In the past, Janis’ co-workers had rarely talked to her because they had found her whinny, nasty, and critical. They had even been reluctant to look at her as she had a face that started off friendly enough with large warm eyes and a small nose, but below that it became acrimonious. Her small mouth was often clamped into a grimace by her small chin and creased into a crooked frown that was apt to send shivers down their spines. But now they began to follow her around for pointers on how to carp about their jobs. Like a small child on a sitcom, she began to originate catch phrases. Her best known was to refer to the new CEO and the board of directors as Barney and friends. Janis could not be counted on to help out, take care of her own patients, or show up for any weekend shifts, but the fellow nurses began to enjoy her rancor, now that it wasn’t directed at them.
But Janis was the only one happy with the changes. Certified Nursing Assistants or CNAs were hired at six dollars an hour so that the high paid registered nurses could be reassigned to positions outside of Saint Jude’s. The few nurses left supervised and directed the CNAs to do the direct care duties such as wiping shit off of old people’s asses. The CNAs had job security like nobody else, but they even they had low morale.
People were afraid of losing their livelihood. Stories spread throughout the hospital of people being escorted by armed guards to their cars after being given a 12-month a year vacation without pay. The guards were hired because Saint Jude’s worried that the ex-employees would be ungrateful for the free time to look for a new job.
It was everyone’s goal to cut wasteful man-hours and procedures, so everyone set out to lighten their light workloads and give mass to everyone else's. All staff feared their jobs would be eliminated; some were guaranteed it. They fretted and panicked; they stewed and fumed; they drank and abused their spouses. To combat this, the board had The C-YA (Center for Yearly Assessments, formerly the Education Department) come up with a training program entitled “Change is Good so Let Us Screw You with a Smile.” The staff of C-YA was glad to do it. It relieved their stress because they would at least have a job while they presented this in-service to the different departments.
In response to all these changes, the people that had been organizing the union for the last ten years decided the time was right to act. They were finally getting a response from the other employees that went beyond a head nod and a “yeah, we should do that.” Faced with the possibility that all that they had dreamed of could come into being, they quickly withdrew their petition and kept quiet. After all, it was one thing to have a pipe dream, but a whole other deal when somebody packs your bowl and tells you to cash it. Now that people were listening, they had nothing to say. However, others stepped up to begin organizing a union for all the employees.
Management responded to the threat of a union by establishing The Freedom to Act Committee Team, which sent memos of concern to employees. These memos told them how worse off they would be with united representation. “We suggest that you seriously consider the problems a union would cause,” one memo read, “because the administration cares about the staff of Saint Jude’s. Unions are only concerned with taking your dues. We are your family and we are a team. Everyone is an important and vital part of Saint Jude’s that can easily be replaced.”
Mr. Crapper gave a meeting explaining what changes were going to be made in his Axial Replenishment Requisition Center (Central Supply). Crapper reassured his employees and this terrified them. He was a horrendous speaker and no one understood what he had actually said. Crapper was a bad speaker because he was continually afraid of the several men in his department that had crushes on him. More than once, one of his men suggested a special reenactment of “An Officer and A Gentleman.”
In the Human Resource Department, Mr. Crow had been directed to reorganize his department and cut his staff by ten percent. However, he had permission to hire two more people to help him with the staff reduction.
Containment, Refuse, Purification Services (formerly Housekeeping) was the first to be cut. At first, The Company’s plan was to wait until last to change this department, but the Board of Directors figured that the housekeepers would not mind losing their crappy jobs. Irene was the first to get the nod for forced early retirement. The Director of CRP, Doctor Daneeka, was fat, bald, and smoked cigars, but he wasn’t a medical doctor. He held his doctorate in animal husbandry.
“Irene,” Daneeka began, “I think you probably know why I have you here. You have been working in our department for thirty-seven years. You rarely missed a day and I have always felt I could make you do any job. You have earned a nice, restful retirement.”
“Yes sir,” Irene, the hygienically challenged housekeeper, said. “Just a couple of more years is all I need to be able to afford to retire-”
“That’s wonderful,” Daneeka said. “Do you know where will you be working?”
“Dr. Daneeka, are you trying to tell me that you are going to transfer me to cleaning the Pig Liver Transplant Research Department?”
Dr. Daneeka puffed on his cigar and rubbed his head. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I am just firing you. Oops, I mean, you are getting a nice, restful, early retirement.”
Irene still didn’t understand. “What do you mean? In one of those employee bulletins, we were told that nobody was going to get fired."
“Oh, you’re right, Irene. And even though it kinda feels like I did, I didn’t fire you. What I did was implement a manpower adjustment on your ass. Now hit the road.”
Mr. Seuss was an excellent speaker and very eloquently told his kitchen staff that there were going to be massive cutbacks. “Many positions will be combined and streamlined to reduce any inefficiency. I am going to create a whole new paradigm in the kitchen that challenges our strongly held ideas about providing the patients quality food,” he told them. “So that we can continue to exceed expectations with excellence.” However, Seuss was a better speaker than director and only one person would end up losing his job.
