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| All too often, our gut tells us "no." But it's just an uneasy feeling. It's hard to interpret why we're uneasy. We're told there is nothing wrong. We need concrete proof something is wrong before we react to it, whatever it is. Boorish behavior struck me as wrong but I didn't know of legitimate grounds for rejecting it. I objected to it at my appliance repair job, but maybe it was just me. With time, I'd been bullied and blamed to the point of feeling helpless. I had no inkling permenant structural changes were being made to my brain*. I felt lazy. Most people seem to believe that's natural. Most think being "fired up" is abnormal. But I longed to regain that strength. Being fired up is normal for me. Ignoring being bullied was killing me. I am powered by the thanks I get. My emotional bank account ran dry. I asked for one day off in the middle of summer. My boss blew up. NO. I wouldn't get one day off. When he hired me he agreed I could take long periods off as long as I gave ample notice. I didn't even care when I got it. Where was my boss the next day? He went where I wanted to go. And no, Cindarella wasn't going to the ball. The irony of it all was that the boss had hired another teck named Dave who was taking all the field calls. I had been dispatched to the back room. And I enjoy whatever I do, so the demotion was okay I guess. But there was nothing critical or time-sensitive about any of what I was doing. Keeping me captive seemed to be the point. It was around then when he called me into his office to accuse me of applying for jobs with the other appliance repair shops: he had "proof," or so he said. I honestly did not know what he was talking about. I had not applied anywhere. I longed for industry. Time went by and Dave got fired. So I did mopup. One of Dave's jobs had backfired, which happens to everyone. I arrived at the customer's house to install a harness. The washing machine was also missing the timer. So I came back to the office and found it in Dave's van. Upon returning and installing both, I tallied up the ticket to find myself agast at the price-tag: $398. I called the boss and asked him to give the lady a break. I urged him not to profit overly from Dave's mistake. We'd bid the job at $220. $398 was over the line, tantamount to strong-arm robbery. He wouldn't budge. So I gave her the price. She looked like she would explode. Somehow she didn't. She said "If I'd known it would be this much, I wouldn't have done it." And that was it. She was remarkably calm. She could have easily hurt my feelings but didn't. She wasn't rich. I was her last line of defense. She got duped. I returned to hear my boss say "She was a spitfire on the phone, I bet she ripped you a new XXXXXXX" I was mum. Every day after that I mentioned our folly, suggesting redress. After a week had gone by, I wanted to quit. But I'd tried before. He wouldn't let me. I know it sounds odd. But I was too weak. I had no strength. I was a basket case. That week had started badly. It ended just as badly. My last call led me to a familiar driveway. I'd been there a month earlier. The machine was similar to the one in the first disaster: a whirlpool direct-drive washer. The ticket said it flooded the customer's house. I'd replaced the pump. I was bummed: I knew I'd blown-it somehow. As the lady pulled up and got out of her car, I blurted out meekly: "your baby!" Taken aback, her face turned quizzical. "I hope I didn't mess it up," I said. Her posture relaxed. She'd looked tense. The office had put-her-off for weeks, saying it wasn't our fault. I was just the opposite, openly scared I'd failed. One look inside revealed my incompetence. I'd left the hose clamps off of the pump. I'd given her the grand tour while doing the repair. In the limelight, with the distraction of being flattered by her interest, I botched the job. So I assembled things right, tested it, and wrote a ticket admitting to what had happened. The machine was located upstairs. The hoses blew when it was full. Provided drainage proved no match. Overflow seeped through the floor and underlying plaster, to stain a textured ceiling on the underside. The living room ceiling needed rework. I offered to repaint it. I'd lived in a house that had been condemned and buldozed after the building inspector noticed just such damage. It was no small issue in my mind. But she let me off the hook. The boss blew up when he saw the ticket. He said "And you are going to quit admitting when you messed things up." So quit I did. The bullying and lying were beneath me and behind me. I chalk-up my departure to Dawn, the perfect lady; who'd been duped the week before. Four months later my strength had returned, but I was broke and feeling low. A suggestion on NPR gave me a tip for feeling better. It went as follows: Write a compliment on a slip of paper to describe how someone impressed you. Go to them. Read it to them. And you will both feel good for weeks afterwards. I wrote the following: * * * * * In this world of skin-deep beauty and shallow acceptance criteria, there are surprisingly few people who can spare the innocent when great rage is in order. You showed me that strength--the first I'd seen of it in ten years. I've been worn down by bullying and misplaced blame. The outrageousness of your plight brought me the strength to put my foot down and begin healing. * * * * * Last night I went and read it to her. I didn't think I'd need the written copy. But I was speechless when the door opened. I felt so awkward. So I read it outloud from the slip, line by line. And it made her glow. She thanked me. Her's was the only house on that street with a beautiful Christmas display. Today I feel great. I bet she does too. |
| It's always darkest before Dawn |
| Thank you NPR! (National Public Radio) |