Dead Clown Barbecue (6 page)

We all left the meeting quite pleased. Even my five co-workers who were going to stick with the hour-long lunch plan and whose lives were thus unchanged were happy to at least be given the option.

A week passed, and the new lunch length worked out quite well, saving me nearly seven minutes in traffic each evening. But when Mr. Swanson called another impromptu meeting, my first reaction (after "Oh no! We're all going to get fired!") was that maybe the new plan hadn't worked out so well, and he was about to rescind it. My precious seven minutes were about to be taken away from me, and we'd only just met.

"Good news," said Mr. Swanson. "We're instituting a new policy of Business Casual Fridays. That means that on Fridays, suits and ties are no longer required. You may wear a much more casual shirt; for example, a polo shirt would be completely acceptable. No tee shirts and nothing with logos or phrases on it, unless it's our own, but feel free to dress down a bit on Fridays. You've all earned it."

Gerald raised his hand.

"Yes, Gerald?"

"But today is Friday."

"Obviously this new policy takes effect next week."

"Oh. Good. Thank you."

Well, to say that I was excited was an understatement; to say that I was very excited would be much more accurate. Business Casual Fridays! I'd heard that such a thing existed at other companies, but I'd never imagined that it would make its way into my own workplace!

The following Friday, I came to work in a tasteful but slightly playful sweater, and though I can't honestly say that it was the best day of my life, it was a definite improvement over wearing an itchy, strangling tie.

And then, three business days later, we got an e-mail with the most shocking development yet:
flexible starting times.

The amount of time we were to work each day had not shortened or lengthened. It was still eight hours, plus the forty-five or sixty-minute lunch. But now we could start
any time we wanted
between the hours of seven o'clock and nine o'clock.

For example, if I chose to arrive at seven, I would then proceed to work until three forty-five. Somebody who chose to arrive at nine would work until five forty-five, unless they'd previously selected the hour-long lunch option, in which case they would work until six. But I could start at seven-thirty, eight-fifteen, eight-thirty . . . the options were limitless! Well, perhaps not limitless, but they certainly made
my
mind boggle!

Though I ended up sticking with the eight o'clock arrival time I'd had for the past nineteen years, I truly appreciated this new flexibility.

And over the next few weeks it was as if a floodgate of freedom opened for us. Business Casual Fridays turned into Business Casual Mondays and Fridays, and then, on one amazing day, it became a
permanent
change. No more suits! No more ties! (Unless, of course, you had to meet with an important client, but that was understandable.)

In another meeting, we all gaped at Mr. Swanson in slack-jawed astonishment as he described the new procedure for a compressed workweek, where we could work ten hours a day, four days a week. And we could pick the flex day! Monday! Tuesday! Wednesday! Thursday! Or, yes, even Friday! Yes, there were restrictions (after all, you couldn't have the entire department gone every Friday), but I still felt myself tearing up and almost had to ask to be excused from the meeting.

I picked Wednesdays. Wednesdays were now my favorite day of the week. Tuesdays now carried the excitement of a Friday. Admittedly, Thursdays now had something of a Monday feel, but it was worth it.

We all chattered excitedly in the break room each morning, wondering what might be next.

Casual Fridays! We could now wear
jeans.
At
work.
Not jeans with tears or smudges or rhinestones, but still . . .
jeans!
The comfort was almost unimaginable. And tee shirts! We could wear tee shirts! Again, they had to be in excellent condition and could not contain text or images inappropriate for a professional environment. As an example of a shirt that would not be acceptable, we were shown a photograph of somebody wearing a Hooters shirt. (Not the uniform worn by waitresses, but rather a gentleman wearing a shirt advertising the restaurant.)

Their commitment to our work/life balance didn't end there. Exactly six months after we were given flexibility in our lunch lengths, Mr. Swanson announced the new work-from-home program, where once a week we would be allowed to do our job from the comfort of our own home! On many occasions, my co-workers and I had discussed how so much of our jobs involved sitting in front of our computers, and how we could basically do them anywhere, but we never imagined that this option would actually be presented to us!

