Still Hating My Job

Sigh ...

I was talking to myself in the car as I drove home this evening. "I'm not happy at work these days and I'm not content and relaxed at home either. I go to work to get away from home and I go home to escape work. My Life has become stressful and unpredictable. I feel anxious and scared all the time. This sucks."

My behaviour at work this morning was shameful. I arrived in a foul mood, unhappy about having to spend the morning with Neil. Dan's been creating websites that discuss drugs and how to make and use them. And it's really cold outside. Just everything, you know? My temper flares and surprises even me.

Little Mo Carson approached me outside this morning as I strode from the parking lot toward the office. The snow crunched loudly under my work boots, and my hands, balled into tight fists, were stuffed deep in my pockets. I had an angry sort of "get-the-hell-out-of-my-way" look on my face.

"Hi Dale," she said, hurrying alongside. "Got a minute?"

I shook my head. "Not now please, Mo. I'm not feeling very friendly at the moment."

Maureen is an engineer like me. She's really nice. And she certainly understands how it feels when Life hurts. Her brother died a few years ago. Suicide. It hit Mo hard and she was off work a long time. I've told her a little of what's going on here and she's been sympathetic.

"It won't take long, Dale. Please. Stop for a second."

I stopped and turned to face her.

"What is it, Mo?" I asked.

She looked up at me and I watched as her breath left her mouth in steamy clouds creating a tiny patch of white frost in her brown hair.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

I closed my eyes for a moment before answering.

"Yes."

I meant no, Ms J. But I said yes.

"I thought I should warn you. You've got a rider with you this morning. A supervisor. Efficiency test. Have you got all your books and papers with you? Is your stuff all current and up to date?"

I wouldn't have thought it possible, but my heart sank. I had nothing. I had none of the required papers and forms and permits. No rule card. No medical card. No timetable or rule book. All I had with me was a black leather case which presumably held all of that stuff, but did in fact contain only a few packets of earplugs, some frozen chewing gum, and a small pillow, so I could nap on the way to Hamilton.

Now a supervisor was going to ask to see my papers. I was screwed! Under the new leadership, CN Rail management has become a cruel tyrant who punishes employees swiftly and severely for failure to obey the rules.

"Who, Mo?" I asked. "Who's riding with us?"

She told me and I cursed. It was a woman. A new, inexperienced supervisor, who happened to be a woman. A young woman.

You can hate me for saying this, Ms Journal, but the male chauvinist part of me, still hopelessly mired in the 1960's, REALLY doesn't like having a female for a boss. I don't like bosses of any kind, really. But a woman. And a woman who has no idea how to do my job, yet has the authority to discipline me for not doing it correctly.

I thought again of Neil's smirking face and self-righteous attitude, and a wave of nausea crested somewhere just above my sternum before receding back into my gut.

"I'm already dealing with one useless fuckwit, Mo," I said. "You know who I'm talking about."

Her eyes softened and she smiled sadly.

"I know, Dale. And I'm sorry. But this morning, you'll have two useless fuckwits. So make sure you've got all your stuff and make sure you do everything by the book."

"OK, Mo," I said. "Thanks for the heads-up."

I walked into the bright office, crowded with men, mostly. The railroad is still predominantly male-oriented. Traditionally, it's been a place for men. We could always curse and spit and scratch our balls if we wanted. We could tell off-colour jokes and piss outdoors if we wanted. But not now. Now there are a few women on the property. A few women; fewer ladies. Some of them are supervisors.

I looked around and found a bright orange safety vest and a pair of equally stupid-looking and unnecessary bug-eyed safety glasses: Required safetywear now, under the new regime.

Someone noticed my scowl and commented loud enough for everyone to hear.

"What's your problem, Doc? Why the long face?"

Someone else answered the question. It seemed everyone had heard.

"Efficiency test this morning. Are you getting your efficiency tested?"

Now everyone was noticing me. I felt angry and frightened and self-conscious. And when I opened my mouth, this came out:

"I'm getting my patience tested by a fucking bitch, that's what I'm getting."

It was so loud, it frightened even me. The room was suddenly silent.

"I beg your pardon?!!"

It was a woman's voice, Ms J. Another wave of nausea started moving upstream. I tried to remain calm and act cool as I headed for the door. The room erupted in laughter and I swallowed hard to keep the billious tide from rising further.

Outside again, I walked briskly through the yard out to the train. I inhaled deeply though my nose and felt my nose hairs freezing momentarily and sticking together. It was a familiar sensation and somehow comforting. My mind continued to whirl and gyrate.

"Who was that? Who said 'I beg your pardon?' Was it the supervisor who had come to test me? Oh Lord! Why did I say that? Why did I blurt it out like that? What if they suspend me? Or fire me?"

I waited an hour until we arrived at the Hamilton train station. I did not nap on the train as I have in the past. I could not. I was filled with more worry than ever now. No papers. No documents. A pillow in my work bag. And conduct unbecoming an employee. I thought of Dan. I thought of Meagan. How would I tell them I was fired? What would I do now? The ghastly spectres of Dread and Despair swirled about me, touching, teasing, torturing. It was horrible, Ms J! Horrible!

In Hamilton at last, I spoke with my conductor who confirmed that the supervisor had preceded me to the train. It couldn't have been her voice I heard in the office. I began, incrementally, to relax.

In the coffee shop, I sat, sipping from my mug, and watching the supervisor as she chatted amiably with Neil and the brakeman. Once in a while, she glanced my way and I smiled and nodded agreeably. She seemed nice enough. Innocuous, even. Young. Thirty, maybe. She was quite attractive, actually. She wore braces on her teeth and her manner of speaking was not unlike my daughter's. Her speech was littered with the word "like."

As it turned out, this young woman was no threat at all. She rode with us on the locomotive and Neil dazzled her with his horseshit all the way back to Toronto. Neil held her rapt attention so that she never even asked to see my papers. Truly, she seemed quite thrilled to be riding up in the locomotive.

"Try to get it up to eighty," she urged me, pointing excitedly to the speedometer. "I've never gone, like, eighty on a train before."

She was new. Naive. Still nice. She hadn't yet been forced to make tough decisions that would affect a man's livelihood. Her smile was benign.

This was a wake-up call, Ms Journal. I had better get my books and papers in order and I'd better start carrying them in my grip. Must I remove the pillow, forgo the nap? I should, probably. But I may not. I mean, if there's room in the leather case for books AND pillow ...

Well ....?