OFF THE PAGE with Raymond Atkins

Beware the Ides of March

By the time you read this I will have retired from fulltime employment. Yes, after 57 years of slaving over a hot salt mine, I have stepped aside to make room for the next generations because to hear them tell it, I’ve been holding them back long enough. So now I am retired. Well, there is one codicil to that. When I told Mandy that I was hanging it up, her attorneys came to my house in the dark of night to invoke in person theAw Hell No clause of my contract. I awoke, and there they stood, serious-looking angular men in black suits with narrow lapels. We conferred, and apparently, “in perpetuity” means something different than I thought it did, which just goes to show that it is not the best of ideas to let the boys down at the barber shop look over your legal documents before you sign them. So, I must write these columns from now on, and you must read these columns from now on. We are in this together.

Also, and I can’t stress this enough, never confer with serious-looking angular men in black suits and narrow lapels while you are wearing only boxer shorts. The dynamics of the exchange are such that you are at an automatic disadvantage, and the negotiations are likely to get away from you.

During my long years in the workforce I have pursued a variety of endeavors, some because I wanted to and others because I needed the job, including, in no particular order, grass cutter, snow shoveller, factory worker, truck driver, gas pumper, mill worker, mechanic, farm worker, car salesman, supervisor, vice-president, sawmiller, writer, professor, carpenter, contractor, entrepreneur, and antiques dealer. Some of these jobs were fun, and some of them definitely were not, but they all had one thing in common. Payday.

The old saying goes that the only three things you can’t get around are death, taxes, and bad jobs. Okay, I just threw that last one in there, because everyone you talk to thinks they have had the world’s worst job at one time or another, and also because I needed a setup so I could move this thing in the direction I wanted to head. Anyway, there is no doubt that some people have had some doozies. I know a guy who used to repossess widescreen rental televisions at night. That’s a bad job. And I know another person who was the dead-chicken burner at the poultry farm. Again, that’s a bad job. But what really gets me is the people who think they have had it rough in the workaday world, but who in actual fact wouldn’t know a crummy job if you ran over their feet with a dump truck full of them. You know the ones I’m talking about. Oh, we also need to add dump-trucker to that list up there. Sorry. I forgot.

These clueless folks have to take some personal time after they chip a nail at the company fruit and yogurt bar. They file a grievance when the canteen is out of whole cream for the coffee and they have to use Coffee Mate instead. They must take a moment to gather themselves when someone parks in their spot next to the building and they subsequently find themselves walking all the way in from the parking deck.

I don’t like to brag, but I have had my share of horrible jobs. Ironically, though, the worst time I ever had at work happened while I was performing a task I didn’t mind doing at all. As a matter of fact, I kind of liked it, and if it hadn’t been for the unfortunate set of circumstances that led up to the Attack of the Rogue Twinkies, I might have just stayed put.

First off, they weren’t really Twinkies; they were a competitor’s version of the iconic creme-filled sponge fingers. I worked at a commercial bakery that made a gajillion of the things every day, and my job was to drive a switch tractor, which was a small truck of the tractortrailer variety. I spent my days backing empty trailers up to the loading dock and pulling out trailers brimming with Twinkies.Alas, it was that “brimming” part that got me. For those of you who don’t know, Twinkies pack out at twenty-four cakes to the box, eight boxes to the tray, forty trays to the rolling rack, and thirty-five rolling racks to the trailer. That works out to exactly 268,800 Twinkies per trailer, which is a lot of cake, and which is a number you’ll want to keep handy.

There I was on that fine fall day, switching trailers like the true professional I was, young and in my prime with all the days of the world before me, bringing creme-filled snack cakes to the masses. Life was good. Then I got a call on the two-way radio informing me that trailer number 1068 was loaded and should be pulled to the staging area. So, I whipped my little switch tractor around, backed up and attached to trailer number 1086, hooked up my lights and air hoses, and headed for the staging area two miles up the highway.

Yes, I said, “trailer number 1086,” and no, that’s not a typo.

I had grabbed the wrong trailer, and even though it, too, was full of Twinkies, the load was not secured. So, as I headed up the highway, a full rack of Twinkies was rolling out of the open back door of the trailer at the rate of approximately one every five seconds. As I drove, I looked to my left at the loading area. Every vacant door was raised, and all manner of co-workers and supervisors were waving, pointing, and hollering at me. Being the friendly sort, I waved, pointed, hollered back, and kept driving up that slightly inclined stretch of US 11, spitting out rack after rack of Twinkies like they were some kind of high calorie contrail. Then I looked in my rear view mirror, and the world as I knew it changed for the worse.

North Alabama was covered in sponge cake, and I slammed on the brakes just as the last rack rolled out of the trailer onto the asphalt, as if to punctuate the whole unfortunate episode. In the aftermath of the tragedy, even allowing for the dozens of boxes I slipped to kids in passing cars, I still spent about a week picking up, dusting off, and reloading 268,800 Twinkies, which was not as much fun as it sounds. At one point during the ordeal, I asked my boss why he didn’t just fire me, and his reply was that he wanted me to suffer. By the time I finished, I had developed an aversion to snack cakes and a sense of perspective.

Although this incident happened early in my work life—I guess I was 22 or 23—the lessons it taught served me well for the rest of my time in employment. I learned to always check the numbers (I also learned I was dyslexic). I learned to be sure the trailer was ready. I learned to pay attention to what I was doing. I learned how to get fired with grace because after the boss had made me suffer enough, he did. I learned that when you give out boxes of Twinkies to all the kids you know, you become very popular in the extended family. I learned how to write an extended metaphor, and if you get it you are my people.

Oh man! I forgot another one! We need to add poet to the list up there! I’ll see y’all next month.