meeting the bully

I moved to New Hampshire knowing that my marriage may very well suffer the ultimate blow and too become a part of my past. It has been on the rocks since long prior to the "I dos", but ours is a much more complicated situation than most.

In 2008, I signed on with a commercial landscape company out of Hudson, Massachusetts. Basically upon arrival, I was handed a cell phone, two gas cards, a GPS and the keys to a truck purchased that very day with a whooping 7 miles on the odometer. Within a week my superiors had established a list of contacts and sites for me to manage, nine of which were located in East Bum, Connecticut and the others sprinkled all over the state of Massachusetts. Touring my sites in a single day was physically impossible no matter how fast I pushed that little truck to go and it was of favorable measure to make a stop at each at least one time per week. I could really earn brownie points if I showed up unexpectedly, "snuck in" and surprised the crews at work, potentially catching them slacking off, cutting corners or breaking rules. This sneakiness, I would later learn, is key to successfully managing commercial landscape sites.

When a particular foreman (Janio) was rehired by one of the partners (Brady), my hiring manager (Marc), went wild with fury. After gathering composure from his uncontrolled explosive response to the phoned-in news, Marc wasted little time apologizing to my shocked expression and then moved to explain the reason for his juvenile outburst. An ongoing battle between Marc and Janio had transpired years prior, and it was Brady's bold move to bring him back after a particularly ugly showdown, that brought Marc's blood to a boil.

Marc, as well as the other two managers on my team, (Mike and Wagner), felt it was their comrade duty to fill me in on the juicy details of Janio's existence. It quickly became evident that this "bully" of a man, clearly wasn't somebody that anybody wanted to work with, past or present. He had single-handedly bullied, cussed, or silently ignored and ultimately drove crazy twelve different laborers to the point of resignation. Even more unbelievably still would be the image branded into my mind of these grown men quitting under the most pride-crushing circumstance I can think of: in tears.

At this point, my heart has increased its rate, and I'm left with the overwhelming feeling of anxious anticipation to meet this thug and maybe have my own name added to the ranks of defeat. As quickly as I developed the fear of meeting Janio, my three fellow managers transitioned the conversation over to whom Janio would work for and which sites would suit him best.

You guessed it. I drew the shortest straw.

Collectively they determined that I should have the pleasure of an attempt at managing Janio, and hey, why not try it right? After all, I'm a woman, why wouldn't he listen to a woman? *coughs, clears throat. raises eyebrows and blinks a few times. thinks, "are you fucking kidding me right now? great idea guys, really."


So it's the morning we are set to meet for the first time, sometime early in April of '08 approximately 4:30 AM. Apparently he's been informed of the location to which he's going this morning, the tools necessary to accomplish the job (basic tools, simple spring clean up), oh yeah and the one minor detail that he's to meet his new manager at the shop and follow "her" to the site.

I roll into the parking lot at work and slowly drive around the large, brown, aluminum sided building that housed our office and shop space. To the back parking lot sat the fleet of trucks and equipment parked in a long row awaiting the hustle and bustle of crews showing up for a long lucrative work day. The hue of the crisp spring air around me was that dark shade of gray, having yet to give way to an ounce of morning sunlight. From one lone truck, a steady stream of warm exhaust billowed from the tail pipe, the running lights lit against the dark and the low hum of its diesel engine cut the silence.

Two men sat rigid inside the cab, dark skin and barely visible. At the front cab corner, silhouetted against the headlight stood a tall, solid and stern man. His six plus feet would tower over my small frame and he radiated intimidation. His bare arms were folded across his chest in a manner of authority (as if it wasn't a chilly 35 degrees that morning) and as my visual came into focus, the detail that jumped out at me was the impenetrable black sunglasses wrapped around his eyes, sitting square on top of his long and perfectly straight nose. Those sunglasses hit me so hard, he may just as well have bent and picked up a stone and thrown it square at my gut. I didn't know whether I wanted to laugh or cry. I stopped my truck a few feet from where he stood and without a hesitant thought, climbed out of my safety zone. I walked the few steps over to him and all I could muster was, "ready?"

He nodded, turned on his heel, and in one fell swoop he opened the door and swung himself up into the truck.

There was no name confirmation. No hi, how are you, good morning. Are you the bully that makes grown men cry? Are you going to crush me with one mighty fist? Are you laughing at me right now under that shitty smirk you've got plastered across your face? Do you think my existence in this company is some kind of lame joke? These thoughts and more swirled and stewed in my mind for the entire, lengthy, two-hour trip to Connecticut.

