My Way or The Hallway
In the comments section following the other day's post about living like you're 23, a couple of people mentioned The Hallway. As I thought about it, I decided that maybe The Hallway deserves its own post.
Since I no longer work there, I guess I can talk about my old job for a minute. I will make it quick. When I moved back to NYC in '93, I took a position in the Operations Department of a fledgling cable TV network. I was 24 years old, a few months removed from the Wisconsin Trayline, and I had no idea what the fuck. A bunch of us young kids came in around the same time -- cW, MDGBC, inxe, later mrsmal and BJL and Joe M and Mrs. M, among others -- we knew nothing and we cared little. We were warm bodies; the bosses understood it and we understood it and that was just fine with everybody. It was cheaper than hiring pros.
As I mentioned, the network was fledgling. Now I don't know how long a business is legally entitled to remain in the "fledgling" stage, but this place seemed to fledge a lot longer than most. I could share any of a number of stories about the Wild West atmosphere that prevailed there-- the animal porn watching, the drunken stumbling in, the jerking off in the green room, the jerking off naked in master control, the fart lighting, the urine mooching, the urine storing, the armpit licking, the crack baby under the desk hiding, the porn airing, the hidden camera spying, the FBI interviewing, the blind gay dog wrangling, the disgruntled mystery employee emailing, the cameraman incarcerating, the chest cigarette butt extinguishing, the underage internet romance gossiping, the President's bare ass shuffling from bathroom stall to bathroom stall while coins came tumbling out of his trousers, enraging him, the politician's wife diarrheaing, the drunken office party reveling, the America's Most Wanted fugitive-hiring, the control room SWAT team storming, and the 162 other things that I'd kind of like to share.
But I won't, for a couple of reasons:
1) Oftentimes, those stories are most amusing only to those who were there.
2) If I am going to reveal all the details and shatter the friendships that would go along with doing so, I would prefer to do it when I finally get around to writing an actual book on the subject and getting paid $18,000 for it, not in a half-assed blogpost read by 8 people.
So for now let's just talk about The Hallway.
The Hallway refers, somewhat unsurprisingly, to a hallway within our office. The hallway that led to the studio where we taped our humble television programs. It was probably the most high-profile hallway in the place, because whenever any big shots came in they'd want to check out the studio.
By maybe 1995, the Inaugural Class of Young Douchebags, including me, had been there a couple of years and had been promoted to slightly better jobs for no other reason than we showed up for work every day and didn't steal more than the difference between what they were paying us and what they'd have to pay people who knew what they were doing.
My job title was Operations Manager. My responsibilities included calling people when things went wrong, looking worried, and much to my dismay, keeping The Hallway clean. Unfortunately, because The Hallway was big and centrally located, it became a dumping ground for all sorts of shit: tapes, props, old water cooler bottles, cardboard boxes full of paperwork, books, and general smegma.
My Boss would constantly ask me about The Hallway.
"Hans," she'd say. "Let's take a walk."
And we'd walk the length of The Hallway together. She'd point out every piece of debris and say stuff like, "You need to talk to Wendy about that grandfather clock" or "Didn't we decide last week that you were going to go through those boxes of tapes and decide which ones could be degaussed?" or "Is that human feces?"
And nothing would ever happen. I'd never clean The Hallway. I'd pick up a box here or a roll of gaffer's tape there, but I'd never make a real dent. The problem would linger. I would feel bad, really I would. And my boss would gently scold me, but she'd never push it.
And looking back now, I understand that we had a certain unspoken agreement about The Hallway. She could do her job, imploring me to do mine. And I could listen and nod, and promise to fix it, which would make her feel better. But they simply weren't paying me enough, nor did I care enough, nor did it matter enough in an intergalactic sense, for me to actually do anything about it. They were just paying me enough to say I would.
The Hallway never got clean. We moved out of that building in 1999. I bet there is still a jug o' piss sitting there.
Somehow I thought I'd have more to say about The Hallway.