In the room filled with white clothed people, Bigger was the most afraid of Seuss’s threats. While he certainly hated his job and he considered pushing food carts around a blank spot on a form letter –to be filled in later with a good job; this dead-end, low-paying, respectless, unskilled, greasy, back-crushing job was all he had. With arms crossed and crossed legs twitching, he felt afraid, embarrassed and relieved. He relaxed when he realized that Saint Jude would fire the loyal, dedicated employees that had worked in the kitchen for twenty years before they would let him go. After he relaxed, he began to brood. There was no reason it couldn’t be him and many reasons why it should. Then he thought that change could be good. Then he remembered he hated change.
Joe looked over to Bigger with a raised eyebrow and hoped Bigger wasn’t having some sort of seizure. He also hoped that Bigger would be the first to lose his job. He knew that his best friend enjoyed working with the elderly ladies that coddled him. “We won’t get fired,” he whispered to Bigger. “He would be doing us too big a favor.”
“Shh,” Bigger whispered back.
Joe watched Bigger listen to Seuss who wasn’t saying anything. Bigger was worried. Even though the new guy was terrible and hadn’t even made it to the meeting and was hired just so that Seuss would have someone to fire, Bigger thought he would be the first to go. After all, Bigger knew that Seuss hated him and would love to get rid of him.
“-Although I’d hate to see any of you go,” Seuss said avoiding Bigger’s gaze. His staff got up to get away from Seuss as he closed his notes. “Wait. Wait. Before we leave, we have a surprise for Ester. Today is Ester’s birthday. Ester started working in the kitchen when she dropped out of high school at sixteen; before there even was a kitchen here and the nuns made the meals on hotplates in their living quarters.” Seuss clapped his hands and began singing, “Happy birthday to you.” Two co-workers wheeled in a cake on a cart and carried a banner that read, “Happy Birthday! Fifty is nifty.”
“Look at that stupid ass sign,” J
oe groaned to Bigger who was singing. “Do they really think that they are being originally funny? Don’t they care enough about Ester to come up with a personalized banner? I hate to tell them that they do not have the first sign that says fifty is nifty.”
“Well, they always say, ‘Oh Lordy, he is forty.”
“Someone should outlaw that damn saying, too. They've been done to death. And why is that a thing? Lordy and forty don’t even rhyme.” Ester was now beet red and looking at her giant cake as the other elderly ladies crooned, “How old are you? How old are you? How old are you? How old are you?”
“And look at her,” Joe said. “Fifty is not nifty. It sucks. She is old, she has a crappy job, and she will never have better until she dies which won’t be long now.”
Everyone finished singing so that Ester could blow out her candles, but instead of making a wish, said, “Thanks for being here for my birthday party, Joe.”
Chapter 6
After days of a constant sleeting, the winter sun now streaked through Grumby’s closed blinds as he talked with the members of the reorganization team. The consulting company with its terms –company and team- had made Grumby think that there would be dozens of people collecting data at Saint Jude’s. For some reason, he expected to see people with clipboards and measuring tapes, yet he had only ever met or saw these two.
Jack Ketch was a tall, well-built man with a Tony Robbins smile. Thomas Bowdler, his associate, believed change was a necessary part of life. He held nothing sacred, not traditions, closed minds, signed contracts, or human life. At five foot six and three hundred pounds, he was not a handsome man. He had a bald, wrinkled forehead that mirrored his bald, wrinkly chins. If someone was to put him upside down, magic marker two eyes and a nose below his mouth and cover the rest of his face with a scarf; he could be a chin puppet of himself.
“We have something to talk about,” Ketch said. “A possible problem.”
Grumby felt his neck muscles bunch up and wrench themselves like a sports bra on a Biggest Loser contestant. Lately, he had been under so much pressure that he spent each day feeling his heart implode in his chest and his stomach juice erupting into esophagus. And now something bad. “Y-you haven’t found any sexual harassment scandals, have you?”
“Grumby. I am not goofing around here.”
“Yes,” Bowdler broke in with a voice created by vocal cords bullied by fat. “During the reorganization process, there is always a hitch that we need to deal with. Jack and I always wait until this point to bring it up.” Grumby gulped. “We have to be careful that we do not look like we are cutting minority’s jobs and using reorganization as an excuse to discriminate; although we are willing to do that.”
Grumby laughed and slapped his desk. “Is that all? There is nothing to worry about here. We don’t have any of those people working for us. Except for our towel-head doctors, our staff is one hundred percent white. Is, was and will be white. If worse comes to worse, we will hire some darkies to work in the kitchen or clean rooms.”
“Good. Good,” Ketch said. “I like to see a real American.”
Bowdler leaned forward. “We could devise a reorganization plan that would get rid of the non-white doct-”
“Hold on now. I draw the line at racism against rich, foreign people. Let me tell you something, they have the same values as any of our white doctors. They are as greedy as you or I. But also they have two qualities my white doctors don’t have. They are competent and they are willing to work at this hospital as long as we keep paying them in U.S. dollars and not the drachmas or whatever they would earn back at Rice Paddy General. As far as I am concern, I wish all of my doctors were black, Arab, or Asian.”
