Mr. SponsorPants

The New Sponsee 15: "I don't need to write a FUCKING inventory..."

 

 

 

 

 I met the Skateboard Pup for an early dinner.

They had been telling me about work, and how unhappy they are there now. After a long string of triumphs business had been going down, and their boss, not a strong leader, was floundering and, in their opinion, communicating poorly. In fact, their boss actually had the nerve to ask the Skateboard Pup to come out of his office and interact with/help the other people on the job! "Not interested." The Pup said, tone flat and lip curled. "Not. Fucking. Interested. I can either do my thing and try and make money for the company, or go out and babysit a bunch of... like I said, not interested." I set aside the observation that this was classic black-and-white thinking. This kind of angry, "I can either do THIS or I can do THAT. Period!" was typically just a construct we use to justify not doing the thing we don't want/are scared of doing. I also set aside -- for the moment -- the observation that when they started this job, the New Sponsee was all eager willingness, and happy to do whatever was asked of them. Now, after having been the rainmaker for a little while, the boss makes a request and it goes through the "Do I Feel Like Doing That" Filter. And thus do mighty egos from little triumphs grow. I also thought I would table for the moment the very direct observation that generally speaking, when one's boss asks you to do something within the general scope of one's job, one does it.

The burning fuse on this pile of dynamite was this last conversation with their boss, which was, they said, confusing. To me it sounded like their boss asked them to do something and they did not do it, but I believed to the Skateboard Pup it seemed that their reasons justified their defiance. (And really, children, don't they always?)

Now they felt like their boss was angry with them, or didn't like them, or had something to say to them that they weren't willing to say. I had been steadily asking questions as they were speaking, each question like placing another log on a growing fire. There was so much anger there I knew it was going to come out no matter what, so I kept asking, kept stoking, kept gently poking so we could get to the heart of it.

He wound down his list of grievances, with the sweet, familiar, triumphant ring of justifiable anger coloring this last declaration: "So I'm going to go into his office and say something like 'We need to talk. Are you angry with me? Do you have something you want to tell me?'"

As they described the imagined start to this conversation -- which of course was going to be a confrontation, if it happened, and decidedly not a "conversation" -- I flashed for a moment on the part in the Big Book where it talks about "we step on the toes of our fellows and they retaliate, seemingly without provocation..." and how so often we create the very problem we are trying to resolve -- I wanted to be clear on what they were saying, what was happening with them, so I looked across the table and tried to really see him, sitting there, his dinner mostly untouched. He sat across from me but he did not see me. Instead he was transported to his boss's office, his vision full of this imagined scene and as I looked at him I thought of how easy it is for us to slide into these fantasy confrontations, stoking our anger, polishing our resentment, savoring these sad, childish hero/villain scenarios.

I thought of how far this young man had come. What a privilege it had been to sponsor him for these past many months now. And I knew he would not like what I had to say next, but it was time to say what needed to be said. It was time to be his sponsor, not his dinner companion and not his friend. "What's your objective? What are you trying to accomplish with this conversation?" I asked.

They came back to themselves and looked at me as if I was stupid. "Like I said... to... to clear the air."

"Ah." I pushed a french fry around on my plate, chasing the last little bit of ketchup there. "Well, in my experience, when I'm really angry and I try to clear the air it usually doesn't get cleared. In fact..."

"What then. What do you suggest I do." As you can imagine, this was not framed as a question. It was framed as a demand. And came it out like a threat. He had made up his mind, he had his plan, and he was merely doing me the courtesy of letting me know what it was. If I was either too stupid or too rude to agree with it, well, that was my problem not his.

"In fact," I continued, unruffled, "although I don't realize it at the time, I am only telling myself I want to clear the air. What I really want is my day in court. I want to tell whomever it is that I am angry, and why I am angry, and challenge them about it."

"Really. Really." I knew the good hearted young man I had come to admire was right there inside this angry alcoholic sitting across from me now. In fact, not to get too fanciful, I could easily imagine that good hearted young man asking me to reach in and pull him out, and help him vanquish this toxic pretender. Would that the process were so direct. Or the toxic parts of ourselves vanquished so easily. "Then tell me, Mr. SponsorPants, what is the alternative? Really. What is the alternative? We had a confusing conversation and now I need to clear the air."

"I think clearing the air is always a good thing. I just can't recall a time when I've been very successful at the attempt when I've been as angry as... well, frankly, as you seem to be."

"Really. Reeeally." Each time he said it he stretched the first syllable out a little longer, and painted it with a little more sarcasm. "Well what do you suggest then, Mr. SponsorPants?" He actually said 'Mr. SponsorPants,' instead of my name. He's known about the blog and my writing for quite some time now, and fueled by rage, he seemed to savor spitting the pen name out at me. (To be fair, with all those "S's" and "P's" it really is an excellent phrase to spit at me. I couldn't have done it better myself.)

"Well, really, what I suggest is that you write an inventory, so that..."

 "I don't need to write a FUCKING inventory to tell me I have a FUCKING RESENTMENT against my boss!" The busboy had approached to clear some of our plates, but thought better of interrupting and instead backed slowly away, like one might if they rounded a corner and accidentally encountered a rabid dog.

I kept my tone completely neutral. "Come on now, you know that we don't write an inventory to discover IF we are resentful, or who we're feeling resentful of."

They glowered at me across the table, face as red as a crayon. I could see their affection for me barely muzzle another stinging retort.

I felt not one iota of defensiveness or aggression. I felt deep compassion for what they were going through; the hurt and the anger, and underneath that, the fear. The obstinate digging in of heels and closing of ears, and the reflexive contempt of anything which might help, since that would contradict this beloved, deeply grooved narrative they had inside. A narrative with roots in some very old hurts.

I went on. "We write an inventory to see what our part in the resentment is. So that we can reverse engineer it and find a way to be free of it."

"Oh please," they spat "there is nothing an inventory is going to tell me that I don't already know."

"Okay," I said, my voice quiet, looking him straight in the eye, "I want you to repeat that please."

The request completely did not compute for him. "Huh?"

"Just say that again."

"Say what again?"

I quoted him without imitating his rage, "There is nothing an inventory is going to tell me that I don't already know."

"Look, Mr. SponsorPants," (now he is using my name) "I don't want to play one of your little..."

"Nope. I've earned some cooperation here. Just repeat it please."

He rolled his eyes but with considerably less heat said, "There is nothing an inventory is going to tell me that I don't already know."

"Once more please."

"There is nothing an inventory is going to tell me that I don't already know."

He looked uncomfortable now as he said it, full of neither contempt nor anger, which was most definitely the point.

"Now, let me ask you, do you really believe that?"

He looked down at the table. "Yes. No. I don't know."

"Okay. Well that's a good place to start from. We both know where the bigger issue, what this is really about maybe, is coming from."

"Yes," he said, looking back up at me. "From [Old, old childhood resentment]."

"Yup," I said. "Neither of us needed to get a degree in psychology to connect those dots. You hate -- really hate -- men you think are weak. And you think your boss is weak, and you think you are being asked to save everyone and clean up his mess and..."

"Aren't I though?" the rage was back, quick as a flash flood.

Gently I asked, "And the other part of the inventory?

He looked at me, anger and confusion flicking back and forth. Oh, it is so sweet to hold on to that anger, isn't it? Confusion won by the most slender of margins, prompting, "What 'other part'?"

