The Call Center had a major roach infestation but the Operations Director did not care. Safely ensconced in the Executive Offices downtown she rarely ventured to the suburban Call Center (which she referred to as either “The Hinterlands” or “Hell;”) she was content to issue decrees from afar.
The Director was promoted to her position mainly on the basis of her wardrobe and her haircut, both of which were extremely expensive. All you need to know about her is that she had flaming red hair and demanded that her subordinates call her “Ms. Newman.” Get the picture?
The Call Center ran three shifts per day, seven days per week with approximately 50 operators, predominantly women, per shift. Because the operators got only 30 minutes for their meal break, they all brought their meals from home in paper or plastic containers. Did I mention the women’s restroom had 4 stalls for 150 women?
I was 22 and had just recently gotten my first “management” job as a shift supervisor when Ms. Newman took over and announced that she was going to “trim the fat” from our budget. First, she fired our exterminator. A transplant from San Francisco, where presumably they do not have roaches the size of hamsters, she saw no need for that expense. Next, in a truly breathtaking display of naiveté, she fired our cleaning service. “If everyone tidies up after themselves,” she wrote in a memo, “we can save the extraneous expense.”
The results were predictable. Our operators generated a staggering amount of trash and within a day the garbage cans of the lunch room were overflowing. By the end of that week the women’s restroom was so nasty that the operators began using the men’s room. Next we saw the first roaches. By the end of the second week the roaches had infiltrated the Call Center itself. By the third week the busy hum of the Center was punctuated by screams as the roaches, emboldened, began walking across the Operators’ work stations.
By this time the windowless break room was so infested that when the lights were suddenly turned on the floor turned into a solid mass of roaches scurrying for cover. My solution was simple: I kept the lights on, but then I was the hapless supervisor on duty the day when Ms. Newman visited the Call Center. It was my own fault. The lunchroom was at the end of a long, dark hallway and Ms. Newman had never deigned to visit it before but after I wrote a fairly strong memo explaining the effects of firing the cleaning crew and the exterminator she decided to inspect the lunchroom and see for herself. She used the visit mainly so that she could rip me a new one for my unclean, spendthrift habits.
She looked at the lunch room, appalled. “It is your job to see that those garbage cans are emptied,” she said furiously. When I, unwisely, tried to explain the effect of 150 women using one lunchroom with no one assigned to empty the garbage she cut me off. “Listen, don’t speak,” she said.
We walked back to the Call Center where she continued. “You do realize that we are here to make a profit?,” she asked sarcastically, making sure every operator heard. “Electricity is not free: When the break room is empty, you will make sure those lights are off.” I tried to protest and she actually wagged her finger in my face. “This is not open for discussion,” she said and stormed off.
I spent the rest of the week hating Ms. Newman and then I got a memo that she would be back on Friday to take her boss, the CEO, on a tour of the Center. “Mr. Fell believes in the virtues of a pristine work environment,” read the memo, in a vaguely threatening tone. “I am certain that he will be impressed by your tidy Call Center.”
On Thursday the other two shift supervisors and I worked until well past midnight, cleaning the Call Center but then, exhausted, we agreed to just close the door to the break room which, by this time, resembled a compost heap. “No one ever goes down that hallway anyway except for the operators,” I said and my colleagues agreed with me.
On Friday morning Ms. Newman escorted Mr. Fell and his entourage on a tour of the Center which, if I say so myself, looked pretty good although it smelled strongly of Raid. As befitting my lowly position, I was expected to walk several steps behind the dignitaries and take notes. Mr. Fell was impressed. “Well, Roz, you should be proud. You certainly run a ship-shape operation,” he said heartily and Ms. Newman beamed. Then my heart skipped several beats because they started to walk down the long hallway.
“Let me show you the lunch room,” said Ms. Newman as she opened the door and turned on the lights.