Tales from the Shark Tank

Work has become a fourletter-word is the euphamistic sense, as well as the literal. Margaret, in the Grand Ellipse, made the observation that “if knowledge is power, then ignorance is surely helplessness.” The words I put in her mouth in regard to Victorian era intrigue are proving as true now as they were in the game. Each day the situation changes; each day those of us still there learn of something else. People are told their jobs are being abolished and that they are being moved to a different department at 4:30 p.m. the day before it takes effect. The office closes at 4:45 p.m. My secretary was one of those; she was told on Thursday night to move into a different cubicle on Friday, and report there on Monday. The woman whose cubicle she is to move into will come back from maternity leave on Monday to find that she has been transferred willy nilly, and that the boss she had when she left no longer works there. I no longer have a secretary, and as of Monday I am theoretically wearing two hats. I did at least manage to insist that they continue to pay me for my current job as long as they expect me to continue to do it. The woman in charge of new employee orientation has been told to be ready for 5 new people Monday, but not who they are or what positions they will fill. That means she can’t tell Reception who to look for, get their computers and phones set up, complete their paperwork so that all they have to do is read and sign it, and so on. She had asked several people on Friday, but for some reason it’s a Big Secret. She’s being prevented from doing her job, and she’s terrified that she’ll be in trouble for it when she hasn’t been given the information she needs. I wish I could reassure her that it couldn’t happen, but I can’t. Neither I nor anyone else knows what could happen. Another woman, whose job is to advocate for foreign nationals, put together a 12 page report on the impact of the planned change in processing and then no one would look at it. She gave up during the meeting, but realized that when I said the same things, with the title behind me, I was at least acknowledged. At the end of the meeting she quietly handed me her report with the comment “You be my voice. They at least listen to you. I don’t even know why they had me come here.” I had agreed to put the whole thing in writing, and indeed I spent the rest of Friday doing so. I’m not done yet, either. I have acknowledged the advocate’s help in my own report, as well as integrated her work into the content. It is all I can do for her. If I am helpless and frustrated, then surely she is more so. It seems Dilbert-land has come to life in a state agency. I know I’m not the only one whose resume has been sown broadcast across the area.

So I’ve taken refuge in writing of a sort I’ve not done in years. I’ve taken the characters of Shirley and Margaret, and a vignette that Dorothea (who wrote Shirley) and I were batting around last week, and written out a full blown revenge melodrama. Suffice it to say that their nemesis ends up very dead at Margaret’s hands. He doesn’t end up with any inconvenient holes in his hide to be explained, either. (Shirley, at Dorothea’s suggestion, was not so fortunate. Margaret, like Queen Victoria, was Not Amused.) Mind you, it’s dreadful stuff. I’m not particularly good at writing fiction, and this would give the most devoted reader of Grade D Westerns the collywobbles. But it was really remarkably satisfying to have at least one villian I could stalk and kill with impunity, however improbably accomplished. And in the end, I write for myself anyway. It’s one of the things I can’t not do.

Well, I finally pinned down the folks who know what’s happening, and got them to tell me what they had planned for me. The Cliff Notes summary? I’m being set up and screwed.

For the last six months, the Powers That Be have been beating the drums to have the applications of foreign nationals reviewed centrally and their licenses or id cards mailed to them if their documentation checks out. Now, aside from the fact that this is just asking for id theft, it’s against years of federal statutes and case law about discrimination on the basis of national origin. I have not been restrained about stating my opinion of this enterprise, either. But generally, I just give advice. It’s up to the Powers themselves whether they take it.

The kicker? They intend to put me in charge of that monstrosity, at - get this - a 50% cut in pay. I literally haven’t made that little since the mid-eighties. I have the strong feeling I’m being set up to take the fall for something ill advised that they know is going to generate lots and lots of law suits that the state is going to lose. It beats unemployment in that we still have things like insurance which we desperately need, but only barely. I wish to heaven I could simply quit. For some odd reason, my heart is no longer in my work.

In the midst of chaos, there are things that are very right in my world. One of them happened last night. I was baking bread for dinner when my small son walked over and asked what that lump of stuff on the bread board was. I explained that it was bread before it was baked. He tasted it, and wanted to help. So we did that. He got his step stool (the one with his name painted on it), climbed up, and helped me knead. Then I cut it into small pieces, and he rolled and squished them into something sort of like balls and put them on the cookie sheet. Perfectly shaped rolls are highly overrated, I can tell you.