I quoted what is, for me, the key to unlocking so much in the inventory process: "'The world and its people are often quite wrong.' No compassion for your boss? A man who's struggling to stay afloat maybe? Who has his own ego, his own fears running him? No compassion for the responsibility he might feel to everyone in that place to keep you all employed? Or, if you think that's painting him with too noble a brush, then just his own survival fears? His own pride on the line? No compassion for him? No forgiveness for him fumbling and buckling under the weight of all that?"

He looked back down at the table, and everything about him was clenched: Jaw, shoulders, fists.

Now that we had come to this point, I had to go all the way there. I had to say it, even though I knew it would set him off like a Roman Candle. This was about putting the words in his head, and maybe later they would be taken back out and considered. But I knew what hearing this next thought, this next question, was going to trigger. "And what about for [He of the old, old childhood resentment]. No compassion for him either? Ever?"

He had been looking down at the table but as I said this his eyes snapped up, and got very big. An angry red slowly climbed his neck and colored his ears.

I went on. Gentle. Relentless. "No compassion for them? No forgiveness even? Ever? Have you ever prayed to forgive them?"

He jumped to his feet, almost knocking his chair over.

I looked up at him, standing there. In that moment I felt absolute clarity about the words I should say next. And I felt compassion for how hard this was to hear, to take these deep hurts and those old villains and consider what recovery and the 12 Steps really asked us to do with them. "Do you believe that you ever could? Do you believe that if you pray to forgive them you might someday be..."

He threw a twenty on the table. "I'm leaving now. I'm..." He reached out his hand towards me, woodenly, as if to shake my hand, then dropped it and moved half way around the table, his arms raising a little as if to give me a hug, then he stopped. "I'm leaving now."

He turned and left.

I took a long breath and said a little prayer. Finished the last of my french fries and checked my phone for messages.

Sitting on the bus, on the way home, the light did that thing where my window was both mirror and window: I could either see my face or the scenery, depending on how I focused. I watched the city pass by. It was a nice neighborhood, very nice actually, and everything through the window was pretty.  I looked at my face, and thought about forgiveness. And God. I let my mind drift to those people I had had to forgive. How hard it was. How invested I was in not doing so. I asked myself as I had at so many times, in so many ways over the years,  if I believed in God. Really, truly believed. I looked in my heart and rooted around, again asking did I believe that if you prayed for God to heal something inside of you, to bring forgiveness or allow compassion or even permit a kind of loving understanding of what drove people that those prayers could be -- would be -- answered.

I looked back out the window and considered that this is one of the gifts of service; of sponsorship. These clear, quiet moments -- and sometimes they are just moments -- of deep reflection, which then loop back around to compassion for the process our sponsees must go through.

My phone chirped and I looked at my texts.

The Skateboard Pup: Thank U. Don't want to talk now. Give me a few days. Will wait on talking to boss. Will pray about it.  All of it.

I hit Reply: Ok.

I looked at my reflection again. The face in the window offered me a quiet smile. Comfortable. Contented.

Full of faith.

 

 

 

There are more essays like this in "Mr. SponsorPants: Adventures in Sobriety and The 12 Steps for AA's and Others."  Available as an eBook on Kindle via Amazon.  Download the Kindle reader app for free on any device or platform, from PC to Smartphone.

 

 

The New Sponsee 13

 

 

 

 

 

 

I've discovered the "talk text" feature on my phone, which allows me to dictate my texts rather than laboriously enter them via the tiny keyboard on my phone's screen. This, as you might imagine, is both boon and bane. It saves me a lot of time and irritation and permits more complete, thorough text messages when warranted. But... I do tend to go on.

And on.

Still and all, it's been really handy for back-and-forth with sponsees, (in this case the Skateboard Pup) when one or the other of us is unable to talk on the phone and a more immediate exchange than emailing is desired.

Recently the Skate Pup has gotten a new job, and is having a hard time with some aspects of corporate life. And some aspects of corporate supervisors. I had laughingly told him recently that I had always thought of writing a brief business book entitled "Don't Click Send," as some of the biggest mistakes I've made over the years was sending that email that perhaps shouldn't have been sent -- or should have been very, very heavily edited prior to sending...

 

SKATE BOARD PUP: Don't click send... right?

MR. SPONSORPANTS: Right.

SBP: I was/am sooooo close...

MR. SP: ?

SBP: Boss.

MR. SP: Yes, that is not an amends you want to have to work to become willing to make.

SBP: Yes.

a few minutes pass

SBP: ...what if you're standing up for yourself? I'm not sending the email... just curious.

MR. SP: When I feel I need to stand up for myself... Well then it becomes a mindful exercise in HOW I say whatever it is I feel that I need to say.

SBP: Ah.

MR. SP: And then, in business communication, being mindful in that way not only keeps me squarely rooted in the principles by which I must live - not because I want to be a "good boy" - fuck that - but because if I don't, I have empirical proof that I will get crazier in my head.

SBP: Aaaah. Ok.

MR. SP: But also because I must not let my passion, my anger, my need for my day in court -- even when it is justified -- prevent me from playing a good game of chess.

SBP: The "good game of chess" being the thoughtful/mindful way I say what I need to say...

MR. SP: Yes! YES! And also literally "strategic communication." Both "Managing Up," i.e., managing my supervisors, and also "Managing Down," being sensitive to holding authority over people and how that can charge my communication with them and how they hear it (just as it hapens to me when people who have career power over me communicate with me...). Not speaking from either ego or alcoholism or just plain old fear and anger. One rarely advances their career or argument or cause when speaking from anger.

SBP: ...damn!

a few more minutes pass

SBP: But what about when I feel strongly about something?

MR. SP: Well, I don't want to lapse into a word game around this, but I believe there is a difference between when I speak with passion or enthusiasm vs. when I speak with rage and rancor.

SBP: What if I can't shift gears? I mean emotionally?

MR. SP: Then don't click send.

SBP: ...

MR. SP: Pop Quiz! Fill in the missing word: "We BLANK when agitated..."

SBP: LOL

MR. SP: No, that's not quite right. LOL'ing when agitated, depending on the circumstances, can result in a 72 hour hold.

SBP: LOL!

MR. SP: "We BLANK..."

SBP: Pause! Pause! "We PAUSE when agitated..."

MR. SP: Huzzah! A+! So basically, buddy, cool your jets, write about it but don't...

SBP: ... click send. Right.

several minutes pass

SBP: You realize you have a whole Mr. SponsorPants post here. :-)

MR. SP: lol I guess I do! Thanks!

SBP: Thanks, Mr. SP.

MR. SP: Hey, it's a two-way street, you know that by now. You're most definetely not the only one who needed to hear that today. It's a big help to me, too.  Cheers!

 

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There are more essays like this in "Mr. SponsorPants: Adventures in Sobriety and The 12 Steps for AA's and Others."  Available as an eBook on Kindle via Amazon.  Download the Kindle reader app for free on any device or platform, from PC to Smartphone.

 

 

 

The New Sponsee 2

 

 

I'd seen the Skateboard Pup, all scruffy nonchalance, sail past the big picture window of the restaurant a couple of times today.  He glances in to take a measure of whether I'm busy or not.  He seems to prefer this sort of drop-by system, and has had neither demand nor complaint on the occasions when, at other times, a whole day goes by and the business is such that I never become available.  He hasn't called on the phone since that one time, the rest of our exchanges have been this sort of arranged accidental connection.  I leave it be.  Some of us have had bad experiences which give us good reason to bond with caution.  I'm still learning his story, but I get the strong sense the Skateboard Pup's is one such tale.

