Horrible Bosses

I've had my share of bosses throughout my life, some good, some bad, very few exceptional.  I acknowledge the good ones, like my first boss, Melvin K., who taught me not only everything about the area of the law that I subsequently practiced for nearly a quarter century but also how to carry myself as an attorney.  His righthand man cum partner, Bennett K., also taught me how to practice law.  Mel was a tightwad, perhaps his only fault was far as I was concerned, but I was truly saddened to hear of his death a few years back.  There are far worse faults, as we shall see, than being a tightwad.

Perhaps the first horrible boss I had was in the bottle manufacturer.  It was one of those summertime jobs that kids do to put themselves through college.  I don't remember why he chose to ride me, but I do recall that I retaliated in such a way -- doing what he told me to the letter of the law when I knew full well that the spirit of what he wanted was his real intention -- that we had several confrontations that were then and continue to be hilarious.  About the only interesting thing I remember from that job is learning how two and three liter bottles were made.

My next horrible boss was a guy with whom I attended law school.  He brought me on ostensibly to learn other areas of the law but instead kept me doing the same thing from which I was trying to get away.  He added insult to injury by letting me go with no notice and no way to get my possessions home that same night.  O', and our Mother was dying with cancer, a fact that he knew.  You'd have thought I'd slept with his wife...a woman I'd never met.

It's a little unfair to label the next boss as horrible, because he had his good moments.  Yet this man was so unhinged sometimes, so narcissistic, that I have to mention him.  There were several incidents that remain indelibly etched in my memory, starting with the time he began an hour long diatribe by telling us that we ought to go back to our law schools and ask for a refund because they'd obviously not taught us anything and ended by telling us (sincerely) to keep up the good work.  Add to that his hysterical Sergeant Bilko routine -- anyone who was there that day would never forget it -- his destruction of my desk seeking files on coworkers (I'd prudently kept them at home...and it was his desk), his hiring of six off-duty Chicago police officers, packing, to escort off three attorneys who were siphoning off cases to a rival firm, his years long spat with the feds who were out to get him but botched it and his legendary television commercials that anyone in Chicago has seen and one can imagine just how interesting it was working there.  He also catered breakfast and lunch in the office, which meant no one could ever leave his or her desk.  There was madness to his method, but also method to that madness.

My next boss was a saturnine guy who looked a little like the Stanley Tucci character in The Lovely Bones.  As it later turned out, he was an elitist without a corresponding background.  He also felt that since he'd been put through the ringer by an older attorney, it was his turn to do it.  He was such an anal retentive control freak that he once rewrote a one sentence letter of mine -- yes, a one sentence letter.  He could be positively charming when it suited his purpose, but beneath that on-call charm a dark secret lurked:  He was addicted to teen porn.  This didn't seem to bother the higher ups, though: Six months after the discovery they bumped him up to equity partner.  Yes, a book is in the works.

Finally, the last boss I had I knew about before they hired me.  This doofus, who looks like the Tom Kean character on Blacklist, talked about how magic happens when I answered one of his questions in the interview.  I had no clue, however, just how bad this guy would be.  The worst part about it is that he wrapped everything in corporate bonhommie, something that made my skin crawl.  Anytime we had a discussion, he managed to turn it around to how great he was, whether it was how he'd played three years of varsity basketball, or how the state had asked him for help with test questions, or how he was Erin Brockovich in this one job he had.  The incessant use of exclamation marks and smiley emojis in his emails, his cloying use of the third person and the fact that he didn't catch on for a month what name I used -- despite everyone around him using it -- just rubbed me the wrong way.  I thought I was alone in this, but I found out later that there were others who thought the same as I did.  He also dated one of the women he was managing and was lifelong friends with his direct manager -- can you spell conflict of interest? -- and once told me in a disparaging tone that he had thought about going to law school to become a criminal defense attorney, but that it wasn't for him. The best way I can describe him is as a messianic popinjay.  There aren't enough mirrors available for his brilliance.

Unlike the movie that inspired this blogpost, I'm not out to kill any of these cretins.  I've wasted enough time on them to do more time in a penitentiary.

I just can't wait to meet up with some of them on my terms someday.

(c) 2015 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles