Hey Ho, Here We Go Again by Paul Bucci (Shortlisted)
Yeah well sometimes when you get up in the morning you really can’t be fucked going to work so you ring in to tell them you’ve got a cold or something and then spend the rest of the day not going anywhere cos someone from work or their husband or whatever will see you and think, and say, “Well she didn’t look sick to me,” and then you take a second day off just to emphasise your point but not the third cos that would mean a doctor’s certificate and you go back to work and still hate the bits you hate and love the bits you love except the bits you hate are getting worse and the bits you love, you love a bit less and you realise that maybe the time has come, the time has come to look for something else, to take the pressure off, to go into cruise mode, to put up with the crap for the sake of the bigger picture. Which is to start looking around for a better option. A more attractive option even though in reality the last thing you want to do with your day is what someone else tells you to do but that’s work, eh? The definition of work – doing what someone you hardly know tells you to do. For money.
And you’ve got options right. It’s not like you don’t have qualifications and experience and knowledge and that’s part of the problem cos to an extent you know as much as the bosses, even more in some cases having moved around a bit and seen how things work in different situations but that’s the last thing most of them want to hear – that their employees have more experience and knowledge than they do – especially females. So you keep your mouth shut as far as you can. They want your subservience not your opinion. The last thing they want is your opinion. So shut it. Hard to do sometimes but….
And then there’s the dickheads. There’s always a dickhead or two and a total pain when it’s the boss and while they’re mostly blokes – both bosses and dickheads – get a woman dickhead and it’s just the same. All that stuff about women being more sympathetic and understanding may hold true until they get a bit of power but they’re the same – little sociopaths thinking they’re the king of the castle (or queen, whatever) when all they are is bossy, sexist egomaniacs in charge of a meaningless shitheap of no ultimate importance to anyone. “Go and get me a cup of coffee will you, love?”
And not just sexist some of them but sexually offensive. There’s always one or two who’ve no idea about anything but their own bullshit agenda. Offensive by word or deed but rarely do you get one without the other. Transparent twats, they are, thinking you’re gonna go for them just cos they’re a smart-arse bloke when they forget that they’re fat, filthy and fucked most of them except for the charmers, of course. They’re the real dangerous bastards, the charmers, with their smiling faces and smart clothes and overeagerness to “help” when they’ve got their own slimy little agendas, lurking just under the surface. You can see them coming when you’ve been around for a while.
Watch those bastards. Little pat on the shoulder one day leading to a big pat on the bum the next and when you tell them, when you tell them to keep their hands to themselves – in the nicest possible way of course because you are only a woman after all – when you tell them, the charm is gone in seconds and the big boss mode kicks in and you suddenly find yourself faced with a series of boring jobs and social ostracization. And sure there’s an employers’ code of conduct, HR guidelines, union protection, the courts even, but can you prove anything? No you can’t. So yes just watch those bastards. And especially when they want you to “stay back after work and catch up on a couple of things.” Well we all know what one of those things is don’t we? His fucking thing, right?
So watch what you wear, watch what you say, watch how you walk, sit, stretch, reach, laugh, look, smile – and you’d better just keep smiling because, because, because. Because you can, right? Because you can. And because if you don’t – if you tell them how cancerous their fucking behaviour is – how hurtful, how damaging – if you respond in the wrong way, if you make them feel like the scumbags they really are then they will nail you. They will take you out. They know who you are, where you live, how to make contact. So yes keep smiling, remember to keep smiling and be more charming than the charmer.
The same goes for the afterwork drinks on a Friday night. Careful, careful, careful. The all-friends-together evening outside the workplace can become a life changer in the blink of an eye, alcohol being the great leveler – capable of flattening you in more ways than one. “Go on have another one. It’s been a tough week. No this one’s on me. Just to show our appreciation. A reward for your efforts. And don’t worry about getting home – we’ll shout you a taxi. No prob.” No prob until the bastard decides to share the taxi with you. “We’re heading in the same direction.” Bullshit. And the other females, the younger ones, especially. You’ve got to look out for them. Watch their backs while the slime balls are watching their fronts.
And of course there are decent blokes. Of course there are but so hard to spot them sometimes amidst the charmers.
And then there’s the staffrooms. God the staffrooms. The bullshit. How can people have such outrageous views on the world? How can they believe such stuff? And so keen to share them – their dickhead opinions. Too stupid to realise how stupid they are, educated by the shock jocks, the tweeters, the climate sceptics, the conspiracy theorists, the influencers. Penny Wong is really a Chinese spy. Elvis Presley is now disguised as a pig farmer living in Toowoomba. Climate change is just an advertising campaign for manufacturers of solar panels and electric cars. Donald Trump is really Jesus reincarnated, returning to save the planet. Then there’s vaccination, fluoride, QAnon, UFOs, holocaust denial, aliens in disguise. And the earth is really flat. Didn’t you know? Yeah, right, whatever you say. Whatever you say because what’s to be gained by disagreeing?