It had been a typical morning and early afternoon of problems to solve and surprises to address.  A clogged pipe.  My kitchen manager forgot to order enough avocados.  Two Vice Presidents and one Regional Manager "dropped by" for lunch.  It was the first day of training for a newly hired manager, and I had all their beginning paperwork to get through, in addition to making their first day of work feel like a real welcome rather than "Your locker is this one.  Here's your apron.  Do what Pedro says for the afternoon." kind of thing.  I hate that as a way to start someone off.  (I like to put "Welcome So-and-so!" signs up all around the kitchen and make a big show of walking them around and introducing them to everyone.  Believe me, I know how corny and ridiculous this sounds.  I got into the practice of it a little while ago, when one morning on my way to work, with a new Manager to train, I was consumed with self-pity and anger as to why I had to have this extra crap on my plate.  The ole' Resentment Engine was revving up, and it's deep growl was starting to drown out any other thinking -- as it always, always does, once it gets going.  Fortunately, sitting there on the bus, knees jammed into the seatback in front of me, I had a moment of Divine Intervention, mentally speaking, and thought about the 3rd Step Prayer, and the St. Francis Prayer, and how hard a first day at work can be.  What if this new hire was almost totally broke?  What if they were completely broke?  What if they had kids, or were close to eviction, or there were people depending on them?  They HAD to make this job work!  What a fearsome, high-stakes morning THEY were walking into if any of that was even half-way true!  And there I was sitting on the bus in my metaphorical dirty diaper feeling put upon for just doing my job.  I am embarrassed to say it, but that is not atypical of me sometimes.  So I did the old contrary action thing, and rather than grouse in my head about having to train them I found an action I could do which would help change my thinking:  Welcome signs.  It had such a big effect -- bigger than I at first even realized -- that I do it with every new hire now.   And today this particular new gal was touched by it, too, and even had me take a picture of her on her phone standing in front of one of the signs I'd made.  For all of the openness and authenticity I've worked towards in my recovery I always feel a little strange inside when I see people so comfortable with their emotions, so free to be sentimental in front of strangers -- as rife with alcoholic sensitivity as I can be on the Bad Days I still see myself as rather guarded, and am fascinated by those who apparently naturally aren't.)  All of which is to say that it wasn't till quite late in the day when I had a chance to sit down, and when I did I saw the Pup outside, leaning against the patio railing.  I got up and went to get him.  

Mr. SP:  Come in.  Come in.  I'll buy you an iced tea or something.  

Pup:  No, let's talk out here.

Mr. SP:  No, it's too hot out, I can't take it I've been running around all morning.  Come on, I wouldn't invite you in if it was a big deal.

My restaurant -- or rather, the restaurant I run, it is most definitely not my restaurant -- is very casual, so it's not like he would be taking up a seat at someone's station or anything.  His sitting at a table with me would be noticed by my team, but more because they are now idly curious about my oddities rather than anything else.  For example, they just now found out my real age and are scandalized.  They had me pegged as far younger than I am.  I guarantee you, this has nothing to do with how I look.  It is because they are almost all silly children who cannot fathom anyone much past thirty as having any life.  You're either "around their age" or you're sort of in your thirties or you're "Old."  Since I apparently didn't compute as "old" they lowballed their guesses to a ridiculous degree.  And also since they are young and easily bored and I am still relatively new to most of them I am like an exotic creature where the evidence doesn't quite add up.  My virtual absence on Social Media of any sort leaves them flummoxed when trying to be nosey.  At least, that's what my Kitchen Manager told me recently.  

Pup:  I didn't want to, you know, be a bother or anything while you were at work.  I don't want to cross any lines or anything.

Mr. SP:  And I appreciate that.  The way you're dropping by is fine -- hasn't been an issue.  I am grateful that you're being sensitive to the fact I am at work.  You can always call me to maybe pick a time to sit down away from here and we can...

Pup:  Naw, this... this is ok if it's ok with you.

Mr. SP:  Ok for now.  But the way it works is we go through the book together, so eventually we'll need to meet someplace where we are both comfortable doing that.

Pup:  Ok.

I still couldn't completely get a read on this kid -- and when I say "kid" I am painting with a broad brush.  He could be anywhere from very early twenties to very early thirties.  His style was either authentic hipster chic or well put together young homeless guy; the type of homeless who still had enough game to regularly find a shower and get his clothes clean.  Good teeth, clear skin, he feigned tough with his speech but the vocabulary and syntax gave away a good start somewhere along the way.  Verbal enough to be well read, but only midrange on the vocabulary.  Scruffy almost-beard and those stupid ear plugs which stretch the lobes out.  Ooops, there's my age showing.  His earlobe plugs were not crazy big like I've seen, but big enough to rule out certain kinds of jobs probably.  I don't think Bank of America is down with the plugs yet, for example.  He had the usual smattering of 21st Century tattoos, too, but not what I think of as "status ink."  Not enough ink to say "I spent a whole lot of money to look this counter culture."  Wait, are tattoos even counter culture anymore?  Damn!  Again my age encroaches!

Pup:  So I was at a meeting the other night and the topic was being powerless.

Mr. SP:  How many meetings a week are you going to?

Pup:  Three.

I gave him what I hoped was a noncommittal look, but I think my noncommittal drifted south into nonplussed.

Pup:  What?  You think three is not enough?  Man, that's like... c'mon!  Three is a lot.

I shrugged.

Mr. SP:  Not really. 

Pup:  What?  Come on!

Mr. SP:  I went to a lot of meetings when I was new.  I drank and got high every day -- the only days I didn't were the days I couldn't.  So for me, going to a meeting every day made sense.  I forget, how often did you...

Pup:  You didn't forget.  So far you remember every single thing I've told you.  At least, every time something comes up you remember something I said.

I shrugged again.

Mr. SP:  And so far you anticipate pretty well what I'm going to suggest and why I'm going to suggest it, so why exactly are we dancing about this. 

His turn to shrug.

Mr. SP:  Do as you choose, I'm not...

Pup:  ... selling anything.  Yeah, you keep saying that.

Mr. SP:  Well I'm not.  So do as you freaking well choose.  But I think three meetings a week, given what you've told me about your history, is a piss poor...

Team Member:  Excuse me, Mr. SponsorPants?

One of the kids at work had come up to the table.

Team Member:  The plumber is on Line 2.

Mr. SP:  Excuse me.

I got up and took the call.   When I got done and looked over the Skatepup had taken off.  Whatever else I was getting from this sponsee -- and I always get more than they do by the end of it, I assure you -- he was becoming my Master Class in being purely in the process, for however long, and staying completely out of trying to control the result.

Also, this kid was not the standard issue sponsee, so I was making sure I didn't get too attached.

Can you hear me lying to myself there?

Yeah.  Me too.

a poor job of multi-tasking

 

And sometimes, when I write these blog posts -- these strange messages from (sometimes) my ego, (sometimes) my experience, and (often) my heart -- it feels like I'm just sitting talking with all of you, and you're sitting right next to me with a cup of tea, your shoes off and your feet tucked up under you on the sofa.  Just me blabbing to you -- as much mess as message.  This is one of those, I'm afraid.

