Wednesday - The Badge
Nov. 7th, 2007 05:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about how much I dislike John, the security guard in the lobby of my building. John is a stickler for rules, particularly the rule about not being able to enter the building without a security badge. I understand this is his job and that a person ought to take their job seriously. But people who take their jobs too seriously are a serious pain in the neck. Besides, it's not like I work for some covert government agency or anything. My company manages funeral homes, for crying out loud. Most of our clients are already dead when they come to us, so how disgruntled could they be?
My first run in with John was a couple of weeks after I came to work for The Corporation. John sits behind a curved console on the first floor* in the lobby, where he makes sure that everyone who walks through the sliding glass doors to the elevators uses their badge to buzz them open. Never mind if the door has already been opened by the person just ahead of you and you are wearing your badge in plain sight. You must hold the badge up to the security box and it must make a little buzzing noise and flash a green light to let John know that you are authorized to enter, and not some person off the street wanted to get the inside scoop on international funeral home conglomerates.
"Miss! Miss! Excuse me, Miss!" John boomed at me the first time I tried, "Please hold up your badge! I can't let you inside unless you have your badge!"
It's not seeing the badge that means so much to John; it's the green light and the buzzer. I noticed that a lot of women in the building keep their badges in their purses, which they hold up to the box. The scanner appears to be sensitive enough to read the badge though both expensive Italian leather and cheap vinyl, depending on whether the purse belongs to an executive or an administrative assistant. This looked like a great idea to me; I don't like having to wear an ugly digital picture of myself clipped to my shirt any more than the next person. So I resolved to keep my badge in a pocket on the inside of my purse and never have to worry about forgetting it or losing it again. The plan seemed foolproof. I forgot that no plan is so foolproof that a fool like me won't find a hole in it to fall through.
That day, I decided to make a trip down to the basement, where a nice Korean couple operates a deli that serves the world's best wonton soup.** It seemed silly to take my whole purse, since I was just coming back up to my desk to eat, so I grabbed some cash and went down the elevator, out the glass doors, through the lobby and past John, who nodded at me, and down the wide spiral staircase to the basement. I came back up the stairs a few minutes later, where I stopped at the glass door and realized that my badge was in my purse on the 8th floor.
"You need your badge to get in," John said.
"I left it at my desk. You just saw me come down not 5 minutes ago," I pointed out.
He shook his head. "A lot of people work in this building. I can't possibly keep track of them all. Your supervisor is going to have to come down and escort you up."
"My supervisor is in Michigan. He'll be in Houston next week."
"Who else do you work with?"
I told him the names of the other two people in my department. He dialed up Dixie, who agreed to come down and fetch me. When she did, though, John wasn't prepared to release me to her custody.
"You need to bring her badge down here."
"It's in my purse," I told her.
"John, I'm not going through her purse to find it," Dixie said.
"You're going to have to," John said, "I can't let her in without it."
Dixie used her badge to open the glass doors, and we both quickly walked through them.
"She can't go through there without her badge!" John said, but we were already on an elevator. This was the first time I noticed that the console that John sit behind might not be that easy for him to get in or out of. He looked about ready to jump over it and come after us, though.
"I'll bring the badge back down when I get to my desk!" I shouted as the elevator door closed.
"You better do it," Dixie he said, "Or he's going to be upset. No telling what he'll do."
"My soup's getting cold," I said. When I got back to my cubicle, I found my badge, rode the elevator back downstairs, went back out into the lobby where a flustered John was glaring at me, used it to buzz the doors back opened, and rode back upstairs to eat my now-lukewarm wonton soup.
I don't leave my badge in my purse anymore. On a few occasions since, I've forgotten it at home and had to have my boss in Michigan, or my boss's boss at the end of the hall here in Houston, tell John to print me a sticker that gives him the authority to buzz me in without a badge. John always demands these stickers back at the end of the day, so people can't sneak in with yesterday's sticker the next morning. Out of principle, I always try to slip out to the parking garage with mine still on me, just to annoy him. I take the stairs down to the basement, where he can see me walking to the underground tunnel beneath the garage on his security camera, but he can't do anything to stop me, besides yell.
At every job, a person has to have a nemesis to butt heads with. At this job, my nemesis is John, the security guard. Every morning, I purposefully hold my badge, with its ugly digital picture of me, and use it to buzz the glass doors open. John, who claims that there is no way he could possibly keep track of the thousand or so people who work in this building, makes a point of greeting me by my first name as a way of letting me know that he knows I am trouble and that he has his eye on me . I guess John needs a nemesis, too. He knows it's only a matter of time before I misplace my badge and try to sneak past him without out it again, and he's prepared to do what ever it takes to see that I don't get away with it.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
*to those of you someplace other than the U.S., this would be called the "ground floor," and the first floor would be what we call the second floor. We just have to be different over here, don't we?
**don't be surprised that the world's best wonton soup is served in the basement of an office building in Houston, Texas. The world is a surprising place, and the best that it has to offer can always be found in its most unexpected corners. For example, the world's best pork fried rice is served in my own little town of Tomball, Texas, at the Bamboo Palace Restaurant. Who would ever think to look for great Chinese food in a place like Tomball, where we have cow pastures just two blocks off of Main Street? Yet there it is, right behind the Cougar Car Wash, just $6 for a platter of it large enough to serve a family of 4 for a week.
