P, S, A (Please, Seriously, Ask) is a column where I, Julia Berke, invite readers to ask questions they’re uncomfortable bringing up to their partners, friends, family, halal grill masters, dive bartenders, subway riding peers, etc. I have a Bachelor of Arts in Sageism from the School of Hard Knocks and will do my very best to provide nuggety wisdom to those who are seeking it.
This month, we’re featuring a question that is rife with toes to step on and murky waters. It’s hard to tell what to do when you’re having a problem with a person who is holds the key to financial bliss:
“Lately, my boss has started taking me aside and yelling at me because I didn’t do what he wanted, although I followed the directions of my assignment exactly. He’s also insisting that I was in meetings I know I wasn’t in and that I have said and done things I haven’t said or done. It’s making me crazy and I don’t know what to do.”
- Seriously Asked by Anonymous
As Liz Lemon would say on 30 Rock about a man who put his fantasy football league draft before your third anniversary of your first trip to meet his parents, “That’s a dealbreaker!”
In all seriousness though, gaslighting is, in my opinion, one of the deadliest sins of mental warfare. It is a ruthless form of manipulation that pits a person’s own mind against itself. Gaslighting should never be used. It’s a shame it exists in the first place. I could go on about how much gaslighting makes my stomach turn, but I digress.
The best offense against a person who is trying to euthanize your career via poisonous management skills and immature behavior is, simply, a good defense. A good defense looks like just being honest. If you honestly weren’t in a meeting, provide proof of what you were doing while that meeting was in session. Think about it like providing evidence in a court of law: what’s your alibi? If the meeting was in the conference room from 10:05 to 11:47 am on Wednesday, September 21 in the Year of Our Lord 2016, provide time stamps of emails you sent when you were supposedly in that meeting. Ask people who were in that meeting if you were there as well. It may seem really nit-picky and kind of useless, but ultimately you will have built a case where you’re not implicitly calling your boss a liar, but you’re showing them how wrong they are.
If tasks, responsibilities, and protocol seem to be slipping under your feet like a rug being pulled out from under you, it is okay to explain what you believed those initial responsibilities were. You are, after all, not in charge. It is not your job to know what your boss wants exactly if they are not relaying that information. You are not a mind reader, and you let them know that. Saying things like “if you could be more specific, in the future, so we can avoid any confusion further down the road,” that’s A+ office peon practice. In that one sentence, you are acknowledging that you want to do what your boss wants, are concerned about the future of the company and the work you produce, and are willing to do whatever it takes to make everything hunky dory.
If all of these tactics are rendered useless to someone who is so unhinged, then it may be wise to plant your feet in the ground and stand tall. Choosing when, and more importantly where, to pick fights is the key to this last ditch effort to be heard. Never ever say anything that could be misinterpreted in an email. Only use email in noninflammatory ways, such as to schedule a meeting to have a talk about what’s been going on or ask for clarification. If things start to boil up, call.
When it comes down to it, the proof is always in the pudding, and that means cold, hard evidence. There’s a reason Hill has some pages of her private-made- public email account missing, and that’s because she probably said things that could either be A. misconstrued or, even worse, B. reveal iffy governing tactics. When you sit down with your boss, make sure someone from HR is there. A witness is always key, especially if you are being verbally (and mentally) attacked by a superior. That is, after all, not good business practice.
I wish you well, Anonymous, because being at odds with a higher up is no fun and often leaves us 20-somethings fearing for our lives. To speak more broadly, I’ve come to notice a trend among the friends I’ve made from college, who have since graduated. We are all willing to put in ridiculous hours, work incredibly hard, and bend any which way to please the powers at be.
We’re then slammed in the media as “Millennials Who Are Entitled and Don’t Have Real Jobs.” As I’ve said before, the proof is in the pudding. You’ve worked hard and you’re dealing with an unfair hand that was dealt by terribly inept CEOs. Ultimately, you could always quit your job and travel the world. I hear your 20s are good for that.