There was, of course, no dress code at home, and I gleefully completed my first day in pajamas. I did, of course, complete all of the same cleansing and hygiene activities that I would have done if I'd gone into the office. Working from home didn't mean I needed to become a savage.

I have to admit; I started to wonder if things had gone too far when every day became Casual Day. Shouldn't we dress in professional attire at least once a week?

Some of my co-workers began to abuse the freedom. On occasion Gerald would show up as late as nine-fifteen or nine-twenty. Yes, he'd stay later to compensate, but still, with two hours of flexibility surrounding our start time, why did he need to push it further?

Mr. Swanson sent out an e-mail, explaining that these changes were privileges, not rights, and that it would be in our best interest to follow the rules. Gerald did not show up late anymore.

On the day of my twentieth anniversary, Mr. Swanson called us all into the meeting room. I smiled. Twenty years with the company meant cake for sure, along with a fancy certificate, and Mr. Swanson would read a very nice note that had been signed by the CEO.

But there was no cake in the room. Mr. Swanson smiled as we took our seats. "Aside from a few small instances, these changes have worked out extremely well, don't you all agree?"

We all nodded our agreement.

"So, effective today, public displays of affection will be permissible."

Everybody glanced around at each other, unsure if he was kidding or not.

"Obviously, I'm not talking about insertion, but kissing and groping, as long as the work gets done, is perfectly fine. Remain conscious of the dress code, but if you wish to simulate certain acts, by all means go ahead and do so."

Everybody was silent for a moment.

Helena, who was sixty and an unofficial mother figure to us all, raised her hand. "Is this a joke?"

"It is not. You've all proven that you're mature enough to be given additional freedom and still perform your job duties, so this is the next step in the work/life balance."

"I'm sorry, but this is a part of my life I'd like to keep at home."

"I think you're misunderstanding," said Mr. Swanson. "I didn't say that this was
mandatory
public display of affection. Rest assured that I would never demand that you dry-hump a co-worker. Goodness, no. I'm saying that if you felt the desire, and both parties consented to the act — or even three or four parties; we're not judgmental of lifestyle choices here — it would be okay. Stress relief is very important to the work/life balance. But of course nobody will ever ask you to cheat on your husband. I promise you that."

"Oh. Okay. Still . . ."

"This is just in the testing phase. We'll try it for a week or two and see what happens."

"It's not something I ever want to see."

Mr. Swanson frowned. "If you all object to progress, it won't be a problem to return to our old methods. I was perfectly fine with the eight-to-six workday in the office and the hour lunch. I was simply trying to make things more pleasant for my employees."

"No, no, I appreciate that," said Helena. "I apologize. I agree that we should test out this new policy for a couple of weeks to see if it works."

"Excellent. And now, somebody in this room has a very special anniversary!" said Mr. Swanson, winking at me as his administrative assistant brought in a tray full of cupcakes.

The next two weeks were uneventful. Despite the new freedom, very little happened. At one point my two youngest co-workers, Charles and Lori, made out in the break room while I was getting a cup of coffee, but they quickly became uncomfortable and stopped.

I saw no groping of any sort, though it's possible that some happened while I was working from home.

The next meeting was on a Monday, and those of us who worked from home on Mondays were told that we had to switch our scheduled work-from-home day that week. That wasn't an issue. We'd been told when the program began that there would be instances where this might happen, and it was perfectly reasonable to expect to have meetings where everybody in the department was in attendance.

As we walked into the meeting room, there was a long hunting knife on the table in front of each one of the chairs. We took our seats and said nothing, though of course everybody looked at the knives.

"Nobody abused the public displays of affection policy," said Mr. Swanson. "I'll be honest, I thought for certain that I would have to reprimand somebody for penetration, but it didn't happen, and I think we're all happier with the policy in place. And I'm pleased to inform you all that violence is now acceptable."

