Managers

The Good, The Bad, and The Not So Pretty.

My abbreviated working life lasted only fifteen years before disability forced me to retire. During that time, I must have worked for eight different managers, some of whom were not memorable at all and thus fit into the Bad and Not So Pretty category. One, however, stood out because of his management style, which was unorthodox to say the least. I’ll call him Jack.

Those who had never worked for him feared Jack, who had a reputation of being a most difficult taskmaster. The opposite was true for those who had worked for him; they all spoke of him in glowing terms.

I was, at the time of this telling, one of three young guys who were electrical designers just finishing work on a soon to be completed project. Our manager called us into his office to tell us of our transfer the following week to a program that was in the initial stages. The contract was for three Boeing 707 flight simulators, one going to TWA, another to BOAC (British) and the third to Qantas (Australian). When we learned that Jack was the Program Manager, it struck a note of foreboding in the three of us.

Jack called us into his office on our very first day and said the following (I remember the words exactly): “I’m a son-of-a-bitch. I know it, everyone out there (gesturing to those already hard at work) knows it, and now you know it. If you do your work, we’ll get along just fine, but if you screw up, I’ll be all over you like a bad smell. Now go out and get to work.”  That was quite an introduction.

As time went on, we soon realized that there was actually a caring person under Jack’s gruff exterior. He would circulate through the working areas at least once a day to see how things were progressing, and would ask if we had everything that we needed or if there was anything holding us up. He turned out to be a great person for whom to work.

There was a time when everything was falling behind and we would have to work an extra twenty hours per week to get the simulators back on schedule. He put it to a vote asking if we wanted to work six 10-hour days, or three 8-hour days and three 12-hour days. The majority chose the former; the day would begin at 7AM and finish at 5:30PM.

I recall coming in a bit late one morning to find Jack sitting on my desk waiting for me. “Where the hell have_you_been?” he asked. I told him that I had over slept and just grabbed a cup of coffee before heading out the door. He replied that he “… didn’t care, and expected my butt to be at my desk at 7AM sharp… no excuses.” He returned at 7:30AM, leaned over my desk and said, “The cafeteria is open now, run down there and get something to eat… and remember, at your desk by 7AM.”

I mentioned earlier that we were designing simulators for the same model aircraft. There were slight differences specific to each of the different airlines, but for the most part, they were identical. This made it easier to make one set of master system drawings and then make two photocopies for the various differences. We made the changes to the copies using two solutions that came in one-ounce bottles with an eyedropper in each.  Due to that process, there were many empty bottles lying around. Someone had the bright idea of washing them out with boiling water and filling them with whiskey.  The idea was to mix the whiskey with our coffee on the half day that we worked before the Christmas holiday. I don’t remember just how many bottles we had but it must have been at least 32 because we had chipped in to buy a quart of whiskey. Several of us had our share stashed in our desks.

The day before the holiday finally arrived and we started sipping our version of Coffee Royal, minus the lemon peel, at about 9:30AM. This would give us a head start on the various parties that would begin shortly after noon at the nearby taverns. Now, as luck would have it, Jack was walking down an aisle and saw one of the guys pouring whiskey into his cup. He stopped, gave the person a thorough ass chewing, reminding him that it was grounds for dismissal, then deliberately left his coffee cup on the fellow’s desk and walked away. We all watched to see what would happen. The admonished bloke thought for a moment, then poured a liberal dose of whiskey into Jack’s cup. Jack returned in a couple of minutes, picked up his cup, took a  sip and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Remember what I told you and don’t EVER bring something like this into the plant again!” There was a lot of snickering as he walked away.

Speaking of bringing booze into the plant reminded me of another incident that happened while working for Jack. There was a time, later in the course of that program, that some of us had to do a short stint of overtime in order to keep things from falling behind schedule again. This time we worked only eight extra hours a week, four additional hours on Wednesday with the other four hours worked on Saturday.

This event happened around 5PM on a Wednesday afternoon in late fall. The plant was mostly empty at that time, but our little group was working that evening; Jack was still in his office. He came out a few minutes later, walked down to where we were still hard at work and said. “Keep at it you peons; I’m going home for a drink of scotch and a nice warm dinner.” With that bit of harassment, he shrugged into his overcoat and started for the exit. We booed him roundly as he left with a wave. We grumbled for a bit but got back to work.

Two hours had passed when around the corner came Jack, dressed in old clothes and a well-worn top coat. He walked right up to the drafting table at which I was working and threw the coat casually across it saying, “I’m going downstairs for a couple of minutes, look in the inside pocket as soon as I’m gone.” I waited, looked and found a silver flask containing about 6 ounces of what smelled like good scotch whisky (the Scots spell it that way); it tasted like it, too. I called the other people over to tell them. This was at a time when we had water fountains cooled with coils packed in ice. The ice chunks would melt during the day, and at that time of the evening, the pieces had melted down to perfect ice cube size. We quickly rinsed out our coffee cups and shared the scotch poured over ice. I put the empty flask back in Jack’s coat. He returned a few minutes later, asked if everything was alright, surreptitiously checked the inside pocket and wished us all a good night as he left. It was the little things such as that and the parties he threw when his programs were completed successfully, which endeared him to the staff.

Although Jack was a superb fellow most of the time, he did have a dark side that would emerge when he had too much to drink. I only saw it once during the several years that I worked for him. The incident could have been much worse than it was but it had the office gossips running their mouths at high speed nonetheless.