I'm doing a poor job of mult-tasking.  Writing while noodling around on iTunes (somehow all my music got sucked up into the cloud, along with my playlists, which of course I never bothered to back up -- do it now? when I can do it later? Please!  I imagine my music up there in the cloud, bumping into everyone else's music, and at first feeling shy and self conscious but then remembering, "Hey! We are great!" and standing up tall.  Wow. Project much SP?)  Anyone who saw all my music in one group would be... puzzled.  There's eclectic and then there's multiple personality disorder.  Given that scale, when we talk about "the committee" in our heads in AA, it seems like each of mine has their own personal iTunes shopping experience. 

I'm also randomly jotting down a list of things not to forget -- packing for a road trip this weekend. Heading out to an AA Convention and man, do I need one right now.  So far my list includes "Phone charger cord.  Almonds.  Blazer."

I told you I was doing a poor job of multi-tasking.  Real grown-ups make organized lists and not random stream-of-consciousness scribbles on the back of an envelope for Christ's sake!  Ah well, unmasked once again -- if there's such a thing as a real grown up I. Ain't. It.

Part of why the break is such a welcome relief is that there have been some changes at work I haven't had time to write about here. (I've barely had time to write here period, let alone get all personal and chatty about my fear -- why is it always fear? <sigh> -- and daily challenges on the job.)  They've moved me to a different restaurant from the cozy one I started at.  Lest you think this is some sort of endorsement on their part, I'm afraid it's more akin to a battlefield promotion.  Someone quit, then someone else quit... if my bosses are like the little boy sticking his fingers in the dyke to stem the flood, then I, dear readers, am one of the fingers gettin' stuck.

Much (much) busier. Much harder.  A much younger crew. I say this without (too much) exaggeration:  I come home from work sometimes and think "this job is actually shaving years off my life."

Boo hoo, poor me.

Never fear.  AA works.  Some days I'm grateful -- I just wake up that way with my head on straight.

Some days I have to get to grateful -- and it's like starting a car on a cold winter's morning.  Takes a couple turns of the ignition key and a little "rrrr...rrrr...rrrr" before it starts up.  And even then you have to sit and let it idle some.

And some days... some days it's like that thing that fell on the floor and rolled under the sofa and you lay down on the rug and sneeze at all the dust bunnies you discover and stretch your arm all the way out and fish around and you can only just brush it with your finger tips and then the very act of doing so seems to push it that little bit farther away and out of reach and your head space is simply crap all day.

Since I've had a few more of those last types of mornings lately than I care to confess, even with all the damn writing and praying and sponsees and blah blah blah, a weekend of AA out of town is (possibly) quite literally a life-saving prescription from Dr. God. (who, by the way, does take all kinds of insurance, but the lab work is still killer and covered under a different plan.)

"Arrange someone to check on cats" goes on the list. 

"Kindle" on the list.

The new restaurant -- and the drama around this which isn't entirely in my head -- has prompted a fresh round of spiritual examination, too.  Seems to be God's will that some people are cashiers at Walmart. Or cooks in my kitchen (which is hot, hard work.  I'm a really nice boss, but it is still really hot, hard work).  What if you don't like God's will for you?  You can do the footwork right?  But what if

Wait. STOP.  Now you see why a weekend of AA for me can be filed under "potentially life saving."  The "What if's" are about as useless as the "Why's" when it comes to God and God's will.  Accept or skewer yourself on the kabob of your famously, redundantly, riotous self-will.  Or shut up and do the footwork and (as always, damnit) stay out of the result. (Aargh!  I literally want to scream at that sometimes.)

"Kindle Charger" on the list.

"Toothbrush" list.

"Comb. Chapstick."  Wait, is that one of those can't-take-with-you things for airplanes now? I've been able to avoid flying for quite a while.  Oh well, if they need to confiscate my chapstick they're welcome to it.

And I have a new boss. Which is another whole post for another whole day, I assure you.  Suffice to say that he has, so far, not proven to be a huge fan of the Mr. SponsorPants Experience. And sometimes that is in your head, and sometimes it isn't.  This... isn't. 

Boo hoo, poor me.  Did you know there are children in Africa who have so many flies around their eyes that from a distance they appear to be wearing glasses?  (Multi-tasking! I'm also watching an interview with a former President who does a lot of wonderful charity work around the world.  He's talking about the more than two million latrines they've dug in the sub-sahara regions, transforming whole villages' hygiene almost overnight.  And I am whining about my boss who might not like me as much as I want him to.  Jesus.)  Perspective SP?  BUT... perspective is good -- IMPORTANT -- but my life is my life and my problems are MY problems and I'm the one who needs to do something about it.  What's that part in the Big Book about the retired clergyman sighing about the sins of the 20th Century?  Awareness of the world and the deplorable things sometimes found in it must not be used to completely undercut myself.  That, too, is as out-of-balance as NO awareness of the world and a complete self-focus.

Oh man, some of this music is old, old drinking music.  Music I listened to when sneaking out of the house, stealing my dad's car out of the garage and driving out into the night.  Purchased in a nostalgic sweep of emotion, sometimes it takes me right back to being that sad boy on those mad nights of very bad freefall.  Let's... let's skip listening to those this evening, shall we?

The new kids who work for me have divined so far that I don't drink, and that I am a man of a certain age with a suspicious amount of knowledge about old Broadway musicals, books, movies and television they've never heard of.  I try not to judge, but at least once a day I tell them all they are woefully un-informed and that by having the poor judgement to be born as late as they were they missed... well, simply everything fun and interesting, and must now wander a barren pop landscape of "Real Housewives" and Little Heinie, or Baby Lulu -- or whatever that poor child with the tv show and the sugar addiction is called.  They pause in whatever they're doing and look at me like rabbits, confused by the oncoming headlights of a strange and maybe dangerous car barreling towards them.

See? AA Weekend.  Stat.

 

 

The Monkey's Paw: Be careful what you wish for.

 

"The Monkey's Paw" is a short story written by W.W. Jacobs and originally published in England in 1902.

The tale, in short: A military man returns from serving in India with a monkey's paw, supposedly enchanted and able to grant three wishes.  Though there are the usual dire warnings about consequences and such, a couple uses the paw to wish for money to make their final house payment.  Shortly after the wish their son is killed in a horrible machinery accident and the sum they receive in compensation is the amount needed for their final payment.  After the funeral, distraught with grief, the mother wishes their son back.  A short while later, shambling footsteps drag up the front walk followed by a hollow knocking at the front door.  While the mother races to open the door, the father, knowing what horror is likely standing on the other side, wishes their boy away again.  Although different tellings and adaptations over the years ascribe high minded language about fate and fortune to the story, I've always thought the more direct "Be careful what you wish for" hit the nail on the head. (Or the paw on the palm, I suppose.)

 

* * * * *

 

I've written before about how my current job, while something I'm grateful for -- and a place I completely acknowledge where I've grown and changed in big and wonderful ways -- is not anything even remotely close to what I hoped/dreamt for in life -- especially at this age.  Having shared that, let me add that I know gratitude is not a homework assignment.  I can be sincerely grateful for something, see and enjoy all the good in it, and still have a vision of something different.

In fact -- and this is important for me -- the idea of seeking gratitude for what I have in my life cannot become a club I use to bludgeon myself into some sorry kind of stagnation.  It should neither be a way I blind myself from considering new paths nor an impediment to forward motion.  (For the record no one ever suggested it should be.  It's what my twisty thoughts and gnarly perspective sometimes take away from discussions about being grateful in sobriety.  Sometimes in the back of my mind I discover all kinds of "shoulds" and "shouldnt's" with no idea how they grew there.  Quietly, I suppose, like toadstools in the dark.)  Wanting more -- or even wanting different -- does not automatically equal being ungrateful for what you have.  It can mean that, yes -- so it's something to look at -- but it doesn't always mean that.

