The Many Jobs of Monsoon: Volume Five
Friday, August 15, 2008 at 10:37AM
Monsoon Martin in Many Jobs of Monsoon

Friends,

Here is the fifth and final installment in my Many Jobs series from 2006. I wanted to draw your attention to a new feature on the weblog: I've added a "widget" on the sidebar of each page that automatically archives all of my entries, sorted into categories. So if you want to access all five "Many Jobs" forecasts, look on the right side of the page under the "Powered by Squarespace" icon, and click on "Many Jobs of Monsoon." Cool, huh?

The Many Jobs of Monsoon Forecast: Volume Five

Monday, 20 November 2006

As I mentioned in my previous forecast, two “temp” jobs turned into “permanent” (though not entirely, since I eventually left them) employment. The first was at American International Group (AIG) in Philly, where I worked in the National Union division, which handled professional liability insurance policies. A few years back, in fact, there was a sprawling scandal regarding illegal business practices involving AIG’s many tentacles; one of the most egregious violations was that underwriters in National Union were binding policies that had not actually been purchased. In other words, they fabricated income for the company in order to meet fiscal goals. Around the time I worked there. Good stuff.

 

I worked there as an assistant underwriter—first as a temp, then as an actual employee of National Union—from early 1997 to the middle of 1998. The job itself was not notable in any way, involving fairly pedestrian data entry (though not at the breakneck speeds required at the collection agency), client contacts, filing, and so forth like that.

My first boss there was a man named Frank Castro, the regional manager of our division, who was in his late twenties at most. If you have seen the movie Office Space and can recall the manner of Gary Cole’s character, Bill Lumbergh, bring that performance up a few registers and increase the speed from 33 to 45 rpm and you have an idea of the man. Frank Castro was from California and seemed rather laidback, but in point of fact was a desperately striving career insurance guy who would have killed (and cheated, it turns out) to make himself look good. He was the sort of corporate schmuck who would practice his golf swing (with no club) while you were standing there talking to him.

The most memorable aspect of Frank Castro’s tenure at AIG was his indiscriminate, almost savant-like use of management euphemisms. If he wanted us to adopt a new policy, it was to be done “on a go-forward basis.” If he wanted us to contact a client, we were to “touch base.” We were concerned with the “bottom line” and how our fiduciary health looked “at the end of the day.” When moving on to a new topic, he would “change gears” before “pulling the trigger” on his next deal. And so, friends, it would not be unusual to hear the following out of his mouth during a staff meeting: “Alright, people, I’ve been looking at some bottom line figures here and at the end of the day, we’re just not thinking outside the box. So on a go-forward basis I’m going to need you to go ahead and touch base with your brokers and pull the trigger on some new deals. Switching gears for a moment, someone’s taking pens again from the supply closet. And folks, that dog just won’t hunt. So on a go-forward basis, you’ll need to go ahead and go through Terri to get your office supplies, mmkay?”

That’s “Terri” as in Terri Flint, the Underwriting Assistant whose desk was just over a shared cubicle wall from mine during most of my tenure there. And Terri played her radio incessantly set to a soft-rock station whose playlist seemed to be drawn from a catalog of songs that would be guaranteed to make me drive letter openers into my earholes. Most memorably, though: Terri loved the Titanic theme, “My Heart Will Go On,” sung by Celine Dion, aka the Trilling Canadian She-Demon And Inflictor Of Auditory Pain Whose Oeuvre Is An Affront to Good Music Everywhere. And when that song, that #$*&%ing song, would come on…as soon as she heard those ethereal first few notes from some kind of Celtic flute…Terri would turn in up. I mean, she would crank it! “Every night in my dreams / I see you / I feeeeel you / That is how I know you go onnnnnnnn.” And on, and on, several times a day, ad nauseam, till we all puke.

