One of the worst jobs I ever had was second-shift supervisor of a telephone data center. My job description was to “ensure that telephone operators maintain an excellent level of customer service,” but this was utter nonsense. My real job description was, “survive for eight hours until it is time to go home and drink heavily.”
My operators were almost 100% female; they took one look at me and realized that I was absolutely terrified of anyone who looked me in the eye and spoke firmly. Then, having established the pecking order, they spent their shifts running into my office to gossip, share inappropriately personal stories about their love lives and generally throw each under under the bus, with never a thought about “excellent customer service.”
When I left that job I vowed to never again supervise large groups of females because in my youthful; naiveté I assumed that catty, backbiting behavior was the exclusive domain of women. This proved that I was not only a bad supervisor but also a sexist cretin.
I was reminded of this just last week because as my home improvement project dragged on and on I got to interact more with the workers than I ever wanted to.
It started one morning when the middle-aged Project Manager apologized for being late. “I have a new girlfriend,” he explained, “and I didn’t get much sleep last night.” He winked. “If you know what I mean.”
It was 8:15 in the morning and I was already wishing I was dead. “Good for you!” I said heartily, and walked away.
“Want to see her picture?” he said. I didn’t but I paused and all was lost; he showed me his smart phone and my jaw dropped. “What do you think?” he asked anxiously.
I wanted to say that I thought that women of a certain age and a certain size should not wear flesh colored thongs, but thinking fast, I said, “You’re a lucky man!” and he beamed.
“I don’t know what she sees in me,” he said, walking away.
“She sees a green card,” the electrician told me a minute later. “Her visa is about to expire.”
I nodded noncommittally and tried to go back into the house. “By the way,” the electrician said, “it’s none of my business but that plumber is taking short cuts that are going to come back and haunt you.” He went on to explain something about J-traps and drains and clean-outs. I was mystified, but it sounded bad.
“I’ll call the Contractor,” I kept saying.
“He don’t know what he’s doing,” said the electrician, although I was not sure if he meant the plumber or the Contractor.
As I made my way back into the house I heard the drywall guys in a heated conversation. Apparently Jason, the drywall supervisor was not happy with Ian’s taping skills and during a heated discussion had let it slip that Mark, the new guy, was making five dollars more per hour than Ian.
Ian was not pleased, and was deaf the Mark’s contention that it was not personal. “Dude,” Mark kept saying, “I needed the job.”
“Bossman,” Ian said, motioning me over. “Who’s work is better, mine or his?”
“I have to make a call!” I said a trifle wildly and ran into the house. I called the Contractor about the plumber and he was soothing. “It’s all fine,” he said. “Don’t listen to the guys.”
“Then tell them not to run with me with their gossip,” I said shortly.
The Contractor laughed out loud. “Dude,” he said, “Women gossip. Guys trade data.”