Diary of an Instru-mental-case, Part 3

12/11/03
On a whim, I wrote a short article about my daily two-hour, 24-mile-commute, taking great care to write within the stringent limitations of our house style. We were told to start soliciting more one-page columns on lighter subjects, and I thought this would fit the bill. I was thrilled to receive a back-handed compliment from the Old Guy– I couldn’t believe he liked it!

I don’t know why I was expecting him to edit my article more lightly than the others, but I was dismayed to get draft after draft back with corrections scribbled between each line. It was good, but he can write about my life better than I ever could. I read over the final edit to make sure my ideas were still intact, but I couldn’t bear to point out that I never used the words"render" or "misgivings" in casual conversation for fear the article would be changed again. I now refer to it as "Allison’s Commute, by the Old Guy."

12/19/03
I worked the company booth at an international music conference this week. I met several authors and contributing editors and attended some lectures in hopes of soliciting an article or two. The annual meeting of the Old Man’s Club also convenes at this conference; I’ve never seen the Old Guy in such good spirits– he was schmoozing and name-dropping with the best of them!

The company is predominately female (because the Old Guy feels less threatened by women), but on more than one occasion, an author walked up, shook hands with my male co-workers, then asked if I answered phones– it was infuriating. Upon learning I was one of the editors, a particularly sexist author sneered and asked if I even had a music degree– I retorted that I had three. It was the most gratifying thing I had done all week.

1/2/04
I laughed aloud as I read the two memos on my desk this morning. The first one read "Please turn the enclosed digital image into a 35-mm slide." Smirking, I imagined how the memo must sound to its recipients– "Please reverse technology so we can make production more laborious and time-consuming." The second said: "We will discontinue any reference to the internet as a proper noun. We do no such thing with a copy machine or an automobile or a telephone" and ended with "Jargon in all forms should be suspect." I’ll tell you what’s suspect– people who classify the Internet as a tangible object, and trade-specific magazines that print only jargon-free articles.

1/5/04
We lost three employees last week. One girl had actually been fired a couple of months earlier, but continued working until she found another job because the Old Guy refused to pay unemployment. Another walked out, and the third was fired for taking an approved vacation day.

One of our editors moved to advertising, and we’re now short handed across the board with production week looming. The tension in this place is almost unbearable; it’s hard to work for someone so emotionally volatile. I’m just trying to stay under the radar to prevent triggering any additional outbursts.

1/22/04
Sighing, I re-edited my latest assignment, changing several sentences into passive voice because I had started each with the "wrong" subject. Then I had to look over the old guy’s shoulder as he reworked the first page. He read my version aloud in that robotic monotone I’ve grown to loathe; his corrections were recited with a melodious lilt. I refrained from pointing out that everything sounds ridiculous in that voice; only on a good day am I able to interject a sentence or two before being shut down by his lawyerish doublespeak.

Aside from the nautical theme and the lack of a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, his office is no different from an interrogation room. Every conversation is a hostile cross-examination; my ideas are squelched before they’re even voiced and the only acceptable answers I’m allowed to give are yes and no. I often wonder how miserable people have to be to feel empowered by belittling others. Sadly, I think the Old Guy feels entitled to do so. Well, I don’t care who his daddy was or how much money he has, nothing gives him the right to treat others so poorly. But until I can find another source of income, I have little choice but to submit to the verbal abuse.