February 2005 - Taking Credit Where Credit is Due

By Anthony J. Lockwood

Let me assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that it is not easy being a savior. Nay, ‘tis in fact a frightful burden. An awesome burden that is especially wearisome here within the dull confines of this illiterati shantytown. But I take my responsibilities with the utmost gravity. I must, for it is known through every quarter of this enterprise and in every dunderhead’s cubicle that I, a chartered member of the Me Generation, have delivered all glad tidings unto this place of employ. The credit, she is mine. And were you aware that my design idea is executed in the squeezable ketchup bottle, one of humanity’s greatest achievements?

Or, something like that. I’m sure that in the internal dialog in some people’s heads that’s how the the world passes by. The kissing cousin of the guy always looking to finger you with the blame is the guy who takes the credit for everything.

Usually, this person is an insecure, halfwit of a middle manager who is at a complete loss when it comes to being in the know. Not that they don’t act like they know it all. Most of the time they strut about exuding a sly confidence that says to all that they hold great secrets that we never will.

One manager I had comes to mind. A droopy-moustached New Yorker (I’m a New Yorker, so no flaming e-mails from the peanut gallery) with chronically swollen adenoids and a nervous, snuffly laugh, he took delight in berating your work loudly in front of your peers and the boss.

So, one day the boss came around to thank us for our efforts in getting the latest issue to press. He did things like that. Anyway, Stash Man saw him coming and goes trotting up to him like a yippy little dog on espresso. On and on and on he yaps about the struggle of tanning our crummy sows’ ears into award-winning silk prose.

This is right outside my cubicle. I’m just starting to feel the need to retch when Stash Man summons me to be Exhibit A in his museum of self.

“Lockwood, (he called everyone by their last name) bring me what you’re working on now.”

Never mind what I was really working on, but thought it best to show him the paper in front me. He grabs it and starts reading. The boss watches.

“What is this junk?” Stash Man bellows as if struck with a burning spear. “Look, give me a pencil. Do this. See what I mean? See? That’s better.”

I looked at the manuscript, thought, oh, a nanosecond. Then I said, “Yeah. I see. But don’t you think that this sentence would be even stronger if it had a verb? Verbs have action.”

Snickers arose from my coworkers. The boss, suppressing a smile, turned his glance away. Stash Man stammered and sputtered.

Nothing changed, of course. Stash Man kept to his ways. Within a year, the boss left to find his destiny in an insider-trader indictment.

Stash Man and I moved on, too. I ran into him in Las Vegas 10 years later. He didn’t recognize me or my name. I’ll take all the credit for that.

Thanks, Pal.

Anthony J. Lockwood