And never forget the “I’m not a racist but…” conversations. No shortage of that stuff either. They know everything except they don’t know that they don’t know what they don’t know. And then there are the bastards who pinch your coffee scroll from the fridge, who use your coffee mug and leave it unwashed in the sink. Those bastards.
But there can be a good side to work too. It’s possible. Yes, it’s good to share with your workmates, to meet new clients, that stuff. All good. And targets, you know, setting yourself targets for the day, the week. And having a laugh. Having a laugh with one of the other workers or just by yourself. Other distractions. And challenges, sometimes you can surprise yourself, generate some self pride when you reach a goal or overcome an obstacle.
So yeah enjoy those moments when you can because it can be so….bloody…. boring….. Awful sometimes depending on the place. Sometimes you just have to “Go to the post office.” Or to the chemist – that’s a good one for the women. “Sorry I’ve just got to nip out to the chemist.” The blokes don’t like to ask why. Or perhaps you have to hide in the toilets for an hour or so. When they’re bearable of course. Some dunnies, well some dunnies just don’t invite you in – dirty, smelly, claustrophobic, lacking privacy, toilet paper. Shit-holes. And hanging out for the lunch break, that’s another one. Dragging the morning out for as long as possible so the afternoon seems bearable.
True, occasionally you meet a good one. Fellow worker that is. Usually another woman although sometimes the blokes can be OK too when they get to know you. Sometimes. But they’re all pretending. We all pretend at work. So you have to take that on board. It’s playing a role, working, being someone you’re not. Workers are professional actors, all doing something they wouldn’t otherwise be doing, saying things they’re told to say. For the money. Or the status. Or whatever. Pretending. So be careful getting too close. Be careful. None of us are quite what we seem.
And then sometimes, rarely, but sometimes, you find one that you like. A job that is. The people are OK, nice even, working conditions good, clean dunnies, plenty of toilet paper and not too much pressure, not too many challenges. Just enough. And you think that maybe this is it. You settle for a while. Get into a routine, save a bit of money, do the right thing by the place, relax. Cruising. Until. Until something changes. A new boss, someone leaves, a move to new premises. And then it all changes. The new boss turns out to be a prat, the someone who leaves doesn’t get replaced so the work load increases, the new premises are an extra hour away. Whatever. And off you go – you’re on your way again to the next one. Nothing is nice forever – nothing is nice forever.
But don’t forget, don’t ever forget – remember, remember, remember – the only fucking reason you’re doing it is for the money. The money. If they stopped paying people tomorrow, they’d all walk out. No mucking about. They’d be gone. Well maybe not everyone. Some of them would choose to stay on, money or not. They would, they’d realise that work is their life – their social life, their identity, their life’s purpose. Sad fuckers most of them. Like those retirees who are dead within a year of retiring, poor sods. Without the structure of work, without the direction from above, without the “mission statement”, the strategic plan, the annual plan, the five year plan, the financial plan, the bureaucratic bullshit – without all that stuff they’re lost and whither away, unable to cope with being in charge of their own lives. Aimless. Because, of course, we all need a direction in life, a purpose, you know, but not work. Please, never work.
So yes we all need a purpose. A purpose. And you know the real purpose in life is to survive. And that means eating and sleeping and feeling safe and that means money and that means work. So you cop it, don’t you? Just fucking cop it until you can’t cop it any more and then you start to think about the next move. Two years here, four years there, two weeks that other place! So it goes. And then those times in between, where you couldn’t wait for the next one – just had to leave, spend a bit of the savings, go on the dole, sell a bit of stuff, have a bit of a break, whatever, till the next one comes along and off you go again.
And maybe it’s time again now. Maybe it’s time. Shit.
Time to start scrolling through the ads, time to re-write the CV, check the place out, write the bullshit application – focusing on getting the interview, stretching the truth, emphasising the relevant bits and downplaying the detrimental stuff. Time to lick their interviewers’ arses with their own shit – the shit they want to hear, laughing at their sad jokes, ignoring their sexist undertones, agreeing with their every word, pretending to give a stuff, whatever it takes. Whatever it takes to get out of the place you’re in. And into the next one. And the next. Until.
Until what? Marriage? Retirement? Death? Keep buying the Tatts tickets, sunshine.