Chapter 7
“No, your husband is going to die soon and you won’t ever see him again,” a nurse in SOL told the wife of Mr. Annunzio. “That’s a truth. Once we have done everything for him, you will be without him.”
The woman was not comforted. “I can’t pull the plug. I won’t.”
“He is already gone. I need you to understand, he will never recover.”
“I have already come to terms with that thanks to all of your empathy and patience,” she said in her heavy Italian accent. “I just know that when his heart stops beating, he will come back as a ghost and haunt me. He swore that to me before he went unconscious and God told me in my heart that I will be sorry for what I done. I want Gabriele right here where I can keep an eye on him.”
“That’s stupid,” the nurse consoled. “You need to end your husbands suffering. This is life and death and needs to be thought through thoroughly.” He backed out of the room and hurried to the Domino’s pizza he had ordered.
“No. No,” the elderly lady, Mrs. Annunzio, called out after him. “I need some time. I think maybe I will be tormented for the rest of my life. It is my fault he was hurt. I need some time. I was driving. I need some time. He was always such a hot head. I know his spirit will torment me.” The nurse called in the doctor, an intern from the Psychiatric Care Unit, and a grief counselor and they got her calmed down.
They would have called in the priest, but he believed in ghosts, too. Even the grief counselor had heard the priest go on about some holey ghost. “That priest is an ignoramus,” the grief counselor said, espousing the new directive of Saint Jude’s that eliminated God due to his non-cost-effectiveness.
After a couple of hours, they got Mrs. Annunzio to admit herself to the psychiatric ward for a few days. This unit of the hospital was a place for people with too hard a grip on reality. Its doors were always locked so that the unstable, suicidal, or dangerous people were kept inside. There were many procedures that were followed so that the insane, delusional, and criminal remained behind the locked door. This population of which Mrs. Annunzio was now a part of was never unsupervised; except when they were. If they wanted to smoke, someone would buzz the electric door lock and let them go out in groups. They would ride the elevator with whoever happened to be in there and then go to the Butt Hutt and strike up conversations with staff and other patients.
Today, a teenage boy with ribbons in his hair (on one of those smoke breaks) was telling Joe and a nurse how he was on a fructose high. Joe ignored him and worked on staring at the nurse’s breasts without getting caught. The ribbon-haired boy kept getting closer to Joe as he talked. “I eat some oranges in the morning and I am loving life, man. I don’t care what my parents said to get me in here. They are evil. Only natural things go in this body,” he said thumping his Keith Richards chest.
The nurse whispered confidentially to Joe, “His parents admitted him to the psych ward while he was having a bad trip.”
“As far as whackos go, he is actually one of the better ones,” Joe said back.
“Grapes make me go wild man. But don’t ask my parents, they will lie. Fructose highs are better than any drug highs, man, but I haven’t done any drugs. Life is too sweet for that, man.” He moved almost nose to nose with Joe.
“Life blows dead rabbit. Dude. And it only gets worse as you get older.” With that said, Joe got up and left.
Yolanda stood at the window and cursed her choices in life. She had an oxygen mask over her face and still had trouble breathing. That nurse that doesn’t know anything is right, she thought. I am a fool. I have brought this on myself. All I needed was some self-control. A little brains and I would be happy. I always blamed my smoking and all my problems on Dad, but he is not the one dying.
Only my own stupidity gave me cancer. I deserve this. I did this and now I’m a burden to these people. Janice is right to berate me for getting cancer.” She raised her eyes up to God and then down to her nurse. Janis was coming out of a yellow door followed by a thin teenager with ribbons in his hair and she had a Salem Ultra Light in her mouth. Yolanda fell to the floor. "She shouldn’t have been up anyway," Janis said when she found her.
Chapter 8
Joe saw Bigger coming out to look for him as he walked back from his smoke break, so he stopped out
side the door and lit up. “Hey,” he said.
“Are you just getting done with a break?”
“Do you want to go back inside?”
Bigger shook his head. He stood with his hands under his apron and listened to the melting snow drip off the roof of the hospital. “I’ve been thinking and I probably don’t have to worry about being laid off even though I refuse to wear any freakin’ white pants.”
It was then that Tim, the security guard, burst out the door carrying a nun by her collar and let her go with a push. “Orders are I have to remove you from the premises, sister. My bosses don’t like your attitude. Oh, hi there Bigger. Joe. How ya guys doing?”
Bigger helped the nun up from where Tim had dropped her. “What are you doing here now? I thought you worked nights?”
“I’ve been working overtime for a long time now escorting employees that have their positions cut to save money.”
“Don’t nuns work for free?” Joe asked.
“Doesn’t that make for a long shift?” Bigger asked, his question given like a third grader on career day.
“Na. At night, I usually go home and go to bed after I punch in, eat whatever the doctors having lying around their lounge, and screw my girlfriend. Besides, this is my last day. They are going to contract out security starting tomorrow.”
“That sucks.” Bigger looked with concern at Tim. The nun, standing in the street, grunted and threw a rock through a third story window.
The Tao of Apathy Page 4
