Mr. Popular

It is amazing how popular becomes a mediocre, laid back guy in a fast paced, talented and hard-working team, after he tended his resignation. Suddenly the under-skilled, non-productive, quiet and cool (from fear of saying stupid things) underachiever becomes Mr. Popular: everyone stops him on the hallway to say “hi”, invites him out for lunch, asks about his vacation plans (his favourite subject by far), wants to get his private contact info, and while the list of reasons goes on and on, the communication is imbued with un-dissimulated admiration. The most emphatic admirers are those who suffered, like Mr. Popular, the constant pressure of a crazy boss who wants results, involvement, out of box thinking, dedication and modesty, a cocktail that doesn’t sell anymore nowadays, including in those as flashy as lame tv sitcoms with lawyers and stock brokers who lose their sleep over their work more than Albert Einstein in those lengthy days and longer nights when he was close to write down e=mc2, but not quite on it.

Mr. Popular enjoys the fame that landed on him with the unavoidability of a bird poop. He suddenly discovers himself being placed in everyone’s centre of attention. He is the delight of the masses. The constant preoccupation of the fools (more like a royal family, wouldn’t you agree?) People who never exchanged more than a few formal words with him throughout the year ("Hey, how are you? Good!") stop him on the hallway to have an ample discussion about his new job: “Wow, really? Is that so? What about your wife, how is she coping with the change? Is that so? Wow! That is cool, man. I'm really happy for you! Congratulations!” And when they say "congratulations" they use the same sneer as when they say "f... you."

And on top of everything everyone is asking him out for lunch. Could be the fact that Mr. Popular had decided to move his lusterless career to a big institution, where an insider, a good friend of his, put a few good words to another guy, who’s been in cahoots with another insider, who put a few good words to the director of whatever, and so on the story goes. It seems that that’s the kind of institution where people carry insiders instead of shadows. And the things turn eerie, when the insiders-shadows retire (oh, yeah, that's the kind of company where nobody in his right mind leaves, buddy), or move out (sure, there’s always Florida!) or simply die. And then try to imagine a guy without a shadow, to have in mind a bit of the image I’m picturing right now in my mind. I can bet that whomever invites Mr. Popular out for lunch (still at modest restaurants, as he is not a big shot, after all, and he may never become one, based on what he showed so far, so why waste the money?) thinks that someday in a not such a distant future, Mr. Popular could be the insider who will pull him up on the steady ship of guaranteed retirement, sailing the still waters of business with tax payers’ money. You guessed, of course: Mr. Popular will be another one of those guys in the maze-like government offices.

Which guy would not feel his level of testosterone going up when almost everybody in the office would be taking delight in his mere presence? Or wouldn’t smirk or even scoff when questions he finds silly were addressed to him. Or smiling superior, and fully content with himself, when the people would start involving him in deep, subtle and sometimes intricate debates on topics that Mr. Popular had, has, and will have no clue about, ever. Like those challenging debates (they call them design sessions), where basic analytical skills and a time proof technological background are required and the problem solving desire is the main thing. Mr. Popular would listen carefully to all those questions addressed to him (he rehearsed this thing so many times with his workaholic boss), then for a few good seconds would plop his eyes high up in the ceiling, and with a deep, but barely noticeable sigh (oh, the thinker’s challenges!) would conclude: “Good approach… I will have to think about that. Can I get back to you… hmm, in a week?” And when he says that clearly introspective “hmm” Mr. Popular would stick his eyes like two sharp pieces of shrapnel in the eyes of the guy who asked for his advice. The sky is the limit when it comes to show his confidence now, when there’s no danger in being admonished for his poor knowledge and skills, or even remonstrated and, why not, punished (or even kicked out, eh?)

Only if he knew the deep secret I will carry with me in my grave, and cannot share with him or his close ones. I wonder what he’d do if he knew what I’m about to share with you, how would that change his behaviour, his confidence, his “look at me, learn from me” victorious stance? Would that erase the perpetual smile on his face? Would that change his affronting look, or his gay strut? And here’s how the story goes. A couple of weeks before the date, Mr. Popular confided in me that he had accepted the offer from a big company, running on governmental funds, and he even offered me details how strings have been pulled in his favour  to skip a technical interview, to be met by his future manager in a coffee shop and have a relaxed chat about life and universe, to fool around with HR about his leadership skills (“what would you do if you faced a cat fight?”), all these fancy stories being told with his carved up angelic smile… And one or two days after he told me that, our boss called me in his office to confide in me his thoughts (he’s been doing that many times, lately), sharing with me his concerns about Mr. Popular and the decision he came to: “I will let him go. I believe he’s a total f… up. Plus he has no technical background. He fooled me all these years…” My boss was innerved with rage, and when he’s in that particular mood he starts swearing. A while back he used to apologize after bad mouthing people, but after I told him that swearing is good, because it brings the human touch into the workplace, he stopped justifying himself. Now he just swears. And I felt like Mr. Duplicity himself, because my lips were sealed: I couldn’t tell him that Mr. Popular had already decided to quit. In the same time I realized that the number of gods cheering for Mr. Popular from their white, puffy thrones among cloudy columns in the blue temples was quite high. It’s not only here on hard ground that the people work diligently for Mr. Popular’s happiness, it is also high up in the skies where he has close friends and trustful allies.