For me, gratitude is one important way I keep a conscious contact with a God of my understanding; a healthy perspective on what I have and what I've been given rather than a pointless focus on what I lack (and therein lies the true stagnation).  But sometimes the itch is to build on the gifts I've been given, not just to appreciate them.  Emmett Fox calls it "Divine Discontent" and uses the somewhat cliche but very apt analogy of the caterpillar and the butterfly to illustrate this concept. 

 

* * * * *

 

I've been praying to God for help with the work thing.  Specifically, I've been praying big, open-ended, "get me out of here is this all there is get me out of here throw me a rope throw me a rope throw me a rope" kinds of prayer.  I know I have to do the footwork, but in a big Universe full of wild miracles and crazy opportunities I've built a decent track record for knocking on doors and doing the aforementioned footwork to go through them -- but sometimes I need God to reveal the damn door, and my throw-me-a-rope-God's are my way of asking for that.  Certainly AA is wise to suggest that I "pray only for God's will for me and the power to carry that out" as it helps me stay away from resentments and expectations of God and how H/She works, but I think praying for, in essence, other ways to use the gifts I've been given lines up nicely with that.  (I know, deeply, that I am a whisker's breadth away from some spiritual lawyering there, weaving rhetoric and warping context to bolster my own bullshit, but I don't think I'm quite there.  Of course, we never do, do we?)

And my prayer has been answered.

I'm out of the restaurant I've been managing.

And into a different restaurant for the same company.  Busier, much more challenging and far less convenient, commute-wise.  Full disclosure:  There is a modest raise with this transfer, so there is that.

Now, before the kind hearted and well-intentioned of you gently point out that this might count as some kind of endorsement from the top folks at this fledgling enterprise I'm afraid I must inform you that this is much more akin to a battlefield promotion.  They're in a mad scramble to fill the suddenly open spots, not truly rewarding/acknowledging jobs well done.

And I confess, once this was laid on me and I had time to digest it, I had a pretty sour, "Be careful what you pray for" bubble up inside.  As if a God who gave me the opportunity to save my life would then spend the rest of it punishing me every time I made an honest request; or would turn my open-hearted prayer into a way to 'teach me a lesson.'  Truly, that is superstition, not spirituality:  Appease the volcano God or suffer the consequences.

 

* * * * *

 

So today the challenge on Planet SponsorPants is to keep an open mind -- or rather, to keep prying it back open after it slams shut under the weight of projection and ego and fear (the usual suspects).  My years sober help me recognize these things happening to me -- and maybe fluency with the tools of AA allows me to address them more quickly -- but the years don't prevent them from occurring.

The challenge is to keep faith, and not let my spirituality slip into that subtle but simplistic superstition; that is, a loving God will always give me a good result, there is no "monkey's paw effect" at play once I have "made a decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of God as I understand God."  It is only my head, torturing me again, deciding all is ashes before I've even lit the fire.

I have to work to remember the great AA adage (we probably stole it, but I heard it in AA first), which is roughly this:  The worst things in my life never happened to me.

And finally, I have to keep my eyes open to the fact that over and over and over in my life -- and in the lives of the people in Recovery around me -- there is profound evidence that if I can approach each situation as a way for me to give rather than get, as a way to be of service, then my head straightens back out and quiets down and my heart opens back up and the little nuisances in life are just that.  Little.

 

* * * * *

 

I can get there. 

Well, I can get back there.  (Not truly there this minute.)

But it's not effortless.

Not yet.  (It'll get easier though.)

In the grand scheme of things this is hardly on the same level as bad medical news or unjust jail time or random tragedy striking.  I know that.  On a basic level it's simply one more time, things are not the way I want them to be.  It's just that as an alcoholic sometimes that can be justification for some powerful, foolish, self-destructive decisions.  I feel that part of me growling in its sleep.

So I just keep on -- we keep on -- and try not to indulge the worst parts of ourselves; try not to awaken the King Baby of Bridge Burning and Self Destruction, so I can more easily see the miracles which keep coming down the road.

That's my mantra for this morning.

 

 

 

 _________________________________________________________________

 

There are more stories like this one in "Mr. SponsorPants: Adventures in Sobriety and The 12 Steps for AA's and Others."  Available as an eBook on Kindle via Amazon.  Download the Kindle reader app for free on any device or platform, from PC to Smartphone, and enjoy eBooks anywhere you have time to read.

 

At work: Just a week or so ago...

 

 

Just a week or so ago...

 

"So then she told me I should quit my job right away and check in to a rehab."  She was sitting in the office, telling me of her experiences in meetings and the beginning of her search for a sponsor.  And she was clearly troubled by some of what she was hearing from people.

"Well I'm glad you didn't, I'd miss working with you and I'd have a helluva time finding someone to fill out the schedule on short notice."  I replied.  She got the intended humor and gave a soft, rye chuckle.

"But really, that kind of stuff freaks me out -- and I don't want someone too controlling!"

I could hear both the real fear and the manufactured drama in her statement.

"May I offer some thoughts on this whole thing?"  When I had my boss hat on I didn't ask permission to offer anything.  I just gave it.  I gave guidance, information or instructions about work.  But when I had this other, harder-to-put-a-name-to-but-clearly-not-a-boss hat on I was in the habit of asking before volunteering anything.  We were sitting in the office and I was counting out the cash drawers while she waited to clock in -- she who used to have trouble getting to work on time and now seemed to come in a little early perhaps just to have this time to talk.

"Sure."

"Well," I made little piles of change as I spoke; clink-clink-clink, and we both looked at the coins as I stacked them. "The suggestion seems pretty extreme on the surface.  But I think maybe you should consider the spirit of what they were trying to say."

"The spirit of it."  She sounded a little doubtful.

"Yes.  If you were diagnosed with 3rd Stage Scary Disease Number 5, and to save your life you needed to get medical treatment right away, you'd pretty much drop everything and get that treatment, yes?"

She considered it.  "Well... yes."

"So," now I made piles of singles, 25 per pile, and paperclipped each pile together "the spirit of this suggestion is that the self diagnosis of alcoholism is equally serious, and should be equally attention getting, and treated with the same level of urgency.  Even if what they said seems -- to both of us, I might add -- maybe a little extreme, the spirit of this suggestion is worthwhile.  This is serious, life-or-death business, and you would be wise to treat it as such."

"Okay.  That makes sense."

Money is dirty.  I looked at the grunge accumulating on my fingers in disgust as I went on to count out the fives, tens and twenties into their own bundles.

She began tearing open the deposit bags for me and sticking labels on them as we chatted.  "Right. Okay.  But it freaks me out when people are so... I don't want anyone too controlling.  It makes me not want to..." she trailed off, knowing by now my opinion on the importance of going to meetings.

"I understand.  But look," I said, filling out the little log and writing in how much change I wanted my opening Shift Leader to order from the bank, "say you went into a bar, and the bartender was a real asshole; intense and weird and trying to tell you where to sit or what to drink or whatever.  Would you say, 'Wow, that bartender is a controlling freak!  Because I met them I am never going to go to a bar again!'"

