Managers, Fridges, And Cats, Oh My!

, , , , , | Working | June 16, 2017

(I work for the Manager-from-Hell, in a service department for a firm that sells and maintained industrial fridges/freezers, cooker ranges, massive toasters, etc. The service department is arranged so that the three administrators (I and two others) divide up the customers between us. Some of our customers only have the one walk-in freezer or industrial toaster, so their livelihood is affected if we don’t get out there and fix the problems. Our manager loves himself so much, always sees himself as ‘in’ with the directors, and is always a bit too fast to jump at you for mistakes.)

Manager: “[My Name]! You know what you’ve done? We’re going to lose this customer because of you! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH CRAP THE MANAGING DIRECTOR JUST GAVE ME BECAUSE OF YOU? WELL, DO YOU?!”

Me: *getting flustered, because I haven’t been there long and it is hot in that office* “What’s the customer’s name? I’ll get the paperwork out and see what’s—”

Manager: “Never MIND what the customer’s called! You know D*** WELL know what they’re called! You spoke to them twice today, so don’t give me that!”

(This ‘conversation’ is taking place in full view and hearing of my colleagues, and the other offices go strangely quiet; they can hear him, too.)

Me: “[Manager], unless you tell me who it is, I can’t do anything about it, so—”

Manager: “GOD ALMIGHTY, [My Name], you’re just so d***ed useless! I don’t know why we took you on! Bloody useless!” *storms off to the MD’s office*

Me: *to the office in general* “Does anyone know who he’s talking about?”

(My colleagues just shrug, so we get back to work. But now I’m getting angry, and wondering if I’ve taken a problem job. Ten minutes later, the manager asks me to come into the kitchen; he even asks in a nice, polite way. When we get there, he closes the door after us, smiles and says:)

Manager: “[My Name], I’m really sorry for shouting at you like that. The mistake wasn’t yours; it was actually [Other Department]’s fault. It was them who’d talked to the client. I’m sorry for blaming you.”

Me: “Wow, thanks for the apology! But I won’t accept it until you come with me.” *takes him back to our office* “[Manager], would you mind repeating what you said in the kitchen, please?”

Manager: “Really, [My Name]? You’re going to make me embarrass myself?” *gives a jolly hahaho – an obviously fake laugh*

Me: “Yes, [Manager]. I think it’s only right, seeing as you ripped a piece off me without any idea what was going on. ‘New girl gets the blame.’ Is that your style? Anyway, who was the customer?”

Manager: “It was one of [Coworker]’s accounts. Sorry.”

(So, he did apologise — mechanically and monotonously, but he did. That was the first run-in I had with him, and I had many more in the three years I was there. The only reason I was there so long is that I promised myself I’d see him gone before I did. We absolutely hated each other’s guts. When he left, I handed in my notice. I got a better revenge, though. He insisted on giving me a lift home one night in his new car, to show off. I accepted, seeing as it was pouring down. When we got there, he asked if my husband was in (for more bragging), so I took him into the flat. Our little cat was having a bit of a bad tummy reaction to a cat food I’d given her, and she also liked to sit on strangers’ laps. She bounced up onto my manager’s lap, curled up, fell asleep and then farted the smelliest fart I’d ever smelled her do. It was gross, and I loved it a lot. The manager’s face was a picture. Perfect timing, Fuzzball!)

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