I believe it is understood that bullies choose their victims (pick their mark) rather skilfully. Whether consciously or by instinct they seem to have an uncanny knack for not getting their heads kicked in.
This case was a strange one indeed; made even more unique by how I guessed the underlying mechanics correctly. I am always curious about people’s motivations and behaviour, but picking one correctly and receiving such a quick validation is almost unheard of.
I’ll keep things vague to avoid unnecessary drama with ex-employers. At this job there was the usual dilemma of cost versus service. Customers paid extra for products to be individually packaged. Trouble was that we often ran short of equipment and or space to accomplish this task without leaving stuff behind.
The solution? If it looks like everything is not going to fit separately, intermingling is okay. Disregard the fact that the customer is paying for premium service, we need to ensure we complete all the orders.
“Won’t that result in a sub-standard service?”
“That’s not your concern. We cannot allow things to back-up. The customers do not like delays.”
“So, if we are worried about the customer, do we separate or intermingle?”
“Yes”
“What?”
“Separate as much as you can; if you cannot complete all of the orders, go ahead and mix them.”
“There’s no way of knowing the quantities at the set-up stage. Any alterations will need to be done post-hoc, resulting in double-handling and a last-minute rush.”
“Do the best you can.”
“Clear as mud.”
So, we bungled our way through each day trying to pre-empt the required individual/co-mingled ratio, with mediocre success. Usually resulting in a rushed mishmash before the final whistle. Random implications from supervisors about either our efficiency, or failure in the division duty, fuelling our frustration. Any request for clearer instructions was met with more wishy-washy bullshit.
“All products must be segregated, but if you run out of room you should go ahead and mix them.”
“FUCK!!!”
During this period, the main workers in this section were me and Sonny. I was a scrawny alcoholic stalwart with limited knowledge about union influence. Sonny was a hardworking Tongan tank with hands like baseball mitts and the strength of an ox. He was a cheerful sort of chap, and we got along well.
I remember him laughing when I tried putting a sentence together is his language. He said, “now I know what I sound like when I speak English”. Trust me, his English was better than my Tongan would ever be.
I remember him laughing when I tried putting a sentence together is his language. He said, “now I know what I sound like when I speak English”. Trust me, his English was better than my Tongan would ever be.
One day we were going about our usual duties. We had a kind of system for dealing with the whole “keep them separate, but if you have to, mix them up, but try to keep them separate” absurdity. Certain destinations were much busier than others, so if we knew we were running short on space, they would be the first to get mixed.
I didn’t see the interaction, but I noticed Sonny was in a foul mood. I asked him what was up and he pointed to our supervisor, Tom. He was a chubby little man with thick glasses and zero people skills. One of those weaselly characters who kept his job by kissing ass and blaming anyone else for his mistakes. Not a nice bloke by any stretch of the imagination.
Sonny told me that Tom had approached him and snarked, “I’m sick of you guys always fucking mixing this stuff up. You’ve been told to keep them separate.”
Just hearing that had my anger rising. Fucking little skunk! Sonny knew it was a sly dig and explained to me in his broken English how he was fucken sick of the way management wanted to have things both ways by giving contradictory instructions. They turn a blind eye to substandard practice to ensure all orders go out; yet reserve the right to insist on the premium one if they look like being busted. It was blatant palm-off of responsibility.
Sonny was well aware that this pissweak little parlungi had disrespected him with his smart-ass dig and he was fighting the urge to crush Tom’s fucken skull like an orange; something he would have very little difficulty doing.
Now I know that Tom was counting on Sonny not wanting to lose his job to prevent the facial rearranging he deserved for such a slimy play. I also know that like all bullies he desperately needed to feel any sense of power he could get just to feel like less of a coward. What I struggled with was why he would take the risk with Sonny when my puny ass was just as available.
This pissy power-play was obviously based on something other than brute strength. That insipid fucken scumbag had to think he had some kind of joker up his sleeve. What threat could I possibly offer that trumps Sonny’s brute strength?
English! The ability to communicate with confidence. That little runt was using Sonny’s timidness toward his second language as a weapon – fucking grub!
I called Joe, our union delegate and explained the utter disrespect. I also warned him that Tom would very probably try to use “Sonny misunderstood me” as his excuse. Joe went and spoke to Tom and when he returned, he was giggling. He told us, “He said those exact fucken words! Sonny must have misunderstood what I said…” – piece of shit!
Joe told him to cut the crap and made it clear that Sonny, himself and I all fully comprehended what he was saying and that we did not appreciate it. Not exactly a great comeuppance, but at least he got pulled up, and we got a laugh out of it. Sonny enjoyed asking anyone who knew the story, “do you think I don’t understand?”
I suppose the insult didn’t hit him so hard because he knew he could have swatted Tom like a fly. Though I’m sure it irritated him that someone could be that much of an asshole. We eventually got the whole “make them odd, but even and left, but keep them right” headache sorted and that’s another story of its own.
Standover merchants and pretend tough guys were nothing new for this industry, but this was a unique twist on the bullying repertoire for me. Tom showed me that a weasel can be very creative when trying to make themselves feel like a wolf. Again, I don’t know how much of this is conscious and you certainly can’t trust a mutt to speak sincerely. I am constantly amazed at their ability to avoid the righteous fucking flogging they so desperately deserve.
If they are foiled, as in this case, they plead innocent, ignorant or employ any deception necessary to avoid admitting they just got caught trying it on. On the extremely rare occasion where they do get called out, in my experience, I am yet to see one take up the gauntlet. They usually slither away with great haste.
I have quite a few of tales of these gutless goons. Stay tuned.
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