She giggled a little at the thought, which was what I was hoping for.  "No!"

"Okay," I stopped fussing with the banking and put my hands in my lap and looked at her directly, "then maybe that's what you should do with AA.  There are going to be a lot of people who, in their zeal to be helpful to you, might initially come across as 'too much' for you.  That's ok, but to use them as a reason not to go back to meetings is as silly and nonsensical as giving up going to bars because of some intense encounter with a bartender."

She smiled, "That makes sense, actually."

"Yes, it does.  My experience is that going to AA meetings saved my life.  I went to two a day for probably the first whole year."  (It was probably two a day for a couple of years, but I didn't want to slide myself into the 'Too Much' Column for her.)

"I'm going to two a day right now."  This offered in a small voice.

"Well, in my humble opinion that's wonderful, and I hope you keep on.  How do you feel?"

"Better, actually."

"Can I ask...?"

"9.  9 whole days sober."

"That. Is. Fan. Tastic.  Can I give you a hug?"  There's a camera in the office, and surely, if someone were to watch us in playback it might be an odd thing to see, but right at that moment I didn't give one flying eff.

She smiled big.  "Sure." We were of an age, and a hug between us was clearly a hug between friends, an AA hug and nothing more. I gave her a quick hug and then she pulled her string of Welcome Chips out of her pocket -- I was charmed to see she carried them with her like that -- I'd done the same thing -- and we chatted and cracked wise a little more before she started her shift.

I didn't want to say anything to her yet, but she was already... different.  One of the kids at work mentioned it to me the other night in fact, independant of my own observation.  A light was coming on in her eyes.  Her posture was changing.  Certainly this is in no small part due to the physiological effect of detoxing from chronic alcohol abuse -- the body is a marvelous mechanism and given a chance to heal will do so with speed and power.  But there was more to it as well.  I'd seen it before in others getting sober in AA.  We never notice a difference in ourselves -- not for a long time anyway -- but it is apparent to the people around us.  Spiritual healing is as visible, as palpable, as real as physical healing.  And that's what was beginning to take root in her.

'God puts people together for a reason' is something I've quoted to many sponsees.  (If there's a God, and today I vote yes, there Is.)

God creates an opportunity to be of service, for one alcoholic to help another be in the middle of AA's lifeboat, stay sober, and in virtually every way change their lives for the better.

I knew in my heart that this was another one of those opportunities.

But let me be absolutely clear about one thing in this:  The person being helped, being saved, being centered in the middle of the lifeboat and getting the chance to change for the better isn't her.

It's me.

 

At work: Several Weeks Ago...

 

Several Weeks Ago...

 

There was a problem with the fax machine, and although in this age of iGadgets and Tablet technology a fax sounds charmingly old school, the fact was that we use it quite a bit, so a problem with the fax was a problem I needed to fix.

I muttered and tinkered and cursed, and finally figured that it was potentially a problem on the phone line, which led me to call the phone company and begin climbing up the long tree of automated prompts to get to speak to a live person.

"If you are an existing ATT customer, Press 1. If you are a new customer, Press 2.  Para espanol, selecte nueve."

I pressed 1, and climbed from the first branch of the prompt tree to the next, thinking to myself that I should have gotten a fresh cup of coffee before starting this ascent.

"If this call is regarding Home Service Press 1.  For Business Accounts, Press 2."

And so on.

What seemed like twenty but was more likely no more than ten minutes later I was closing in on a live tech. (I'd already tried jabbing the zero button and the pound button repeatedly to get kicked to a live person, but the Prompt Tree was not so easily thwarted.)

"For technical support, please stay on the line, a technician will be with you shortly."

Finally! 

And then the door of the office burst open.

"Look!" she said, half in triumph, half in defiance.  She thrust her hands out in front of me.

"Please stay on the line, your call is important to us.  A technician will be with you shortly."

"Oh. Um. Wow?"  I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be looking at.

"This is what two days without a drink looks like."  Belatedly I noticed that her hands were shaking.

"Wait, what?" I was dumfounded.  She knew I was in AA (most of work now knew I didn't drink, but that was the extent of it) because she had overheard some of my friends talking to me -- discreetly -- but since she'd taken a pass at recovery herself several years ago she knew enough of the language to put two and two together and come up with sober.

"Yes.  I... I haven't had a drink in two days."

"And you've got the shakes?!?  My God, how much have you..."

"Please stay on the line, your call is important to us, a technician will be with you shortly."

We'd talked about different issues once she'd found out I was in recovery.  It's not the first time at a job I've found myself walking the delicate line between co-worker (supervisor) and 12 Stepper, so this wasn't entirely uncharted territory.

(At almost every job I've ever had, from the beginning of my sobriety, there's always one alcoholic or addict or something placed on my path -- once I worked for someone who was a bulimarexic, which means that she starved herself, and the one cracker or whatever she would allow herself in a given week she would then try and throw up.  She was a good boss though.  Except for her propensity to faint.  And leave clumps of hair in the break room.)

All of which is to say that I have had practice in balancing my spiritual journey with my career path  --  I swear, I don't go looking for it.  I'd rather be a quiet example of sobriety when I'm on the clock than get all involved in 12th Stepping.  But when the Universe gives me a Cue... what's a sober guy to do?  As Alcoholics Anonymous' Responsibility Declaration states:  "I am responsible.  When anyone, anywhere, reaches out for help I want the hand of AA always to be there.  And for that, I am responsible."

So she started telling me her story -- or, the most recent chapter of it.  Which began with the fact that she's got a long drive home from work, and had apparently been buying a bottle of wine to drink on the way.  (Atta girl!)  And then once home... so these shakes were the real deal.

"If you've got the shakes then you should really look into maybe a medically supervised..."

"Please stay on the line, your call is important to us.  A technician will be with you shortly."

Damn I should hang up. This is important.  But I'd been caught completely off guard, and had some resentments about work on simmer in my psychic kitchen and to be honest I was... it was a curve ball I didn't want... I just didn't want to have one more damn thing to manage, especially...

"Please stay on the line, your call is important to us.  A technician will be with you shortly."

"I was hoping" she looked down "maybe you could suggest some meetings or..."

I sighed inside. 

"Please stay on the line..." I heard a human voice interrupt the recording. "Hello, thank you for calling ATT Technical Support, my name is Daniel, how can I assist you?"

I could climb the tree again.  Have a cup of coffee while I was at it, too.

"Thank you, Daniel, but I'll have to call back."  I put the phone gently in its cradle.  "Of course I can.  Do you have a Meeting Directory?" 

I know it's all a little pat.  I don't blame you for thinking I might be making some of this up.  'fraid not. 

I reached into my bag -- and it was too cute that I'd bought a new Directory at the last meeting I'd been to.  So funny, that Higher Power.  Such a Card.  "Here's where all the little abreviations are explained, like a Closed Meeting or Open, or a Women's Meeting or whatever..."  I gave her the Directory after we highlighted a few meetings and dog eared a page or two.

I can handle one more thing at work.  I have a lot on my plate, but I also have a Primary Purpose (look it up.)  It's not my solitary purpose, but it is my Primary one.

And because...

Because if I pray to be of service, if I pray for God to use me as God will, then it's a little counter productive to not actually be of service when called upon to do so.

Because when I was newly sober, with my own hands shaking from detox, everyone I met in AA made me feel like helping me was the most important thing in the world to them -- and that it was no trouble at all.