It was the fall of 1957, perfect weather for football, so a bunch of us decided to go to a Syracuse game. Ten of us, including Jack, made up the group. Since my parents were living in Syracuse at the time, I asked my dad to get tickets for the game, which he did.  We left for Syracuse, that fine fall day, in two cars; Jack wanted to drive his relatively new, roomy Buick. I rode in the rear seat of his car. We all had brought along a wee drop of spirits to ward off the chill, after all, it can get nippy in late October.

We arrived, found our seats (which were mid-way up the stadium) in the end zone and settled in to enjoy the game. It was an extremely clear and sunny day and some of us had a few more ‘nips’ than the others; you’ll discover who a bit later. Before we knew it, the game was ending.

As we were finding our way to the parking lot, Jack asked if anyone knew the quickest way to exit that part of the city. I was familiar with all the back streets and shortcuts since I drove through the area about once a month when I visited my parents. I sat up front on the way out and gave Jack directions as he drove. He thought that we should stop for a drink before we hit the open highway so I pointed out a nice little tavern on the outskirts of the city, just before the Oneida Indian Reservation. Just the one car stopped, the other group headed straight for home.

Upon entering the tavern, we noticed a group of men playing bumper pool. You could add your name to the bottom of a chalkboard and challenge the winners of the game preceding yours. Two of our group added their names and we had a bit of a wait until their turn came around. We noticed that the majority of the players were Native Americans… not that it made any difference then. It did make a difference later as we were playing.

We hadn’t really noticed how much Jack had been drinking during the game, but within twenty minutes of entering the tavern, he was noticeably drunk. When our turn came up (I wasn’t playing), the challengers asked what the stakes were. The previous winners, both Native Americans, said they were playing for ‘shots’; we could see a row of shots poured in a line at the bar. And so, the game began.

It soon became obvious that the challenged players were very good indeed. As the game headed toward the obvious conclusion, Jack blurted out, louder than necessary, “C’mon you guys, we can’t let these f***ing Indians beat us!” The tavern fell silent. Two of our group grabbed Jack, one under each arm, and hustled him quickly out of the door and into the back seat of his car. They returned to say that he had passed out.

We apologized for his outburst, bought drinks for the winners and got ready to leave. On the way to the car we noticed that Jack was up and moving. He managed to get out of the rear seat and was about to enter the driver’s seat when we all told him that he was not going to drive the car even though it was his. He looked us over and said, “OK. Zedik, I want you to drive.” I wasn’t about to drive, though I probably could have; I knew that I had drunk enough to be impaired. One of the other fellows volunteered and Jack acquiesced getting into the front passenger’s seat. We started for home.

We had no sooner gotten underway than Jack got up, crawled up, knees on the seat and turned to face us in the back. He looked straight at me and began to rant, ‘What’s the matter Zedik, are you too good to drive my car?” As I was trying to calm him down, telling him that I had had too much, too… he swung at me, just grazing my chin. Well, I wasn’t about to let that go so I lunged toward him. Wiser heads than mine prevailed as the fellows on either side of me quickly grabbed me and pulled me back into the seat. Jack continued to rant, telling the driver to pull off the road so he could kick the crap out of me. I hadn’t been in a fight since I was in my early teens; I wasn’t a fighter but would defend myself if push came to shove. We pulled off the road.

As I prepared for what should be an easy task, considering Jack’s condition, the passenger’s front door opened and Jack literally rolled out to land at my feet. “Get up” says I, “if you’re gonna fight.” Jack wrapped his arms around my ankles (yes, my ankles), looked up at me saying, “I’m gonna kill you.” With that, he passed out cold. We loaded him back into the car and started again.

There happened to be a company dance scheduled that evening and since we all were going to attend, we thought that we should get something to eat before we got back. We decided to stop at The Three Bear Inn, a nice restaurant about 30 miles further along the road. We arrived there, parked the car leaving Jack out cold in the back seat and went in to order dinner.

I should mention that Jack was wearing a very nice cream colored Irish cable knit sweater that day, it just adds to the image that appeared in the dining room doorway as we were about to leave. There was Jack, weaving noticeably, with barf and parking lot gravel all down the front of that beautiful sweater. The diners looked aghast as we quickly hustled him back out to the car… again. Thankfully, he remained quiet until we delivered him, and his car, to his house. We had stopped on the way so that one of the fellows could get his car and follow us to Jack’s place. We left him there and then got our own cars.

I made it to the dance with my girlfriend and a little headache. Jack never did show up but the tongues were already wagging. It was hard to believe the stories floating around the plant when Monday morning rolled around. Some had Jack beating the stuffing out of me, others told the opposite tale, neither of which was true. Jack was saying nothing and appeared to be angry.

The furor died down in a couple of days, Jack returned to his old amiable self and we all had a good laugh over it. We never did attend any more football games as a group; once was more than enough.

Jack left the company a couple of years later but would let someone know when he was in town recruiting for his new employer. The fellow who had driven his car back from Syracuse that day eventually went to work for Jack again.

There are many more tales that I could tell, but I’ll end with this one. I was sitting next to Jack at a poker table in another co-worker’s house. I watched him draw two cards to fill a Royal Straight Flush, a once in a lifetime poker hand. He pulled out the keys to his precious Buick and bet the car. No one bet against him and he took those cards home with him.

Word came, some ten or twelve years after he had left the company that Jack had died, unexpectedly, from heart disease.

RIP, Jack… you certainly were a “piece of work.”

F. A. Zedik
11-1-08