I woke up at 1am, after missing my team’s League of Legends practice, I answer the angry text and facebook messages and head into the kitchen. On the toaster, I find and decided to tear through the leftover chicken parmesan I made earlier in the night. It was delicious. After cycling through various screens (TV, 3DS, Phone, Computer) I fell back asleep around 4:15.
At 6am, I wake up to take my brother, Emory, to school and give him my $20 for lunch money; I didn’t have change. I head back home and find myself unable to fall back to sleep, I decide to do some laundry and make some phone calls. As I’m hanging my second load outside, I get a call about an interview I did they day before. They offer me a job.
By 9am, I eat breakfast, more chicken parm, or as Tom Haverford calls it “chicky-chicky-parm-parm.” I have a problem. I engage in a tug of war with my brother’s dog, MJ. We never let her win, but she’s a good sport. She knows it’s all about the game.
Noon comes around and my editor sends me notes on my latest project, I dive right in immediately. Two hours of editing later, it seems clean enough to send out into the world. I celebrate with iced tea. 3pm rolls in and I’m back on League of Legends. It’s an abusive relationship, the highs are incredible and the lows are insufferable. I play for six hours with various partners. We win more than we lose.
I jump in the shower at 9pm, getting ready to scream mid-2000s emo hits at the top of my lungs and celebrate (and mourn) with Lone Star Beer and Fireball Whiskey. I head to the trap to play smash bros and trade stories with the trap boys. By 4am, I’m home and I walk into the door. I heat up the last of the chicken parm and brew myself some bedtime tea. After my meal, I soak my socks in tap water, and wring them out so that they’re just damp. Then I go to sleep, and hope that Ron Swanson didn’t lie to me. He hasn’t yet.
Marco Lozano sits quietly on the patio of the cafè as the city bustles around him. Two twenty-somethings amble by with fuchsia and teal mats rolled up under their arms wearing matching yoga pants. A vagrant youth holds a sign that silently begs the kindness and coins of passersby. A man in a bespoke suit tries to close a deal with a producer at the table across from him. Marco doesn't see any of this. It could be said that he's not here at all, but lost in a world of his own.
Marco fiddles with the Uber app, searching for someone to take him where he needs to go. He's rejected nearly a dozen cars and drivers in the last hour; the first car was too small, a Kia Rio, driven by a gringa who didn't look a day over 19. The second, a Dodge Ram driven by what looked like a gangbanger; he would be too much trouble. The third, a Prius driven by a bookworm who probably had a class to teach in the morning. For this to work, Marco needed a reliable car with a desperate driver. No one fit the profile until the Cadillac Eldorado rolled up.
Cadillac Eldorados are old cars that take work to maintain, and the driver looked just about as old as his ride, easily late 40s. Anyone willing to drive a car like this for a living doesn't have a lot of options. Marco's shoulders relaxed and he leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Finally," he whispered as he ran his fingers through his dirty blonde curls, "I can get out of here."
A croissant sandwich and two cups of honey ginger tea later, an immaculate Eldorado rolls in front of the cafè and waits patiently for its charge. Marco marvels at the candy green paint and whitewash tires. When he was a kid, Marco's father wouldn't shut up about cars. It's the only thing he remembers his father actually talking about besides bills, and how Marco needed to get off the TV. Marco gets up from his seat and smoothes out his black slacks and vest as he walks toward the back of the car to check the license plate, just to be sure. Once he’s satisfied, Marco carefully walks to the passenger door.
As he approaches, the window rolls down revealing a dark skinned man with a close fade and a salt n’ pepper goatee underneath a grey newsboy cap. His eyes, whose edges showed the slightest beginnings of wrinkles, were intense under thick brows.
"Are you Theo?" Marco managed, nervously.
"Yeah, you looking for a ride?" Theo replied.
Marco nodded slightly and reached for the door handle, but the car was locked. He looked at Theo, a little bewildered.
"You didn't answer my question, son." Theo almost spat at the young man.
"Uh yeah, sorry. I'm headed east." Marco responded, raising his hands apologetically.
"East, huh? Alright." The door clicks as the lock pin springs upward.
