Heavy Equipment

We had the 5 ton plows out this morning laying down another layer of salt and sand to cover the black ice that had formed overnight. Can't have the citizens risking their precious lives, slipping and sliding as they come with their once treasured items to toss into the huge collective dustbin that we call the Recycling and Dosposal Facility, but which most people call "the dump".

I guess it is human nature touse high falootin terms when our identities are involved. No one wants to be called a dumpfuck, garbageman, or even trashdude. Even Lardass, who justifiably has few pretensions, seems to feel an odd sense of empowerment in his title of Disposal Specialist III.

As the Manager (DFM) I have tried to encourage an esprit de corps among the men and women who work here. Well, there used to be women, before the guidlines on sexual harrassment made normal co-ed workplace fooling-around into a crime. I think it is important for the workers to have a high level of self esteem. This engenders a sense of quality and teamwork in them that you don't find in the normal white collar office job.

Most office drones spend their days in small cubicles, sitting in front of a heartless computer screen. Heavy equipment to these geeks is trying to clear a jam in the copier. Figuring out how the fax machine works. Getting their personal data off the printer before the boss sees how they have wasted company time. Or, maybe they array themselves around the stuffy conference room table thinking about their nagging rectal itch while the Ego-in-charge holds court with his tedious Powerpoint slide show. If they are sitting next to an attractive young woman, they sneak glances at her tits. They hear the sound of cloth on nylon as she crosses her long slim legs. They start fantasizing about the soft supple tits, the legs, the thighs, the...well, you get the idea: meetings can be a bore and a distraction at the same time.

At the dump, we don't have any conference rooms. Although we have hundreds of copiers, fax machines and printers, none of them work. The only females in our workspace are the desparate housewives who live in the community, and of course the stripper-hookers who we call-in from time to time for stag parties and birthdays.

I give the guys a lot of latitude in the performance of their day to day jobs. I do not believe in micromanaging. I expect a high degree of personal accountability and pride in one's work. Heck, if you cannot trust the guy running a 12 ton front end loader to know what he is doing, you have big problems.

So it was that I was sitting at my desk in the cobb house this morning, musing on the nature of work, the benefits of instilling a sense of personal accountability in the Team and the goal of Total Quality, when I heard a terrific crash outside. I jumped up and rushed outside.

Lardass was standing next to his bulldozer which had rammed a citizen's brand new Hummer from behind. The Hummer had lost in the exchange, and looked like a metal turtle with a hunched back. The driver - a nerdy looking geek dressed in office casual - was waving his arms wound frantically and shouting obscenities at poor LA.
"This fucking car cost me $70,000! What are you gonna do about this - you asshole dumpfuck bastards!"
I looked around the lot. There were no other customers in the area. I had to move quickly.
"Sir, I know you are upset, but why don't you come with me and we can settle this, er accident, without calling names."
"Look. Do you know who I am?" I had to admit that I did not recognize him.
"Sir, I see that you do not have a dump sticker. Please come with me." I was firm.
"No! I want this this creature fired and , and..." He stopped mid-sentence when I pulled out my Walther P-32 pistol and aimed it at his forehead. Then he started in again, "What the fuck is that thing for? Rats? What are you gonna do, shoot me?"
"Yes." I pulled the trigger. He was dead as a doornail when he hit the pavement. "Come on, LA get him back into the Hummer and get this thing over to the crusher ASAP." Lardass was already moving. After years of teamwork, we had this drill down fairly smoothly. As I spread aabsorbant over the pool of blood on the pavement, I vaguely wondered about the origin of the expression "dead as a doornail." Another mystery to add to my collection.

Later, Lardass came into the office for coffee break. I was doing the next quarter's fiscal budget on the PC.
"Everything taken care of?" I inquired.
"Yep. Problem e-fucking-radicated." He smiled with the pride of a job well done.
"Good. You deserve an extra donut today. Help yourself. " I nodded to the table where I had laid out a half dozen Krispy Kremes. Some days, a manager can't find enough ways to say thanks.