It?s a little thing. Baking with children is one of those things that a lot of people kind of take for granted. But it?s not a little thing for my kid. Odd textures disturb him. He won?t fingerpaint, for example. He wouldn?t use play-doh until recently. He fights his occupational therapist every time she tries to get him to manipulate some new substance. And yet there he was, exited and enthusiastic, helping me bake bread in every way I could let him, dough all over both his hands. He fell asleep before they came out of the oven, but took one in his lunchbox today so he could show his teachers the rolls he made. He?s proud of himself, and he knows I?m proud of him. And when he saw how many had been eaten at dinner, he commented that ?they were really good, weren?t they Mommy?? I told him yes, they were wonderful. His smile just glowed.

Back in November, I managed to burn a pot of split pea soup quite spectacularly. I put water in the stockpot, put it out the back door for odour control, and forgot about it. It has finally come in, and we?ve been trying our best to remove the black ring from the bottom. It?s a white enameled steel pot with black trim, so scrubbing seemed reasonable. Only problem was, the black wasn?t coming out. In fact, it wasn?t budging. I wasn?t entirely sure it wasn?t growing. Finally I poured out the latest several gallons of water and examined it closely.

The burnt soup seems to have been the last straw. A wide ring of the enamel on the bottom has come off. That black isn?t above the level surface of the pot; it?s below it. And without the enamel to cover the steel, the pot isn?t really terribly useful, at least for making soup or jam. I suppose it?s entitled to be retired. It was purchased new by my great-grandmother shortly after her arrival in America, almost exactly a hundred years ago. It?s been in continual use since then. I don?t think I?ll throw it away; I think I?ll keep it and use it for boiling canning jars. It can still do that. But I do wonder if I could even find an ordinary stock pot now that would survive a hundred years of steady use.

A blank page is always a challenge. Sometimes it begs to be filled with words. On other occasions it stares reproachfully back from the notebook or computer screen, stubborn in its relentless emptiness. As full of ideas as my mind is, sometimes they don?t want to connect to my fingers or be set out for the world to see. Images that seem interesting in the shadows of my own mind have a way of looking merely foolish, put into words and exposed to the light of day.

Today is a day for such foolish fancies. I read the latest entry of Dorothea?s Grand Ellipse blog, and found myself envisioning a scene for the characters as they would be some 40 years later ? elderly, grey, softer, still good companions, still lovers as well as friends. But when I tried to actually write it out, it turned out to be remarkably insipid, which that couple would never have been even in their most peaceful moments. I finally gave up and pitched it.

Then my thoughts wandered off to my son?s antics and projects, and his frustrations when he tries to express them. I can tell what his teachers are doing. They?re prompting him, asking him questions that elicit simple answers to help him tell a story. But then he uses that at home, asking ?what would Bob say?? ?What would Thomas say?? ?What would Mommy say?? until Mommy is driven to distraction. More than anything else, now, it is the way he uses language that marks him out as different. But when I try to describe it, that too lacks the color it has in my mind.

I think the insipidness is in myself right now. I have no particular insight; no interesting observations on the world or life beyond my window. I can watch the same kidling video three times in a row, small son ensconced in lap, without any particular desire to do anything more intellectually stimulating. I did it yesterday. If I had a cat, I suspect I?d be petting it and staring off into space for hours on end.

I?ve one more major project and a half dozen loose ends to tie up here, and then I?ll be done. Just that quickly, I?m ready to move on. It?s time.

I’ve been reading Dorothea’s intermittent postings of Shirley’s Grand Ellipse adventures with great interest. As interwoven as Shirley and Margaret’s stories became, his point of view is clearly distinct from hers.

It’s also interesting to watch the development of their interaction now that I’m no longer in the middle of it. I can spot some of the scenes elided or edited out entirely. I notice some little jokes I had forgotten, like Margaret telling Shirley she would have offered to travel with Ian Caine (another pc) to get across the Ottoman Empire safely. (The jest is that Ian Caine was played by my husband.) But while I had noticed as Shirley began to show signs of falling hard for Margaret, I hadn’t really realized just how early in their partnership she had begun to show a similar interest in him.

Once upon a time, I had a roommate who read Harlequin romances. I picked up a few, until I had pretty well memorized the formula. As I’m reading this account of the Ellipse from Shirley’s point of view, I’m finding that not only did we recreate the Victorian Female Detective genre, we also reinvented the Victorian equivalent of the Harlequin Romance. I must confess, I had great fun writing it. I’m having more fun reading it. But I do feel sorry for Li, who had to read through that treacle and sentimentality in thousands of e-mails over several months!