Marco opens the door and sits down inside. The leather is pristine; if Theo told him he was the first to ride in the car, he would have believed it.
"Nice car."
"Thanks, restored it myself."
"What year?" Marco tilted his head.
"1967. The year they went luxury and it paid off. It was a new beginning for Cadillac, their best year ever."
Marco turns to look back at the cafè.
"Alright," Theo chirped, jolting himself out a daydream, "so how far east are you going?"
"Miami."
"Miami Court!? That's three blocks from here!" Theo grumbled, "It's only 7 minutes walking. Leave it to some kid to call a cab for a $3.00 fare. I don't know why I even took this job. I swear this whole gene-"
"Florida."
"Excuse me?"
"I want you to take me to Miami, Florida."
"Kid, I don't have time for games."
"Are you saying you won't do it?"
"I'm not spending a week driving across the country just to get stiffed by some kid."
"I can pay the fare, you don't have to worry."
Marco produces a wallet and pulls out a single black credit card and hands it to Theo. Theo takes it in his hand and compares it to the numbers on his phone.
"I'm sure you've seen them in the movies," Marco continues, "there's no spending limit, and there's a huge annual fee just to have one. Money isn't a problem here. I just need to get to Miami."
"And you're Marco Lozano?" Theo asks cautiously.
"You mean you don't recognize me?"
"Am I supposed to?"
Marco laughs hysterically, slapping his thigh and throwing his head back.
“What’s so funny, kid?”
“That you’re not kidding.” Marco chuckles as he regains his composure. “ You really don’t know who I am?”
“You some actor or something? Got yourself a commercial and now you’re the talk of the town? No, I don’t know you!”
"Oh, man this really is perfect!" Marco babbles through a hoarse chuckle.
Theo takes his eyes off the card and glares at Marco through the rear view mirror. "I'm gonna need to see some ID." Theo says authoritatively.
"Wait," Marco wipes a tear from his left eye, "are you serious?"
"Yeah, not a lot of people have cards like this, and if you're trying to leave the state, I'm not interested in being your getaway driver, if you know what I mean."
Marco stares at the old man, bewildered. He hasn't been accused of theft in years. Marco stole things, sure. A bottle of champagne at a party to impress a girl, a couple dimes of coke from an A-lister that'd never miss it, centerpieces, pocket knives, you know, petty things. Everybody does it. But no one's ever accused him of theft. Not since Irene, anyway.
"Well," Theo says expectantly, "am I gonna see ID or am I calling the cops?"
“What?” Marco says as his consciousness returns to Earth, “oh right.”
He pulls out his ID and hands it to Theo.
“You don’t have a driver’s license?”
“Never needed one.”
“You’ve never needed to drive in San Francisco!?”
“That’s New Money for ya.”
Theo inspects the ID. Marco was born in 1989, stood about 5’10”, and had brown hair when he took the picture. The ID also says he weighs 145 lbs, but he doesn’t look more than 125 soaking wet. The Marco sitting in his car doesn’t look as relaxed as the kid in the photo, but Theo figures it’s none of his business. It says he lives on 271 Ivy St., in Hayes Valley, across the street from the symphony, if Theo remembers correctly. Hayes may be all sunshine and rainbows now, but he remembers how rough it was just a few decades ago.
“A few decades,” Theo whispers to himself as his age burns in the base of his neck like a canker sore.
“What was that?” Marco barks, “Can I have my ID back?”
“Well, the card checks out, but I don’t understand why you want to take an Uber all the way to Miami.”
“I don’t remember that being any of your business.”
“It’s my business when I’m driving in my own car.” Theo says as he turns to hand Marco his ID.
“Are you saying you won’t take me!?” Marco inquires as panic rises up his spine.
Theo pauses for a moment. He really didn’t have to take the kid anywhere. He could tell him to get out of the car, start up the Eldorado, and go about the rest of his day. It would be a funny story to tell over dinner. He’d forget about it in a week. Besides, his life is good here; he has people he cares about, and people who care about him. He didn’t need his life to change today, but he wanted something out of this. He wanted the story. He wanted to see where this went.
