A few days ago, John (or Joe) spoke.

Again.

Loudly.

Around 10 AM, as I pressed my face closer to my computer screen to get a better view of the artichoke I was clipping in Photoshop (ask a graphic designer), I heard a startling burst of foul language. I turned my head — just slightly — to see John (or Joe) bent over a pile of color proofs of the ad he was working on. This guy, who during the days and weeks, rarely opens his mouth, was now spewing a barrage of obscenities as though he was a longshoreman with Tourette's Syndrome who had just dropped a bowling ball on his foot. It was jarring. I listened as his tirade continued to erupt for what seemed like many long minutes, but was probably only a few seconds. And then he stopped. He sat down and continued to click his mouse and look at his computer monitor. But those words were still echoing in my ear... and my memory. I replayed it over and over in my head. It was surreal.

A few days have gone by and John (or Joe) has remained quiet. He still bobs his head, but he hasn't issued a curse word. Yet.

A new week starts Monday.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com