My ability to focus is best measured in negative numbers today. My state of mind hasn?t been helped much by the constant flow of e-mails apprising of us of the latest media feeding frenzy. The Powers That Be keep throwing more people to the sharks, but as is normal with sharks, it seems only to make them hungrier. It strikes me that the party in power is trying to pay the political equivalent of Danegeld ? and as Kipling said, once you do that, you will never be rid of the Dane. Instead, they are punishing the innocent. Nor are they limiting themselves to the inept or incompetent, who may have failed to notice the signs that things were amiss. They are terminating people who had no input at all, or who have, at intervals, been saying ?this is wrong. This doesn?t add up. Look at what this little group is doing, as opposed to what they say they?re doing. We?re getting 75% of our id theft cases from 3% of our branches. Doesn?t that seem odd to anyone?? I?m actually lucky. Others have been escorted out and told their personal possessions will be packed and sent after them. That?s not being done to me. I?m being given time to tie up loose ends. I will do it, too, not because I give a darn about what happens to these people who are flexing their muscles just to prove they have them, but for my own honor. I will not sink to their level.

Hopefully the e-mails will stop soon. Or else I?ll just stop reading them. As a friend said, what?s the worst they can do now, fire me?

Well, I asked something no one seems to have thought I?d accept. I asked if I could accept a demotion and stay until I find something else. The Powers That Be say they’re “receptive to the idea”, but don’t know yet where they might put me. That says to me they won’t try very hard to put me anywhere. I don?t like it. For one thing, I?ve no desire to stay where I?m not wanted. For another, I make a good lieutenant or a decent chief, but a truly rotten Indian. I suppose I?m too used to being in authority to accept authority without question.

But I also have promises to keep, starting with maintaining a roof over my family?s heads and food on the table. My husband?s job alone won?t do that. I don?t blame him at all; he surely didn?t ask for what?s happened to him. On the other hand, that does mean it’s my responsibility.

It has occurred to me that there are gonna be a whole lot of unhappy attorneys, judges, and assorted court personnel when they find I?m no longer answering this number. I?ve been teaching the state traffic law seminars for assorted organizations for the past 4 years. These people know me. They know I?ll explain anything, whether or not it?s technically ?my job?. They know that if I don?t know something, I?ll tell them that. They know they won?t get brushed off if they call. In a month ? less, if I have my choice ? they will be talking to someone who doesn?t have the code at her fingertips and agency policy embedded in her synapses. I don?t think the new commissioner really knows what she?s getting rid of. I believe I may be forgiven for hoping it comes back to leave teeth marks in her gluteus maximus.

The shoe hath fallen, and it turns out it had spikes. I have a job for another 30 days, and then I’m out of here. I guess it really is true that no good deed goes unpunished.

It’s amazing how much difference one person can make. I would not have thought it possible, but the incoming commissioner, who has not yet moved into her office, has managed to make a pleasant work environment into a Job from Hell in one week flat. It’s not just me, either. I’m watching the upper echelon people jump ship as quickly as they can. The P.R. director has turned in her resignation. So have two deputy commissioners and a couple of other folks. My boss was demoted as of 5:00 p.m. Friday, as the new commissioner’s parting gift for the weekend. It was genuinely a gift, at that. My boss now knows what’s coming, at least in general terms. She knows she won’t be general counsel any longer, but that she will have a job. I don’t even know that for sure.

The expression “when the going gets tough the tough start baking” was, I think, invented for me. Last Thursday’s angst resulted in two (separate) batches of brownies and one of bread. I didn’t bake over the weekend, but I can hear the yeast calling me tonight. The last adventure had poppy seed filling. I’m not sure what this one will be. Whatever it is, I trust no one will be terribly surprised if the kneading process registers on the Richter scale. Our housemate, S., theorizes that “man” didn’t invent bread-making as we know it. She thinks it was women, frustrated because the men went out hunting and took all the credit for feeding the tribe, when 80% of the food came from the gathering and farming the women were doing. Some poor woman began pounding on the flour and water combination, liked the resulting product, and taught others. I don’t know how valid the theory is, but I like it!

So I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop and trying to do my job when less and less of my heart is in it. I’m doing my best to answer the questions my staff asks honestly. I’m keeping my fingers and toes crossed that I will get a job for which I have applied, and for which, as of last Friday, I was the only applicant. And I’m reminding myself, at frequent intervals, that this too shall pass.