“I’m don’t think I can be gone for that long.” Theo explains.
“The fare is easily six grand, and you get to drive straight across the country instead of in circles in this crazy city!” Marco pleads while gesticulating with his words. “It’s a vacation with a payday at the end!”
“I don’t expect some good-for-nothing without a license to understand, but cross-country driving is no vacation.” Theo spits.
“So what, you want more money!?” Marco turns to the window. “Fine! We can discuss it on the way.”
“What’s your hurry, kid?” Theo turns around to really get a good look at Marco.
“I’m sick of this town, trying to get out of it, and you’re not helping!” Marco snaps. “Just tell me how much you need so we can get on with this!”
Marco feels a bead of sweat slide down his forehead and into his right eye. He winces from the salt but continues to stare at Theo. His glasses start to fog over and Theo fades from view. Marco doesn’t move, trying to maintain his intensity. Theo chuckles before he turns to look out on the road.
“I need to make a phone call. Hang tight.” Theo says.
Theo gets out of the car. Marco takes off his horn rimmed glasses and fumbles them onto the floor. Marco curses under his breath; he’s losing his cool. Marco takes a deep breath as he picks up his glasses. He focuses on his breathing as he wipes the round lenses clean with a cloth in his breast pocket. This has always helped him calm down since he was a kid. Glasses back in place, he looks outside at Theo.
Theo is much taller than Marco originally thought; easily 6’2”- 6’3” and from his build, Marco surmises that he was at one point an athlete. Maybe a football or basketball star, with clothes that are bold nearly to the point of tacky. He stands tall too, with the look of a proud man even in chinos and a polo shirt. At least, he does for the next couple of seconds until whoever on the other line really starts to let him have it.
“What’s her name, Theodore!?”
“What? Look, Honey, it’s not like that.” Theo croons.
“You’re telling me that some Justin Timberlake knockoff just gets into your car, pulls out one of them black cards, says he want to ride across the country to Sin City, and you want me to believe that!? Does he sing and dance too?”
“First, Sin City is Las Vegas; Miami is Magic City. Second, when you put it like that it sounds --”
“It sounds like bullshit, Theodore.”
“It’s a lot of money to turn down, honey, and we both know we could use it.”
“It’s a lot of risk, boo boo, and we both know how often you’re taken advantage of.”
“W-What?” Theo stutters with astonishment. “W-When have I been taken advanta--”
“The car wash.”
“I told you those brushes were just too cheap!” Theo exclaimed.
“The Korean restaurant.”
“Those boys were really convincing.” Theo contended.
“The timeshare in New Orleans?”
“I’m still convinced that’s gonna pay off... someday.” Theo mused.
The voice lets out a heavy sigh, “Are you really going to do this?” she asks softly.
“He doesn’t seem dangerous. Troubled? Sure, but not dangerous.”
“You have to be careful.” She warns.
“After Vietnam, Korea, and Honduras, I think I’ll be fine.” Theo sighs.
“Make sure you go home first, take a suitcase at least.”
“I hadn’t even thought of that!” Theo admits, “Good thinking, Sharon!”
“You really are a fool.” Sharon pauses. “You have to call every day.”
“I will.”
“Remember you’re the one in charge.”
“I’m the one in charge,” Theo boasts.
“And… come home safe.”
The call cuts off from the other end. Theo replaces the phone in his olive chinos and pats it gently. He straightens up and heads back to the Eldorado. Theo opens the door, sits down, and takes a deep breath.
“So,” Marco begins, “are we going or what?”
“I have a few conditions.” Theo states calmly.
“Oh?” Marco perks up.
“I’m only driving six hours a day.”
“Eight.”
“I’m an old man.” Theo pleads halfheartedly.
“They say 40 is the new 20.” Marco fires back. “I’m sure you can handle it.”
“Fine, eight, but you’re paying for meals and gas.”
“I’m paying for my meals, and I’ll reimburse you for zero cents on the gallon.” Marco counters.
“What!?” Theo exclaims. “Give me a break!”