There was, of course, a diverse cast of characters who worked at AIG, and among others (big ups to Tondra!) I found a kindred spirit in a guy named Eric Barnes. One day we were talking about the fact that I was collecting View-Master viewers and reels at the time, and he said he hadn’t seen them in a long while. So I brought in a couple of viewers and some reels, and at lunchtime, we went into the file room, pointed our viewers toward the fluorescent lights and transported ourselves back to our childhoods. At some point, Terri walked in and was greeted with this scene: two grown, bearded men in shirts and ties, lying flat on their backs, looking through View-Master viewers and gasping “Wow!” and “Oo!” like a couple of ten-year-old boys. Later I overheard her on the phone with a friend saying, “I mean, I can’t [bloody well] believe that these two [tossers] have time to sit in the [bleedin’] file room [buggering] around while I’m out here with a stack of work! [Bollocks]! They should be [bleedin’] [sacked]!” I’ve cleaned up Terri’s potty-mouthed, Northeast-Philly-inflected dialogue a bit by substituting some British profanity and slang, which somehow seem more genteel…

Perhaps the most unforgettable and haunting episode from my tenure at AIG involved my second boss (Frank Castro’s successor), Chris. He was both less intense and less overtly full-of-malarkey than Frank had been, but otherwise nothing much changed in the way we did our jobs. Soon we learned that he, too, was leaving; he would begin working in the Chicago office in a week. As a result, Chris was something of a lame duck, and I harbored the conviction that he was inappropriately heaping work upon the assistants to tie up loose ends before he left. Several days before his departure, he sent an email to Terri and me that included a litany of relatively small but annoying projects he wanted done ASAP, on top of the everyday responsibilities of our positions. I was unreservedly fed up, so I forwarded the email to Terri and said as much. My missive was an unbridled venting of my frustrations stemming from the fact that I felt Chris was taking advantage of us, and that he should do his own [bloody] work, and where does he get off heaping all this work on us at the last minute, yada, yada, yada.

A minute or two later, I bebopped over the Terri’s cubicle and said, “Didya get my email?” She said, “No.” I said, “Hmm,” and went over to my computer. Yep, there was my message, and it says it was sent, so I don’t understand OH MY GOD I HIT REPLY INSTEAD OF FORWARD OH MY GOD [BUGGER] [WANK] [BLOODY HELL]!!!!!

Friends, I had sent the email I described above right to the man whom I was maligning in it. I considered collapsing but wasn’t sure what that would accomplish. I tried to “recover” the email (cancel its delivery) but that seldom worked, and did not seem to in this case. I ran over and told Terri breathlessly what I had done. “Oh, no,” she said. For this was really so bad that it was beyond what could be alleviated by profanity. She had the idea to run into his office and delete the email from his computer, because she thought he was not there. I staggered into the bathroom and tried to figure out a way to become invisible. Perspiration, which is seldom in short supply on my body, began to issue forth is streams and rivulets beginning at my temples and ending in my shoes. I looked in the mirror and actually said, “This is all just a dream,” because one time when I was little, during a nightmare I shouted, “This is a dream!” and woke up straight away. But this time, I was still looking in the mirror at my hopeless visage, sweating profusely, trembling and wondering if I would soon be out of a job.

I mustered the resolve to return to my desk after what seemed like 15 minutes, but was probably only about two. “Glen?” came Chris’s voice from within his office. “Can you come in here?” My stomach did a somersault and I flushed a deeper crimson than the devil’s arsehole. I went in.

Chris, to his credit, was calm in his approach. “If you have a problem with the way I’m doing my job, you need to come to me directly about it,” and so on. He evidently had deduced that he was not the intended recipient of my smart-alecky email. “Yes, you’re right. That shouldn’t have happened,” I said. Now, folks, Monsoon don’t scare. And it’s not often that Monsoon will back down from a challenge or disagreement. But shucks, I just plum had no excuse. My actions were inappropriate, ill-advised, and though unintentional, they were ultimately indefensible. I left his office relieved at having made it through the meeting with my job—if not my dignity—intact.

[ 1700 Market Street , home of AIG toward the end of my tenure.]

Not long after the email debacle, Mrs. Monsoon and I decided to relocate to Lancaster County to pursue more meaningful career opportunities and enjoy a more tranquil lifestyle. As I noted earlier, I spent a bit of time pinballing around from one short-term temp job to another. In late 1998, however, I got my big break. I was called to Precision Medical Products in Denver to be trained as a replacement for Mary, their receptionist, who was just weeks away from delivering a child and beginning her maternity leave. Precision Medical was a fairly new company when I came to work there, having been formed in 1997 after a break with Reading’s Arrow International. To their credit, the executives at this smallish medical supplies manufacturer were more open-minded than Alpha Boss at the pretzel factory, and were persuaded that everything would be just fine with (in all likelihood) the only male receptionist in Lancaster County.