My first run in with John was a couple of weeks after I came to work for The Corporation. John sits behind a curved console on the first floor* in the lobby, where he makes sure that everyone who walks through the sliding glass doors to the elevators uses their badge to buzz them open. Never mind if the door has already been opened by the person just ahead of you and you are wearing your badge in plain sight. You must hold the badge up to the security box and it must make a little buzzing noise and flash a green light to let John know that you are authorized to enter, and not some person off the street wanted to get the inside scoop on international funeral home conglomerates.
"Miss! Miss! Excuse me, Miss!" John boomed at me the first time I tried, "Please hold up your badge! I can't let you inside unless you have your badge!"
It's not seeing the badge that means so much to John; it's the green light and the buzzer. I noticed that a lot of women in the building keep their badges in their purses, which they hold up to the box. The scanner appears to be sensitive enough to read the badge though both expensive Italian leather and cheap vinyl, depending on whether the purse belongs to an executive or an administrative assistant. This looked like a great idea to me; I don't like having to wear an ugly digital picture of myself clipped to my shirt any more than the next person. So I resolved to keep my badge in a pocket on the inside of my purse and never have to worry about forgetting it or losing it again. The plan seemed foolproof. I forgot that no plan is so foolproof that a fool like me won't find a hole in it to fall through.
That day, I decided to make a trip down to the basement, where a nice Korean couple operates a deli that serves the world's best wonton soup.** It seemed silly to take my whole purse, since I was just coming back up to my desk to eat, so I grabbed some cash and went down the elevator, out the glass doors, through the lobby and past John, who nodded at me, and down the wide spiral staircase to the basement. I came back up the stairs a few minutes later, where I stopped at the glass door and realized that my badge was in my purse on the 8th floor.
"You need your badge to get in," John said.
"I left it at my desk. You just saw me come down not 5 minutes ago," I pointed out.
He shook his head. "A lot of people work in this building. I can't possibly keep track of them all. Your supervisor is going to have to come down and escort you up."
"My supervisor is in Michigan. He'll be in Houston next week."
"Who else do you work with?"
I told him the names of the other two people in my department. He dialed up Dixie, who agreed to come down and fetch me. When she did, though, John wasn't prepared to release me to her custody.
"You need to bring her badge down here."
"It's in my purse," I told her.
"John, I'm not going through her purse to find it," Dixie said.
"You're going to have to," John said, "I can't let her in without it."
Dixie used her badge to open the glass doors, and we both quickly walked through them.
"She can't go through there without her badge!" John said, but we were already on an elevator. This was the first time I noticed that the console that John sit behind might not be that easy for him to get in or out of. He looked about ready to jump over it and come after us, though.
"I'll bring the badge back down when I get to my desk!" I shouted as the elevator door closed.
"You better do it," Dixie he said, "Or he's going to be upset. No telling what he'll do."
"My soup's getting cold," I said. When I got back to my cubicle, I found my badge, rode the elevator back downstairs, went back out into the lobby where a flustered John was glaring at me, used it to buzz the doors back opened, and rode back upstairs to eat my now-lukewarm wonton soup.
I don't leave my badge in my purse anymore. On a few occasions since, I've forgotten it at home and had to have my boss in Michigan, or my boss's boss at the end of the hall here in Houston, tell John to print me a sticker that gives him the authority to buzz me in without a badge. John always demands these stickers back at the end of the day, so people can't sneak in with yesterday's sticker the next morning. Out of principle, I always try to slip out to the parking garage with mine still on me, just to annoy him. I take the stairs down to the basement, where he can see me walking to the underground tunnel beneath the garage on his security camera, but he can't do anything to stop me, besides yell.
At every job, a person has to have a nemesis to butt heads with. At this job, my nemesis is John, the security guard. Every morning, I purposefully hold my badge, with its ugly digital picture of me, and use it to buzz the glass doors open. John, who claims that there is no way he could possibly keep track of the thousand or so people who work in this building, makes a point of greeting me by my first name as a way of letting me know that he knows I am trouble and that he has his eye on me . I guess John needs a nemesis, too. He knows it's only a matter of time before I misplace my badge and try to sneak past him without out it again, and he's prepared to do what ever it takes to see that I don't get away with it.
*to those of you someplace other than the U.S., this would be called the "ground floor," and the first floor would be what we call the second floor. We just have to be different over here, don't we?
**don't be surprised that the world's best wonton soup is served in the basement of an office building in Houston, Texas. The world is a surprising place, and the best that it has to offer can always be found in its most unexpected corners. For example, the world's best pork fried rice is served in my own little town of Tomball, Texas, at the Bamboo Palace Restaurant. Who would ever think to look for great Chinese food in a place like Tomball, where we have cow pastures just two blocks off of Main Street? Yet there it is, right behind the Cougar Car Wash, just $6 for a platter of it large enough to serve a family of 4 for a week.