“If the meter’s gonna be running when you sleep overnight, you can afford to pay for gas.” Marco locks eyes with Theo in the rearview mirror.
“Damn it, fine, but wherever we stay, you’re paying for my hotel room, and I get my own hotel room!” Theo crosses his arms over his chest.
“Well, that sounds reasonable.” Marco leans back in the seat while a smile curls under his left cheek.
“Finally!” Theo uncrosses his arms.
“I didn’t want to share a room with you anyway.”
“Oh, and I’m stopping by home first.” Theo remembers.
“What!? No you aren’t!” Marco protests.
“I have to grab some things since I’ll be gone for a week.”
“You can buy what you need on the road!”
“This isn’t negotiable.” Theo says sternly.
“Well, it isn’t coming out of my fare.”
“Really, this is where you get stingy?” Theo chuckles.
Marco turns toward the window, nose turned up in disdain. Theo shrugs and starts the car. Marco lets his look soften and absentmindedly stares out the passenger window. He looks back at his vacant chair at the café and smiles. As they pull away, a towering blonde woman in a chic black dress stares unblinking at Marco through the window of the car. Marco meets her gaze for a moment, heart rate jumping with recognition, and slowly sinks into his seat.
I went home to be with my family for the weekend. Charlie was the first to greet me. He’s a little gentleman, and I told him so. I scratched him behind the ears and kissed his nose. He wriggled free from me, darted outside, and took a dump on the neighbor’s lawn.
After I snatched him and cleaned up after him I decided he probably needed some space to recover from the mortification of being caught in the act. I packed a bag with some essentials (laptop, expired CVS coupons, Polly-o cheese sticks) and attempted to walk to the public library. I forgot how long it took to walk there, though, and by the time I arrived it was closing. In an attempt to avoid complete defeat, I grabbed a book from the history section. At the check-out desk I searched my bag, pretending I couldn’t find my library card, even though I am well aware that it was killed five years ago in a heavy-duty wash cycle. The librarian accepted my driver’s license. Then she apologized and said I didn’t exist anymore in the system. I’ve lived here my whole life, I said. The lady next to me recognized me and said hello; I considered asking if she wouldn’t mind poking me to prove that I was a real person.
In the end, because I was able to successfully list all the members of my family who do exist, I was granted permission to take the book out under my sister’s name. The History of Lighthouses by Patrick Beaver. I am pretty interested in the subject matter, but also my mom has an irrational fear of lighthouses so I thought it would be a little funny to mysteriously leave it on the kitchen counter. I walked home that afternoon, made it just in time to eat some of the chicken fingers leftover on the stove, and then spent the rest of the weekend shoving the book in people’s faces and telling them Patrick Beaver was an actual beaver. For at least five seconds one of my cousins believed me. It was one of the most productive weekends in months.
New York City Census of Mythical Creatures and Mole People
Two disgruntled bureaucrats leaking records from the city's confidential database of anomalous inhabitants. We’ll release one casefile per month. Keep your eyes peeled.
Census ID #3031: Scylla-Mom
Origin: Hell Gate, Queens
Age: 223 ¾ (~35 human years)
Modus Operandi: Because her Scylla-Kid requires constant motion to keep asleep, Scylla-Mom spends her days and nights powering through the most tempestuous pedestrian passages of NYC—narrow sidewalks and crowded park paths, enclosed construction channels and back-of- building mews, sometimes even bike lanes if the going gets tough. A kid with six heads leaves no time for bums; if you’re parked in front of her at the crosswalk’s edge and don’t get to stepping as soon as the walk-man lights up, she’ll start with a warning stroller-wheel- to-Achilles’- heel bump. Ignore her and your toes are history.
But why does she choose only to crush feet when she has the potential to chomp off heads? Why doesn’t Scylla-Mom rage twice as fiercely when a clueless tourist (figuratively) hacks off heads of her own by stopping short to ransack his fanny-pack, sending her little monster into hissing hysterics? Maybe it’s motherly mercy. Maybe the crushing oppression of the Scylla-Patriarchy has held her too ashamed to let loose her wrath in its entirety. Only time will tell.
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