One week after that, my boss invited Mr. Popular to have lunch with him into a sleek Italian restaurant, close to downtown. He treated Mr. Popular with lobster on rice, and they chatted about vacation plans. Next day Mr. Popular was my guest for lunch (I had to insist to have his pre-planned lunch with the asshole managing the Ops Team moved to the following day.) That’s how I found out about the lobster and vacation plans.

I, Me and the Others

I meet the others every day. I mean here the "others in my workplace." They are like family: you quickly get to dislike them, but like family, you cannot change them for others. Unless you run away from your family, which is the equivalent of handing in your resignation and moving to another company. Where you will find another family that you will dislike in a matter of months.

Why do we get to dislike ourselves so much, we, the people who give one third of their lives to be together in this common space we call workplace? Maybe the reason is in what I just said: because we give away one third of our lives to be together in this common space called workplace. We could do way more interesting things with this one third of our daily existence than just getting crammed into tiny cubicles, sweating over our screens that shell our brains with a barrage of information, hearing our neighbours scratching, coughing, mumbling or plain swearing, sometimes annoyed by their body odours, and for sure feeling their frustrations hovering in the air like fumes escaped from old car engines. But this is what people need to do in order to earn the right to spend the other third of their lives alone, in the comfort of their own households, far away of their fellow co-workers. I said the "other third", and the math didn't quite add up: two thirds do not make the whole. Yes, they do: the remaining third is the one you sleep through, and it doesn't matter. It's only organic recharge. It's just the process of refuelling, and getting re-capacitated for the other two thirds of your existence.

Yesterday, today and tomorrow are the same: the same workplace, the same tiny cubicles, the same people packed in like sardines, having to get along, to be nice to each other: real team players. But then there's always my cubicle, where I stash a few personalities (some people say "hats" instead of personalities, to show the lightness of this concept), each one adjusted to the "job requirements", which is a nice way to define the art of compromise that takes you through the day. From the wardrobe of my personalities, that gets bigger as I advance through my career years, I will choose two items: "I" and "me." These are the two profiles I use the most during my day of work. These are the inner selves I expose the most to my co-workers, of course.

"I" is used sparingly. This is my full blown inner-self, the full myself, standing tall, walking high, without the inhibitions of the political, diluting agents that need to remove the acid from the pool of my "ego." I use "I" only sometimes, when I cannot take it anymore and I have to snap out, have my saying. "I do not think this is the right thing to do," I found myself pounding my fists on the invisible table of conversation with my boss. "What makes you say that?" my boss inquires with a frown, and he barely refrains himself from doing what he likes doing the most: having an access of rage, and shouting out like a hysterical man: "How do you dare say that, you meaningless, abominably-insignificant-failed clone of a warm?" The "I" is the one that doesn't agree to things and loves to say that. This guy is the deal braker, the dissonant note in the hard trained chorus of "yes-sirees", a lame combination of mediocre tunes. The "I" is the dissident."I" stands for trouble-maker.

But there is always "me." "Me" means participation without questioning that goes deep down, and maybe hits the reason. "Me" is the surrender to the norm, the worshiper of the common place. Me and Derek finished the work, sir! Good work, lads! Which means that Derek did something, and I was there to do the remaining of Derek's something, wich means that none of us know the whole thing, only bits of it that may not even fit together. That's for the "I" to accomplish.
While "I" is bold and thorough, "me" is accommodating, shy, superficial, careful to avoid the conflict from fear of breaking the forcefully imposed, hence short-lived, harmony that imbibes any workplace with the strong odour of mediocrity."Include me in that meeting, please!" Which means that I'll be there, attending, but not willing to contribute.  

"I" is brazen, but can be stupid, because it takes chances without thinking too much of consequences. "Me" is more conservative, observes the norm, thinks in advance of the fallout. Therefore "me" is smarter. It has that kind of smartness that takes you through day after day until the final gong: the retirement party (for the lucky ones.)
I like "I" but I'd rather use "me." "I do not think that this is going to work, sir" sounds less safe, even riskier than "Me and Derek will look at it, make sure it will work." But it could carry the truth.
Because after all nobody wants to hear your "I" talking: everybody prefers your "me." It's more accommodating. It's team work what everybody is looking for, not excellency. The excellency is left for fools or visionaries. Which many times are the one and the same thing.