Sometimes it is hard to see the humor in a situation when you are the one in the middle of it. Well, I found a way to see the now obvious hilarity of working for an insane, cat loving, cougar at RRA, and like before, I am beginning to see the clear comedic value of my current job working for "The Man".
Ironically, I actually work for three women at the government institution that is the VA hospital. Yes, three. I have dubbed them little boss, middle boss and big boss. Little boss is a boss in name only, acknowledging that we are really more peers than anything else. Middle boss only appears to praise me to my face or to stir-up drama behind my back, depending on which way her bipolar pendulum is swinging on any given day, and big boss is the one who gives me my assignments and the one who usually protects me from middle boss's tantrums.
More about the holy trinity later. The most recent source of insanity has been provided courtesy of what I call our "rehab hires". I always wondered how the morons roaming the halls actually acquired the coveted government positions. In an enlightening conversation with Little Boss, I found my answer. There are several avenues to government employment; you can be an extremely qualified military veteran with a perfect record and a college education (like me), you can start working at the hospital while in high school as a part-time helper and simply stay put until they offer you full-time work, or you can get hired as part of a rehabilitation/ADA initiative. Yes, many of our blue collar employees are recovering drug addicts and mentally deranged individuals. Why they think a mentally ill person is the right guy to courier medications between floors or sort the mail in a hospital is beyond me. It does answer quite a few questions though.
Up until last Friday I was merely bemused and a bit wary of these particular employees. There is a medicine courier in our Brooklyn hospital who looks remarkably like the hunchback of Notre Dame and has the interesting penchant for screaming inappropriate rants at unsuspecting bystanders. Entering the elevator one day, he was able to screech out "Fucking fat-ass" at a woman who just missed the closing doors. He continued mumbling to himself as the elevator descended and exited the elevator just in time to scream another unintelligible insult at the first person he saw. When I asked about this peculiar man, all anyone would say is, "oh, that's just Allen". Okaaaay. This was before I learned about the "rehab hires" and I was left a bit confused.
Back at the Manhattan branch, I was sent to the basement on a supply run one day. The rather fascist supply girl barked at me to come back after 1:00pm. I learned that we are only allowed three of any given item and supply is only open one day a week from 1-4 in the afternoon. Okaaay. When I returned at the appropriate time, a line had formed and everyone was waiting anxiously for the disgruntled clerk. While we waited a man kept wandering into the hallway screaming "Do you know Paul Smith? Where is Paul? Where is Paaaaul!?" Everyone ignored him, which was my first indication that perhaps he was not addressing us directly. After he disappeared into the mail sorting room, the screeching began. The noises brought to mind the cries of Sloth from The Goonies. I was more than disturbed by the animal like noises coming from behind the wall, but what I found equally disturbing was the lack of response from my fellow line inhabitants. "Am I the only one hearing this!?" Seeing the zombie-like stares of those around me, I thought it best to keep my concerns to myself. Talk about Twilight Zone!
A short while later I learned about the unusual hiring practices employed by our great bureaucracy. I have not returned to the basement since and thankfully I have been able to avoid these employees except for the occasional lurching woman who pushes an empty cart around the hallways, until last Friday that is.
After conducting discharge rounds on Friday I grabbed a coffee and began reading over my notes on the way back to my office. I was walking through a set of double doors when a man emerged from them, holding the door behind him. Taking a sip of my coffee, I passed him with out a word. He turned almost immediately and shrieked "OH, you're not going to thank me for holding the door?" I glanced over my shoulder and mumbled "Thanks" and went back to my notes, thinking this was the end of it. I was mistaken. Half way down the hallway I heard the man come back through the door and he promptly began shouting his objections. "I don't hold the door for nobody and you not even gonna thank me? What is your problem bitch?!" I spun on my heels to face the barrage. Not today homie, not on a Friday! "Excuse me? I obviously was thinking about something other than you and I did not notice you" I began as he continued ranting, "You need to relax, calm it down man!" He continued grumbling as he retreated back out the door as the large travel clerk from my office came through. Her eyes became even more enlarged than usual as she asked me what the hell was us with him. She was rather impressed with my aggressive stance, commenting that "Felicia's the wrong one, she'll buck up on you!" Cackle, Cackle. I wonder what type of hire she was....
Let's recap: Crazy people and drug addicts roam the halls, the clerks I work with consist of an obese cackler who often is unable to complete her tasks because of the errant globs of cheese from her danishes and a man who sings to me under his breath. The office I inhabit is a storage room for another department and the man who runs that department likes to come in and simply hover. I have yet to figure out if he is trying to intimidate me or hit on me. He might be gay actually. I have three bosses, two of which exist only to alternate between befriending and sabotaging me and one who assigns me outlandishly huge jobs and they tells me that my good work is making other employees jealous. A large part of my position is to manipulate the other employees into giving me information to bring back to Big Boss and into thinking that I know what the fuck I am doing. Oh, and I am the lowest paid employee in the department.
One definitely flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, the question is who is crazier, the patients on the 17th floor psych ward or the employees making a larger salary than I am? Perhaps I am the nut, I am finally starting to see the hysterical reality that is my 9-5.
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