Because I know a little about this person -- we're of an age, and have had some issues on the job -- and I know a little about alcoholism, and I know what it costs to ask the only person you know in AA for help in connecting with AA.  And at that moment I was likely the only person they knew who was in AA. 

Because when anyone, anywhere, reaches out for help, I want the hand of AA to be there.

And for that, I am responsible.

 

.

"I don't even know what the subject line should be"

 

I am woefully behind in answering emails to Mr. SponsorPants, but hope to get that sorted in short order, and to put some new emails up here on the blog this week.

But this email, from one of the kids at work, was waiting for me when I got in this morning.  The subject line was, "I don't even know what the subject line should be":

Mr. Sponsorpants, it has been brought to my attention that [co-worker] has been very vocal in their disdain in regards to when I am the Lead. Basically, they're upset about how I handled Thursday night by keeping them on the register all night. Frankly, it is my opinion that is where they contribute best. They get good tips and can't get distracted and go off on some tangent. They feel that my management was poor because I didn't have anyone else jump on the register when there was a line, and they had to stay there all night. The phone didn't stop ringing and that was basically [other co-worker's] job all night and [other other co-worker] (my eternal life savor) was running and packing. I also didn't want to put [other co-worker] on the register because the kitchen would constantly get slammed by long phone orders and ticket times would become too long. Please let me know how I should handle this situation next time. Thank you.

 

After I composed a reply to them I reread what I'd written -- as is my habit with all business communication -- before I clicked "Send."  I had to chuckle at myself.  Truly, without consciously choosing to strike that note, AA and its principles inform every part of how I deal with the people who work for/with me.  "In all our affairs" indeed.

My reply:

Hi [their name],

It sounds to me as though you handled the situation just right.  You deployed your team to their strengths, taking into account each individuals abilities, and balancing that against the needs of the kitchen and ultimately the guests overall.  If you were on stage I would be clapping and shouting "Bravo!"

Some further points to consider:

First:  I am very happy with the job you're doing as Lead -- it's no surprise to me at all, after having worked with you, that you're organized and focused and able to run a shift on the floor and also handle the office/money paperwork in the back (with only the occasional minor admin blooper which everyone is vulnerable to late at night after a long shift).

Second:  We have a team of strong personalities, and people love, love, love to carry tales and spin a story about who said what about whom and to put things in the most negative light possible.  I don't know why this is, since on an individual basis I find everyone on the team a pleasure to work with -- I chalk it up to the sadly shady side of human nature, and the close-quarters pressure we sometimes feel when things are busy and we can see how close to the edge we are before everything starts going South.  I believe when people do that they harm themselves far more than anyone else.  But here's the Bottom Line: If I trust you with the responsibility then I trust you with the authority.  If you like them on the register for your shift then I am fine with that.

Thirdly:  Welcome to Leadership!  This is part of the package I'm afraid.  Someone will vent about something and then someone else will come and tell you about it -- and then you have to not abuse the power of the Leadership position and supervise them and be fair minded and put the needs of the business above personal concerns. That's what being a good lead/supervisor/manager/human being is about.

True example:  One of our Leads here had a habit of, after talking with me about something and not getting their way, going out to the Front and saying to the other Team Member there, "Mr. SponsorPants is a terrible General Manager." (It's funny how people often think you're a terrible boss if you don't do things the way they think they should be done -- which generally involves something for themselves -- but that's a conversation for another time.)  Then of course the Team Member they said this to would come up to me while I was eating my lunch and say, "I just wanted you to know that so-and-so is walking around saying you are a terrible General Manager." Oh. Well then. Thank you for telling me.  Could you pass the ketchup?

To be good a good Leader (and to be good at all the jobs we may ever have) the thing to do is not to take things personally and let it change how you deal with people either as peers or as people you supervise.  Sure, feelings can get hurt, some comments can sting more than others, but you don't let it change how you do the job.  Because when you do that then they are leading you.

Whether it's the person who said something or the person who carried the tale to you, they are pushing your buttons (whether accidentally or on purpose) and if you let the reaction to that button-pushing color how you do your job then you hurt yourself far worse than the sting of unfair feedback or unkind criticism.  If you get to that place, then you're just reacting, not Leading.

I think you are doing a terrific job -- we all have areas to work on but on the whole you're rapidly becoming one of my strongest Leads.

Let's take a few minutes next time we're both here and talk about this a little more if you want.

Cheers!

Mr. SponsorPants

The AA's I first met when I was newly sober told me a few things about work.  They told me that all the jobs I may ever have will always be my second job.  My first job is to stay sober and help another alcoholic achieve sobriety.  They also told me that God was my employer (and in that case I would like to suggest to my Higher Power that it's time for a raise.)  They told me that the way to find peace in a troubled work situation -- whether the trouble comes from without or within (and for me so often it comes from within) -- is to view the job as an opportunity to be of service.  And finally they told me to be a living example of The Big Book -- whether or not people ever find out you're in AA.  Those last two sentiments in particular have always loomed large in my consciousness. (Especially going on 14 months in this position).  Truly grateful to be employed, but truly wish I was on a different path.  Regardless, it's my absolute privilege to try and pass along my professional experience, infused with 12 Step principles, to these kids (I have thirty years on most of them, I think I can call them "kids" with impunity) in any way I can -- and when I get the chance to do so it changes a job which can sometimes feel like, well, like a place I wasn't aiming for (at all) to a place I can feel really good about being.

Grow where you're planted, right?  (Even if it's not the garden you would ever have chosen).

 

Simplistic? Yes. Hokey? A little. Effective? Very.

 

 

One of the young women who works for me has become increasingly sour towards the general public.

This is a problem, since, you know, we work with the general public.

To her mind she's encountered too many rude, arrogant, difficult, unbalanced people.  ("What the hell are you complaining about, it's me they wind up melting down on."  I thought.  "Oh, you poor dear." I thought.)

"Ok.  Here's what I want you to do.  Take this piece of paper, and divide it into three columns."

She took the paper, and then she made a face.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

"No!"

"Yes you did, you rolled your eyes at me."

"I did not!"

"Well, you made a face."

"No I didn't."

"Yes.  You did.  You made the teenage daughter face.  But..."

"But what?"

"Well, it wasn't a very good one."

"I did not make a face!"

"Yes you did, you made a totally lame teenage daughter face."

"What does a totally lame teenage daughter face look like?"

Gotcha.

"Like this." I said, making a totally lame teenage daughter face, rolling my eyes up, blowing my imaginary bangs up out of my eyes and making a sound which my mother once called a "toots."

She laughed, because I am a large, somewhat ridiculous and mildly flamboyant middle aged man, thus a teenage daughter face on me looks... well, at the very least we can call it out of place.  But the laugh was the point, and now we were on track for listening rather than shutting down.

"It's a magic trick and a scientific experiment.  Trust me.  You have the paper with three columns.  On the top of one you write "mean" and in the middle one you write "neutral" and in the last one you write "nice." 

"You want me to keep score on how people are."

"Sort of, that's only the first part.  Do it for an hour and then I want to see the paper."

-- one hour later --

"Show me." I demanded.

The score:  Mean - 16  Neutral - 23  Nice - 8

She gave me a careful look.  "This is supposed to help me how?"

"Hush.  Now, for the next two hours, you keep score, but you do something that you haven't been doing."

"What's that?"

"Smile really big before you say anything to each guest."

"I have been smiling!"