Mary left, and gave birth, and never came back. The job was mine until I left in early 2000 to pursue my teaching certification.

What can I say about this experience? It was one of the more pleasant work environments of which I’ve ever been a part. I sometimes worked back in the shipping and receiving department with one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, Steve Nelson. Lou Menga, the materials manager, was (and still is) a musician who puts out a Christmas album every year. My boss, Tom Kubacki (“TK”) was hands-down the best boss I have ever had—laidback, fun to chat with, and seriously kind. Of course, there were the interminable PowerPoint presentations in the meeting room about meeting ISO 9000 certification standards. But over all—divine. And by all accounts, I made a perfectly lovely receptionist (“Good morning, Precision Medical!”).

Incidentally, PMP is the “birthplace” of Monsoon Martin, so to speak. In my position at the front desk I had a clear view of the outside world, while many of the company’s workers—particularly those at interior cubicles and the hourly workers in the plant—could not see outside. When it rained, therefore, I felt it was appropriate to make an announcement over the “page all” function; after all, as the receptionist, I lorded over the company’s entire telecommunications system. “This is your receptionist. It is raining. Those of you who left your windows down this morning may want to sprint out and roll them up. Thank you.” Since this was the beginning of Glenn “Hurricane” Schwartz’s heyday (he began at NBC-10 in 1995) and my interest in the field of meteorology was piquing, a co-worker bestowed upon me the name "Monsoon Martin."  Damned if it hasn't stuck.

[The approach of an actual monsoon, in southern Asia]

[Wrestling Legend Robert Otto “Gorilla Monsoon” Marella]

After a whirlwind tour of the joys of education, I was awarded a secondary English teaching certificate by the state of Pennsylvania in December 2000. By the beginning of January 2001, I landed a position as a long-term substitute at a Berks County middle school that shall remain nameless. By the end of January, I had nearly lost my ever-loving mind and abandoned the profession altogether.

On my first day, the principal had the look of a man who had bad news to impart—but was trying to project an optimistic attitude—as he described the job to me. For medical reasons, the school’s half-time art teacher would be unable to return to work for at least another month. Since I was not (am not, could not possibly become) art certified, I would only be able to serve in this capacity for roughly four weeks. In the mornings I would teach art; in the afternoons I would cover whatever classes needed to be covered in the rest of the school. This is going to be interesting, I thought, but manageable.

Having apparently glimpsed the look of cautious but optimistic confidence on my face, the principal led me upstairs to a small supply closet. When he opened the door, I swear he fixed on my expression with an almost morbid anticipation—the sort of thrill you feel when you’ve handed your rancid sandwich to your friend with the words, “Taste this; it’s horrible,” and he’s about to take a bite.

In the closet, my good people, was a Frankenstinian monstrosity that sends chills down my spine, lo these nearly six years later. It was a green, three-tiered utility cart piled impossibly with what appeared to be a metric ton of art paraphernalia, the summit of which was well above my head. Slack-jawed, I took it all in for a moment: bins of colored pencils, markers, and paints; scissors, rulers, glue, brushes, paper and Styrofoam plates, and small plastic bowls; handouts, folders, library books, mat boards, manila file folders, composition paper, construction paper, and art paper of varying sizes; charcoal pencils, erasers, clay, unidentified ceramics projects (and fragments thereof). All was stacked precariously in once-piles on crooked, collapsing shelves.

[Since I couldn’t find a picture that would do justice to the Frankencart with which I was faced, I need you to join me in a little visualization. Imagine that everything you see in the art supply store above was blown off the shelves by a tornado measuring F2 on the Fujita scale. Then imagine that it was picked up by a monkey on crack and put onto a cart somewhat taller than the one below. And there you have it.]

I saw what looked to be a lesson plan among the arty detritus and pulled it off the cart, causing a minor avalanche of paint tubes, worksheets and rulers. I looked at the principal. He looked away—I’d like to think because he was feeling badly about what he was getting me into, but quite honestly he could have been stifling a laugh. Since the reality of the situation was just beginning to set in, I was not yet in the proper frame of mind to be able to find the humor in this nascent fiasco.

