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I must admit, I’ve become somewhat of an expert at dropping the microphone. I probably have done it in 50 ways. But in the last few years, even I have taken things to the next level. I still rate this conversation last year as my best:
Tina to Engineer: Hey, we’ve had this inquiry from one of our residents about some work we did out the front of her place. She can’t put her bins out. Can you please get one of the guys to do it?
Engineer to Tina: You’re the 4th Communications Manager we’ve had and you’re the worst. You just make everything hard.
Tina to Engineer: Good luck with the 5th one. (Picks up bag and walks out, never to return. Sound of loud feedback as the microphone drops.)
If I’m to reflect on why and which straw broke the camel’s back I would have to say it comes down to disrespect. That conversation above was the last in a long line of reasonable requests, met with exasperation, rudeness or just disdain. It is the same job where my famous answers to all questions were recorded. FYI, answer #4 is usually the correct one.
In my line of work, I’m usually only called in when something has gone horribly wrong, so it is not surprising that sometimes wrong can become… wronger. I know this is not a word but more wrong just doesn’t capture it. And I’m trying not to use swear words.
My most recent exit came about after a night shift when work was done badly again, affecting real people and absolutely no care was shown. This company had no regard for their impact on people and took no action to deal with staff who did the wrong thing. And then when they got caught, they blamed us.
This time it was a silent drop. I turned off the mic and walked out the door with it under my arm.
But that is all a side note. Lots of people and companies behave like this. The interesting part is the point at which I realise nothing will change.
Usually just before the exit, I will do alot of internal bargaining.
“It is only 8 more weeks.”
“If I stay in Sydney, it will make it less likely I will quit.”
“It’s good money.”
I even took up angry running, which was extremely scenic, cathartic and fun.
But at the end of the day you can’t put lipstick on a pig. So I’m back in the tiny house, doing the writing that these soul destroying jobs stop me from doing. And the pink boots may have been hung up in 50 ways and 50 times before, but this time it’s for good.
