An Open Letter to My First Employer

Dear My First Employer,

Wow, how the time has flown by.  What has it been?  Well over 20 years now?  And the time has not been kind to you.  No, it has not.  You look kind of like Donovan when he drinks from the wrong chalice at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.  Poor Donovan.  Wonder what he’s up to now?  I should really look that up sometime.  But anyway, enough about what Donovan is doing.  This letter is to you, my first employer.

Now I know we didn’t leave on the greatest of terms.  You in the back of a police car and me in an ambulance.  But, hey, it was a traumatic day for everyone.  You, me, the other 14 employees, the 387 illegal immigrants contract employees, the fire department, the paramedics, the SWAT team, the INS agents, and that beautiful blonde news reporter.  She really didn’t know what to expect when she asked you what happened.  But the look on her face.  I still chuckle silently to myself about the look on her face when you answered her, your rage at its boiling point, your eyes slightly bulging from their sockets.  Your face as red as the Kool-Aid Man.  All your veins popping out of your forehead and neck.  No, she certainly wasn’t expecting that kind of performance from you.  And then the part where you came over and started strangling me.  That was so classic you.  Before I blacked out from the lack of air, I could only think in my head, “Wow, you sure do know how to put on a show!”  I hadn’t even planned on being on the news that evening.  But thanks for not hogging the spotlight for once like you normally did.  I was with your company almost 8 weeks and finally some credit where credit was due.  Honestly, sometimes when I wear a scarf on a cold morning or a tie to a formal event, I’m reminded of your strong hands clenched tightly around my neck that day.

After all these years, I can finally admit I wasn’t your best employee.  I think your best employee was Stan.  Good ol’ Stan.  What a kiss ass.  If he would have been any more up your butt he would have had to apply for residency in your ass.  I heard Stan recently got divorced.  His wife had been cheating on him with their milkman.  I know, right?  I couldn’t believe it either!  I mean, who knew they still delivered milk to your house?!  But I digress about Stan and his current dilemmas (although he probably does really deserve all of what he’s getting).

Anyway, I can finally admit I wasn’t your best employee.  But I think a lot of that is your fault.  If you had made better use of my superior intellect and amazing creativity, I wouldn’t have gotten bored as often (daily) and had to entertain myself around the office so much (every few hours), which led to a lot of our disagreements (all of our disagreements).  You wouldn’t have had to ban me from using the laminator and subsequently padlocking the copy room, which, let’s face it was inconvenient for everyone at the office and punished them far more than it punished me.  And for the record, just because something shouldn’t be laminated doesn’t mean it can’t be.  All of Carol’s pictures of her family were much better laminated.  Sure it messed up the color a little bit and melted the edges, but that added that classic antique look to the photos.  And I’m pretty sure she was crying because she was so happy that her family photos were now completely water proof.  Any time I find out something is water proof, my eyes get a little watery with emotion.  That’s called irony.

And sure you were upset when I would shank golf balls off the roof of the building.  But you know what, if a golf ball is going to break the windshield of your car, then how can you expect to drive down the highway with any shred of confidence that some errant golf ball size rock won’t end your life in an epic explosive display of shattered, safety-glass glory?  And besides, insurance companies have really low deductibles for windshields.  As much as I was, and these were your words, not mine, “screwing around,” I’m fairly certain the National Traffic Highway Safety Administration would have given me some sort of preemptive safety testing award if they would have caught wind of my rooftop golfing activities.

And then there was the metaphorical straw that broke the camel’s back.  How was I supposed to know that putting gasoline in the coffee maker in the break room would turn out the way it did?  Seriously, that coffee maker was a hazard from day one.  And it was dirty.  And I remember reading an article in Woman’s Day that you could run some ammonia or vinegar or bleach or alcohol or something through it to clean it up.  I was just trying to help, and what kind of thanks do I get?  None.  But that was how most (all) of my creative ideas were addressed.  Unappreciated and stomped out like cigarette butts.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I had no idea that gasoline in the coffee maker would explode like that.  I mean, if that’s just a coffee maker, how do cars even function?!  Why aren’t cars just exploding all the time?  But I do think you really over-reacted.  It’s not like it burnt the whole building down.  According to the fire department, it only structurally destroyed 46% of the building.  And they’re experts.  And I’m like sick good at math and even I know that’s not even half.  And I’m not sure what they meant by “smoke damage.”  I think that’s just a bullshit term to be able to charge you more, like that rust proof undercoating they put on cars, or the 3-year warranty Best Buy wants you to get for electronics.

I read in the newspaper that you ended up selling the business and collecting the insurance money.  I’m really disappointed that you didn’t stick it out.  You seemed to have a really solid business.  But I’m sure you took that insurance money and invested it in something just as lucrative as sauna belts.  And just so you know there are no hard feelings on my end, if you want me to come back and work for you, I’d be more than happy to (I’m kind of drawing unemployment between jobs right now anyway).  But I can only work Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursday mornings.  Basically my old schedule until you fired Ron for punching my time card on Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other Saturday.

Cordially yours,

Your favorite best most intelligent employee

About BatDoc

I’m a dynamic figure, often seen scaling buildings and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train and bus stations on lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention and reducing high-traffic areas. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees and write award-winning plays about pastry. I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I make meatloaf. I have been known to woo women with my sensuous and god-like electric air-guitar playing. I can pilot riding lawnmowers up severe inclines with unflagging speed and accuracy and can cook 30-Minute Brownies in 20 minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Brazil. Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon River Basin from a horde of ferocious smaller-than-your-pinky-finger fire ants. When I’m bored, I build full size models of airplanes out of Popsicle sticks. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, I repair TVs and VCRs free of charge. I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Last summer, I toured Wisconsin and Minnesota with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me. I can hurl coat hangers at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read War and Peace, Moby Dick, and Great Expectations in one day and still had time to repaint the exterior of my house that afternoon. Though not a narc, I have performed several covert operations with the CIA. I can recalibrate and repair gas lines with blinding speed and precision, and I don't require a face mask. I still find time to sleep eight hours a night; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation to Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me. I balance; I weave; I dodge; I frolic; and my bills are all paid. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a jello mold and a toaster oven. I used to breed prize-winning killer dolphins. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, performed open-heart surgery, and have spoken with Elvis. I have been to Area 51 and seen the complex. I enjoy cake and my best friends are Edmund the Penguin and Dr. Narco the Intelligent Thermos. I tied Jose Canseco in home runs last week, and I’m mere words away from completing a New York Times crossword puzzle I started on in 1988. Volumes and volumes of written works have been produced about me, but they were all lost in the fire. I am an extrovert. I’m marginally more popular with feminist than Rush Limbaugh. I don't scrape my vegetables onto my grandmother's plate when no one is looking. Hard as it may be to believe, I have never lost a pole-vaulting competition. I was nowhere near the grassy knoll on November 22, 1963. I’ve never hit a silver-medalist in the knee with a club. I wear sensible clothing, and I did not mastermind Julius Caesar's death. That was Cassius.

Posted on June 16, 2014, in A BatDoc Original, Original Series, Short Essays and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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