When I asked where I would be teaching, the principal looked positively forlorn, but—more determined than ever to present this as if it was all very reasonable and normal—he led me down a long hallway and into the cafeteria. Before I could fully comprehend what he was telling me, he said that each morning I would wheel the aforementioned cart into the cafeteria, teach art in there, and then scoot out prior to the beginning of lunch. It was, in short, “art on a cart.” In a flash he was gone—perhaps in an effort to thwart any second thoughts I might have in accepting this post. I recall having the impulse to run, not because of something I’d done wrong (as in the AIG email ignominy), but because of a wrong that was about to be done to me.

[Not the actual scene of my art-ventures, but a close enough representation, except that my venue had poorer lighting.]

Reader, to say that I did not thrive under such circumstances would be an appalling understatement. You see, I am an orderly person. Some might say I am an obsessively neat person. Some may say anal retentive. Some may refuse to mince words and insist that I am an incurable fussypants. But yes—I like a clean environment in which to live and work. Filth gives me the sweats; askew piles give me hives. When I have work or grading to do, I would much rather do it right away than have it sit on my desk, looming as items on a “to do” list in my head, or sometimes, written down. When I watch “Monk” on USA, I am not only amused by him; I understand him. I feel what makes him tick.

So: wheeling an unstable cart filled with utterly disorganized art materials into a cafeteria each morning, then having middle schoolers create art—under my tutelage!—and then having to clean it up and load up the cart and swing it back down the hall and into the closet…too much.

I soon learned that even under ideal circumstances, I was not cut out to teach middle schoolers. I had several sections of rammy (and unimaginably tiny!) sixth graders; a section of utterly delinquent seventh graders; and a couple of classes of eighth graders who were, by and large, really quite nice. Among the class notes I took as I tried to manage this three-ring circus:

The first project I undertook with my sixth grade students was to have them use 11x14 oak tag paper and acrylic paints to produce “fishy color wheels.” I handed out paintbrushes and paints; Styrofoam plates on which students could mix colors; small dishes to wash out their brushes; and sheets of oak tag so that they could make color wheels that formed the body of great, rotund fishes. When they finished painting each other and the cafeteria tables (and sometimes the actual paper), they had to take their plates and dishes to the bathroom—on the other side of the cafeteria—and wash them out.

To use an intentional pun, allow me to paint a picture of the end of a typical one of these classes. Students were dismissed one table at a time to the bathrooms to begin cleanup. Other groups would scour and scrub their tables and immediate areas. I would hear bangs and shouts from the lavatories and have to dash over there to quell an inevitable disturbance. Finally the closing bell would ring and they would adjourn from my presence. In a sort of shell-shocked catatonia, I’d scan the lunch room as if surveying the destruction wrought by some unmerciful, uncontainable, and frenzied force of nature. The paint on the cafeteria tables was smeared, rather than cleaned off. The floor in the area where we held class, and leading to the bathrooms, was dotted with paint droppings of all conceivable hues.

Oh, the hues! The hues. When I recall this experience, I still shudder involuntarily when I think about the paint drippings, and the rainbow of droplets that were to be found everywhere after a class. I’m feeling a tad dizzy. Allow me to pause for a moment and visit my happy place…

Under my artless tutelage, the “fishy color wheels” were a disaster. The kids hated it, I hated them, and the janitors and cafeteria workers hated me for the mess that was left. From then on, I undertook only projects that used tidier materials—using charcoal and colored pencils to draw value scales, for example; or an overly ambitious, ill-advised (and far too abstract for sixth graders) project I called “Draw the Poem.”

The experience had a bit of a silver lining: I gained a new and profound appreciation for the work Mrs. Monsoon does each day as an art teacher. Hers is a world of constant cries for assistance, perpetually not-quite-completed projects, stained smocks, sticky hands, exploding plaster, yarn off its spool, beads spilling all over the place, paint and clay and ceramic dust and art supplies scattered hither and yon. It’s far more than I could ever cope with, and she does it with aplomb.

All in all, I learned a lot about myself and my career propensities as a result of my many jobs:

And so—friends, family, colleagues—I have landed at Governor Mifflin High School, where I have taught for five years. With a few outstanding exceptions, this line of work conforms to the career prerequisites I have laid out above after watching myself bumble, loaf, shuffle, argue, flounder, protest, fritter, try, and fail (and, on rare occasions, succeed) my way through more than a decade of labor experiences.

Thank you for accompanying me on my journey…

Monsoon

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