It was my first day in a new job. Management had chosen me, so I was confident in being the right man. My eyes swept the room and I saw nervousness in the eyes of some as I strode to my office in the corner. Not a windowed corner, but still a corner. I wasn’t here to grow the company directly, just manage the office. I couldn’t care less about what the company’s product was, only that the office ran smoothly and efficiently. My last job had been despatching trucks around the city and state. If you can handle truck drivers, you can handle anyone. This gig should be a trip.
I stopped at my office door and turned to face everyone. I asked them to interrupt whatever they were doing and pay attention. ‘I’m Dave Cratchit, the new office manager. I’m not concerned with the plastic ducks this company manufactures but with the running of this office. I’ve been advised that one problem is the constant disappearance of office supplies. This will stop. Anyone found stealing will be fired on the spot. I’ll be looking at who signed for said supplies, that is, who lost (I raised my hands and wiggled my first two fingers on each one) a lot. If you find you have superfluous staplers, et al, return them to my office by nine tomorrow and we’ll start out with clean sheets.’
‘Signed?’ a woman said. ‘We don’t sign for stuff.’
‘Well, you do now. Just return all your excesses by nine and we’ll be right.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
When I got to my office the next morning, it was as if a tsunami
of office supplies had surged in. My seat was covered in memory sticks, paperclips,
staples and a letter opener that someone probably hoped I’d sit on. My desk was
awash with computer mice, mousepads, cables, chargers, Stickum pads and a keyboard
with a dab of red nail polish on the letters f,u (two dabs), c,k,y and o.
Someone had made a notice board in the shape of a triangle with requests for new computers, service and parts. The most urgent at the apex.
When I turned to look at the office, I found everyone silently staring at me.
We had sent messages to each other and now we all knew where we stood.
About the author
Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)
No comments:
Post a Comment