The single thought that couldn't be any further from my mind at the time was that I would take this man's last name. 

just a little clarification

When I don't write, guilt is what I feel. It's an odd thing really. I wouldn't call myself a "writer," as I don't do it often enough to earn such a title. I don't keep a journal because I simply don't have time and what fun is that when yours truly is the only reader? In high school I wrote essays that blew the socks off my English teachers, my mastery of the English language far exceeded that of the majority of my peers, and often I took great pleasure in tearing apart (editing) the pages of other's work.

Here and now, I've created this blog, for which I've great plans, but haven't made a single entry since the first because of a silly little battle playing out in my mind as to what and how much I should share. I've got dated drafts of entries, but deemed them "TMI" and moved on. What is blog etiquette anyhow? Should I change names? And then there's this issue of offending my readers, an audience I haven't yet decided; will it consist of those who are complete strangers or should I bite the bullet and link up to the dangerous world of Facebook? I deviously wish to air things that are better left unknown in the minds of my friends and family, and so the decision has been made...

If you are reading this, then likely you are not someone I know.

Consider yourself warned. Moving forward, the entries that can be found here may contain raw emotion, explicit details, illegal actions and on occasion distasteful vulgarity. All accounts are based on the experience of the writer, as I haven't the mind or the time to make shit up.

a fresh start

I spent an uncountable number hours on Craigslist looking for work and a new living arrangement. Beginning long before I relocated myself, my son and my entire life to a new place; I knew that change was necessary, I just didn't know how dramatic the change would be. I harbored much hope that I might find a quick fix to my growing problems, but how quickly time runs out.  

I had then, and still maintain a certain level of confidence in my ability to find work easily. With that confidence tucked neatly away in my conscience, I moved forward in a way I mistakenly thought was best, by quitting my full-time well-paid landscape foreman position mid season, packing up all of my belongings, leaving my husband behind and moving back in with my parents.

Wait! You didn't sense my emphasis on the word "mistakenly?" Try grotesquely mistaken.
 


...I flipped open the phone book and thumbed through its pages. I had already exhausted the entire listing of landscape companies, calling each and leaving messages. I'd clear my throat in anticipation for the voice at the other end of the line. However, without fail, the ringing would come to a stop and a recording would pick up explaining in so many words that not one of the companies I attempted to contact had a secretary fielding phone calls. So when the recording ended and it was my turn to speak my piece, I summoned my professional phone etiquette and willed the listener to call me back at their earliest convenience.

I sort of knew better than to expect lucrative results from my efforts, but it couldn't be said that I didn't try. My trusty Craigslist hadn't turned up a single thing worth pursuing, and that confidence I spoke of earlier wavered ever so slightly. I began to realize that my timing was off and that no one would be hiring "late season" help. What for, to lay off again in just a few weeks time?

An idea had crept its way into and frequented my thoughts, finally settling at the forefront when all else failed, and I entertained it for just a brief moment. There were three listings and I decided to call the one that seemed closest to my location. The phone rang several times and my hopes began to fizzle yet again, when a girl answered the call.

"Actually, we ARE looking for help right now. Two positions. A Monday through Friday part time, and a weekend part time." The girl then gave me the phone number to reach the woman who owned the farm and as quickly as all hope seemed lost, a glimmer of hope glowed at the prospect of starting work in a place I hadn't visited in almost ten years.

When Abraham began to show interest in horses and cowboys, I paid little attention. After all, how many two-year old children do you know that maintain faithfully a passion for anything besides an old stuffed toy or blanket? Maybe a pacifier he refuses to give up or even the seemingly obvious discomfort of sitting in his own fresh bowel movements refusing to believe he smells bad?

This now obsession began months ago when he first viewed the film Hidalgo. He dragged the rocking horse my parents bought him for Christmas last year out of storage, mounted up and the rest is history. Now I have, in my possession, a real live cowboy of my very own. He lives and breathes horses, as much as any two-year old child can. He even dreams about them.

So now, here comes the rationale. What sort of mother would I be if I didn't use the knowledge and experience I have to make my child's everyday fantasies come to life? And who am I to say that my own childhood fantasies of playing with horses have completely ceased to exist? Though my career took a turn for a different direction much to the advantage of my wallet, I never lost sight of my first love. At this very vulnerable point in my unstable and chaotic life, excuses to find myself doing chores at a horse farm were coincidentally easy to come by.