"No, you haven't.  I've been watching.  You've been offering people a tight-lipped grimace which makes it look like either you would rather be doing anything else other than smiling at them or that you have a thumb tack in your shoe.  You don't, do you?"

She did not dignify such silliness with a response.

"Do it and then in two hours I want to see the paper.  And I will be right over there, writing the schedule, watching to see you don't cheat."

I got another face, but as I watched, she gamely smiled away.

 -- two hours later --

"Show me."

The score: Mean - 5 Neutral - 9  Nice - 88.

"Ok, you made your point."  She said.

"What was the point I was making?"

"That if I smile big at people they will respond better."

"No, that wasn't the point.  That's true, but that wasn't the point."

"Then what was it?"

"That you have the power to change your perception and your experience of the world.  That you can do that simply and easily.  That if you find people are difficult you might be better served by looking at how you've been treating them rather than how they've been treating you."

"Oh."

"And there's one more thing, too."

"What's that?"

"If you go back to the snarky grimace, our next conversation won't be anywhere near as fun as this one.  Ok?"

She laughed a little but had the grace to look chagrined, too.  "Ok."

"Good." 

Off she went to her break.  Another employee had been around during this whole exchange, and sidled up to me after she'd left.  "Can I ask you something?"  He asked.

"Sure."

"You're the boss.  Why all the rigmarole?  Why not just tell her to smile or you'll write her up?"

Because AA has irrevocably changed me for the better.  I thought.

"Because that wouldn't have stuck.  She'd have done it for the first couple of customers and then she'd likely be right back to sourpuss."

He thought about that.  "She still might."

"Yes," I conceded, "but maybe not.  And maybe she learned something.  And if so, then it was three hours well spent -- two of them with better customer service happening, too.  I'm gonna call that a win."

He shrugged.  "I guess.  Be easier to write her up."

"Have you ever written someone up?  Have you ever fired someone?"

"Me? No."

"Okay then.  Take my word for it, this is much easier."

And this is helpful.  I thought.  This is a way to be of service.  And that's the point for me.

 

Attack of the Killer Salad Dressing

 

 

It was apparent to even a casual observer that the poor woman had a lot more going on than just a typical case of nerves, low blood sugar or "having a bad day-itis".

When she ordered her salad, she said to the cashier "And please make sure that there is no salad dressing -- absolutely none! -- anywhere even near my salad.  If there is, I could die!"

(Sometimes for the sake of a good story exclamation points and italics will be used to give someone's statements a little flavor -- to slant a characterization into a kind of hyperbolic delivery.  I assure you, no matter which words I emphasize and no matter how many exclamation points I deploy, I cannot possibly express in writing the quivering, hysterical, vehement, anxious and aggressive way in which this woman spoke.  And I am not mocking, I am describing.)

My cashier was a trouper, and did a great job of being respectful and sincere (I have a terrific team) "Yes m'am.  I have a button on the terminal just for that.  'No dressing.'  May I get you anything else?"

"Just make sure..." she repeated the mortal danger she was in should even a drop of salad dressing land on her plate.  "If it's even in a those little cups on the side of the plate, I could die!" (That's honest-to-god a direct quote). 

"Yes m'am."

She was in her seat for all of three minutes when she got up and spoke to the busboy, repeating her concerns and, frankly, working herself up a little more.  I was stuck on the phone with a Big Problem and couldn't get over to her immediately.  I gave my Lead a Look and he went over and rescued the busboy, who by now was a little frightened, since he's only on disc three ESL program we got him.

Back to her seat she went.

For all of another two minutes.

I was going nuts stuck on the phone, but the call was wrapping up.  I watched her go up to the other cashier and ask where her food was, and repeat again about the salad dressing and how she could die if there was any on her salad.  I could see my team slide this Guest into the Crazy column and start to stop listening.

Suffice to say she managed to speak to every single person working the shift (six, total) and become more agitated by the minute that her food was not at her table.

I finally had the chance to speak with her myself.

I gave my Kitchen Manager a look that said "This guest's salad, NOW" as she was almost screaming that she was a diabetic and did I want to see her medical card?  I assured her I did not.  I offered to get her juice, or fruit, or go to the market (next door) for whatever she might need and that her salad would be up in a moment, but to that she replied "I'm not here on vacation you know!"  (yeah, I have no clue either.)

And here's where it really went south:

Somehow (I put this together after the fact) in talking to one of the staff and describing how the dressing in the little cups on the side of the plate placed her in mortal danger as much as dressing on the salad itself (and language barriers figure into this again) they thought she wanted the dressing in little cups on the side, and in an effort to help went back to the kitchen and wrote "dressing on the side" on her ticket -- so when her salad came through the Expediter Window it had no dressing on it, but two little cups of dressing were perched (like vipers!) on the side of the plate.  And naturally, she was standing right there when it came through the window, having gotten up again to check where her food was.

I do not have the talent as a writer to describe accurately the fit of hysterical screaming which ensued.

Eventually we got her a salad without dressing -- eventually being about thirty more seconds. She sat and ate it, the rest of the diners somewhat subdued and unsure where to look.  I (obviously) voided her payment and approached her table to give her the receipt showing the charge as voided and apologize (again).

"You are humiliating me!  Get away from me!"

Obviously there was nothing more to do in a case like this, and I retreated.

My team was frightened and embarrassed (one of those is the correct response actually.  Regardless of how over-the-top she was, we screwed up her order.  Sure, there's context, but at the end of the day the score is the score.  Did we get it right or did we get it wrong?  It was a simple request and we got it wrong.)

Eventually a general buzz of conversation filled the air again, and finally she left.  Right or wrong, I was relieved to see her go.

I spoke to each of the people on the shift and in the kitchen to both find out how we screwed it up and help them shake it off -- we had a whole lunch to get through after that, and they needed to do it with smiles and aplomb.

Later, I closed the door of my office and just took some deep breaths.  I thought for a minute about the camera, and how maybe I was being watched and should be on the floor of the restaurant rather than sitting there with my head in my hands.

I muttered a barely audible and deeply sincere "fuckit" and kept taking some deep breaths.

The poor woman was obviously a tortured soul, and regardless of how horrible and enraging and embarrassing it is to be spoken to in the way she went off on me, the strongest thing I felt was compassion -- I couldn't imagine what her daily life must be like.

But it also struck me that -- if I wanted to (and I did, at that moment) -- I could draw a little parable from the Universe about footwork and control and results from the whole incident. 

Because the fact was, when she ordered her salad, we got it right.  The ticket was correct.  And sure, sometimes in life you need to follow up and give due diligence, but if she had just made her order and trusted the process her salad would likely have come out quickly and correctly.  It was her constant, repeated attempts to involve herself in the process, check on the process, guide the process, which was what actually produced the exact opposite result from the very one she so desperately desired.

That's a good take away from this.

I can make myself crazy -- and I think it is ultimately folly -- to spend too much time trying to divine lessons from events in my life.  Whatever I get from it on the first pass is probably what I was meant to get.  Worrying at it like the proverbial dog with a bone is eventually just an exercise in self obsession.  If there's more for me to perceive it will reveal itself, I don't have to keep rearranging the mental pieces to see if there's something I missed.

So it was a good reminder about footwork vs. control, and trusting the process and such -- but to be honest with you (and You, Universe) I just don't know why I had to wipe some poor, tortured, abusive, crazy woman's spittle off my glasses to be reminded of it.

 

And so it goes...