Going apple picking on Saturday. How many apples will we return with? Closest guess gets 13 GP's.
Since I no longer work there, I guess I can talk about my old job for a minute. I will make it quick. When I moved back to NYC in '93, I took a position in the Operations Department of a fledgling cable TV network. I was 24 years old, a few months removed from the Wisconsin Trayline, and I had no idea what the fuck. A bunch of us young kids came in around the same time -- cW, MDGBC, inxe, later mrsmal and BJL and Joe M and Mrs. M, among others -- we knew nothing and we cared little. We were warm bodies; the bosses understood it and we understood it and that was just fine with everybody. It was cheaper than hiring pros.
As I mentioned, the network was fledgling. Now I don't know how long a business is legally entitled to remain in the "fledgling" stage, but this place seemed to fledge a lot longer than most. I could share any of a number of stories about the Wild West atmosphere that prevailed there-- the animal porn watching, the drunken stumbling in, the jerking off in the green room, the jerking off naked in master control, the fart lighting, the urine mooching, the urine storing, the armpit licking, the crack baby under the desk hiding, the porn airing, the hidden camera spying, the FBI interviewing, the blind gay dog wrangling, the disgruntled mystery employee emailing, the cameraman incarcerating, the chest cigarette butt extinguishing, the underage internet romance gossiping, the President's bare ass shuffling from bathroom stall to bathroom stall while coins came tumbling out of his trousers, enraging him, the politician's wife diarrheaing, the drunken office party reveling, the America's Most Wanted fugitive-hiring, the control room SWAT team storming, and the 162 other things that I'd kind of like to share.
But I won't, for a couple of reasons:
1) Oftentimes, those stories are most amusing only to those who were there.
2) If I am going to reveal all the details and shatter the friendships that would go along with doing so, I would prefer to do it when I finally get around to writing an actual book on the subject and getting paid $18,000 for it, not in a half-assed blogpost read by 8 people.
So for now let's just talk about The Hallway.
The Hallway refers, somewhat unsurprisingly, to a hallway within our office. The hallway that led to the studio where we taped our humble television programs. It was probably the most high-profile hallway in the place, because whenever any big shots came in they'd want to check out the studio.
By maybe 1995, the Inaugural Class of Young Douchebags, including me, had been there a couple of years and had been promoted to slightly better jobs for no other reason than we showed up for work every day and didn't steal more than the difference between what they were paying us and what they'd have to pay people who knew what they were doing.
My job title was Operations Manager. My responsibilities included calling people when things went wrong, looking worried, and much to my dismay, keeping The Hallway clean. Unfortunately, because The Hallway was big and centrally located, it became a dumping ground for all sorts of shit: tapes, props, old water cooler bottles, cardboard boxes full of paperwork, books, and general smegma.
My Boss would constantly ask me about The Hallway.
"Hans," she'd say. "Let's take a walk."
And we'd walk the length of The Hallway together. She'd point out every piece of debris and say stuff like, "You need to talk to Wendy about that grandfather clock" or "Didn't we decide last week that you were going to go through those boxes of tapes and decide which ones could be degaussed?" or "Is that human feces?"
And nothing would ever happen. I'd never clean The Hallway. I'd pick up a box here or a roll of gaffer's tape there, but I'd never make a real dent. The problem would linger. I would feel bad, really I would. And my boss would gently scold me, but she'd never push it.
And looking back now, I understand that we had a certain unspoken agreement about The Hallway. She could do her job, imploring me to do mine. And I could listen and nod, and promise to fix it, which would make her feel better. But they simply weren't paying me enough, nor did I care enough, nor did it matter enough in an intergalactic sense, for me to actually do anything about it. They were just paying me enough to say I would.
The Hallway never got clean. We moved out of that building in 1999. I bet there is still a jug o' piss sitting there.
Somehow I thought I'd have more to say about The Hallway.
Going apple picking on Saturday. How many apples will we return with? Closest guess gets 13 GP's.
posted by hans q. bungle at 00:22
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