My readers (all two of them – hi mom!) may have caught wind of my recent rage against the delegation of power, or rather lack thereof, in corporate Lebanon. My wife certainly has (sorry honey). To illustrate, here’s a conversation fresh off the line.
“Hello, this is Karl calling from the Magazine and I’m following up on a conversation you had with our editorial assistant yesterday. Is this the human resources manager?”
“I’m Zena,”
A promising start, she knows her own name.
“Hi Zena, are you the human resources manager?”
“What do you need, exactly?”
Ah, she’s partially deaf; this will be more difficult.
“I’m following up on a conversation you – if you’re the human resources manager – had with Fatima, our editorial assistant yesterday. This is concerning a free listing you wanted to place in the Magazine.”
“OK, how can I help you?”
“Well, I need to send you the final result to receive an email confirmation that you want it printed.”
“Oh, you need to speak to human resources for that, this is sales.”
It reminded me of university, and how older professors wrote the class name in huge block capitals on the blackboard in the beginning of the semester, then read it out loudly. Inevitably, four or five student would skulk towards the door and disappear into confused teenage angst. The professors would shake their heads in quiet torment.
“Can you please connect me to human resources?”
“Yes, please wait.”
In 1972 China exported a few hundred tons of digital phones, ones with an annoying 8-bit version of Für Elise built into the hold function, an act of sheer stupidity that they have not reproduced since. Lebanon bought them all.
“Reception, can I help you?”
Probably not.
“Can you connect me to human resources please?”
“Of course, what is this about.”
Fatima was ill, we were behind schedule, and we needed to print today. I’d run this line so often that I’d grown immune to repetition. I played a little game with myself where I’d try to increase the efficiency of the sentence through reduction or rearrangement, without losing any of the meaning. A second saved here, another second there, and I may get a whole moment to run to the kitchen for a coffee.
“I see, connecting you to human resources.”
Bagatelle No. 25 in A minor (WoO 59 and Bia 515) for solo piano, commonly known as Für Elise. Wikipedia rocks.
“Hello, Fatima?”
No, her fatter and significantly hairier manager. I also don’t wear a veil.
“No this is Karl, and I’m calling to confirm a listing you wanted to place in the Magazine.”
“Me?”
“Well, that depends, are you the human resources manager?”
“Human resources? Sorry this is accounting.”
My liver sighed; there would be much drinking tonight.
Two connections later I had the pleasure of chatting to Nader, the enthusiastic deputy HR manager. Nader listened, nodded (presumably – because some people nod to phones) and then gave me the bad news:
“I can’t make that decision, sorry.”
“What decision? The decision has already been made and I have here an email with the request. We just need confirmation for the printing, a formality really.”
“I know, but the HR manager isn’t here, and I can’t make that decision for her. I can’t foresee how it will affect our image.”
That sounded well-rehearsed.
“The posting in question is plastered all over the internet, I don’t think the company image is very relevant at this juncture.”
It really was; I even found it on a discontinued job board that someone kept alive to archive pictures of Pamela Anderson’s breasts, back when knowing what she’d named them was the epitome of pop coolness. Pancho and Lefty, incidentally.
“I’m sorry, she’s not here and won’t be here till Friday. I’ll let you know then.”
I really had explained that we were going to print in the evening.
I suppose it wasn’t his fault. I suppose his manager was a blonde in tight leather, high boots and a spiked collar holding a bull-whip and a zapper. I suppose his contract stipulated that his balls would remain in the company jar-closet until such a time when he’d be promoted to a real managerial position, upon which he’d regain ownership of one (1) ball. The man was in pain.
“I know what you mean, some managers are seriously anal,” I said.
His relief poured through my earpiece, and he broke character.
“Man, seriously, if I breathe in this fucking office I have someone trying to beat me down. It’s like they get a high from power or something.”
“I know, I know. Look I don’t blame you, if my boss breathed down my neck I’d be scared too.”
“I’m not scared!”
You go tiger.
“I’m not scared!” he continued, “Fuck this shit, if I can’t make a decision about a free fucking ad in a free fucking magazine – no offense – then I seriously need a new job!”
Way to go, it’s the season for revolutions in the Middle East, go go disgruntled monkey!
“I’ll just run the post then, and blame it all on you?”
“Yes! Run it, I don’t care anymore; I think.”
Seriously, you’d think it was his manager’s sex-tape. Well, we’ll see what the managerial world is like in Abu Dabi; oh yeah, we’re moving again.
I'm Karl, and I'm an acquired taste.
I've been an editor for 4 years, a writer for 5 more, and a geek ever since I wrote Pong on my first Atari. I'm married to the perfect woman and we live in the desert. 
Absolutely hilarious! Not only did you eventually get the green light to run the ad, you also got him to open up. All in a day’s work!
Hey hey; haven’t seen you round here in a while
Thanks for the feedback!
I’m still here juggling a thousand and one things. Just shared your post with my wife. She’s amazed Lebanese-run companies still exist.
Oh man, I can’t tell you how many times I have slammed into human brick walls over the phone, those underpaid, overworked, under appreciated drones whose job seems to be to discourage people from ever calling their company. I think they get a preverse pleasure from frustrating our efforts. I mean we are not selling them anything, we just want some information and in return we give them free publicity, its not rocket science!
Nah, they’re tortured and alone. They can’t make choices for fear of being anally probed by cruel managers, and ferrets. Wait, what?
Sometimes it’s simply hard to understand how “stupid” ppl can be. It is annoying when you are dealing with dumb ones, but what is irritating is dealing with those who are dumb and aggressive! My latest experience at work made me amaze about how different kinds of weird creature can exist on this planet.
Congrats on the moving btw!