Everybody was silent as Mr. Swanson picked up one of the knives and stabbed at the air. "I shouldn't even have to say this, but of course any fatal wounding is
completely
forbidden and will result in immediate disciplinary actions, up to and including termination of employment. If you're going to stab, stab an appendage, such as an arm, and not a torso. Let's not let this get out of hand. A rule of thumb is to ask yourself 'Can my co-worker continue to perform his or her job duties?' If the answer is 'no,' then stop stabbing. Any questions?"

Helena raised her hand.

"Helena?"

"Can we opt out?"

"Of being a stabber or stabbee?"

"Both."

"Well, nobody is going to
make
you stab anyone. That's simply not the way things operate around here. But, naturally, with this new policy some people are going to get stabbed who don't want to be. Nobody is going to
voluntarily
get stabbed, right? That doesn't make any sense."

"I want to opt out."

"Sorry. If you opted out, then everybody would opt out, and then we'd have a new policy with nobody participating. It was extremely difficult to get this approved by Human Resources, and they don't like to think that they're wasting their time. Just give it a try for two weeks."

We left the meeting, taking our knives.

"Ow!" screamed Gerald, as Charles slashed him in the back. "You can't do it when I'm not looking!"

"Mr. Swanson didn't say anything about that."

I had to admit, seeing Gerald get slashed like that did improve my morale, and everybody was in a cheerful mood for the rest of the day.

The next day, Gerald stabbed me in the arm. It hurt, and I wished he hadn't done it, but I saw the joy it brought to my co-workers and realized that sometimes the happiness of one person is not as important as the happiness of the group.

And then there was an incident. Charles and Lori had a spat, and she stabbed him thirty-two times using three separate knives. He was taken to the hospital, but it was only a token measure, because he was quite clearly dead when the ambulance arrived.

We were called into the meeting room. This time Mr. Swanson was not smiling.

"I'm very disappointed," he said. "Particularly in you, Lori. There always has to be somebody who ruins it for everybody else, doesn't there?"

Lori wiped some blood from her cheek and looked deeply ashamed.

"Clearly you can not be trusted with this much freedom, and so, effective immediately, we are returning to the old ways. I apologize, but the responsibility rested with you."

And now we work eight to six every day, in the office, in our suits and ties. Everybody is a little sad. You can sense it in their expressions, their eyes, and the way people suddenly burst into tears for no reason.

I feel almost chained to my desk, like a prisoner.

We had so much, almost too much, and now it's gone.

Though, admittedly, I get a lot more work done now.

STOP STABBING ME

When I was ten, my older brother Mike asked if I wanted to play a game. I said, yeah, sure, of course. I mean, who wouldn't want to play a game?

"The object of the game is to see who can hit each other the lightest," he explained. "You go first."

I nodded. The rules seemed pretty straightforward. I reached out with the tip of my pinky finger (my left pinky, since I was right-handed and knew that my left pinky would have less strength) and gave him just the slightest hint of a tap with it.

Ha. My sixteen-year-old brother, with his thick, beefy fingers, could never hit me lighter than
that
!

Mike punched me in the face, so hard that I dropped to the living room floor. "You win!" he announced, chuckling as he walked out of the room.

As I lay there, I thought,
Wow, my brother is a genius
! I'm not saying I enjoyed the pain, but still, I had to admire him for coming up with such a clever idea. It was worth the bloody lip to be in the presence of such innovation and brilliance.

The next day, as I walked to school, I saw my friend Chet about a block ahead of me. I hurried to catch up with him. "Hey, Chet," I said, "do you want to play a game?"

I giggled, which probably gave away my evil intent, but Chet shrugged. "Sure."

"Okay, the way it works is, we're going to hit each other, and we're going to see who can hit the other person the lightest. I go first. I mean, you go first. Hit me as light as you can."

Chet shook his head. "No way. You'll hit me back hard and say that I won."

My shoulders slumped. "You've heard of that one?"