The Stereotypical Boss
I just got fired. It’s not the economy—after all, this was the third time I was fired from the same job. But it was probably deserved.
To begin with, the job was beyond me. Starting off behind the bar at Eastside Billiards I had the honor of being able to call myself “the worst bartender in Manhattan.” Until the day I left I still never learned what goes into a cosmo or a martini. My customers couldn’t complain, as any time they asked for a cocktail I couldn’t handle I’d glance at a cheat sheet and give them a heavy pour.
Nor was I particularly invested in the job. My parents (and society?) had been unable to convince me of the merit of a strong work ethic. I wasn’t a struggling artist and I didn’t have many costs, so why exert myself? Still, that didn’t stop me enjoying a little “slippage”—no difficult task in the absence of any management. Considering the pay it was the easiest work one could wish for, notwithstanding the company.
The company: I hated my boss, Jerry W. S. “The worst person I have ever been forced to be around,” I professed at the time. Statistically speaking, it’s quite unlikely he that he’s the worst person I have ever met. Not in New York. But here I was for the first time burdened with an entirely demoralizing acquaintance. I do not exaggerate. In fact, if you feel I’m perhaps being too harsh, either you’ve kept worse company than I, or you believe in the innate good in all mankind. In either case, you have my deepest sympathy.
Anyway, like the captured animal that learns to feed humbly from his master’s hand, I soon became indebted to mine. He made me the “house pro,” essentially elevating me from peer to steer, atoning me in my parent’s eyes for all those wasted years in dimly lit rooms with other men, and giving me a second position in his business that I was woefully unsuited for. In a way he was forced into hiring me, as his reputation within the pool world (a close, incestuous and often-whispering clique) could not be lower. Who else would agree to work for him? It was not that I beat the competition; it was just that none of my many superiors would sink as low.
I didn’t have a problem with it. Not only did he give me enough material on which to base an entirely believable archetypal antihero, but he offered a similar kind of excitement to that derived from watching trains crash on youtube. So, despite being fired twice for dissent (adolescent moments I failed to regret) our relationship remained fairly uneventful, and life went on.
Thankfully for my soul, if not also for my constitution, this all came to an end last weekend. The Predator Tour, an innovation by New York’s friendliest professional pool player, Tony Robles, came to Eastside Billiards, and Jerry wanted someone to represent us. I was afraid of the embarrassment more than the guaranteed failure, but he offered to pay my entrance fee. In a way I was grateful to have a reason to be there, and prepared myself for defeat.
Without boring you with too many details, there was a real storybook quality to my loss. I didn’t miss for 6 games. Then, in a moment of quite fanciful camaraderie, Jerry rubbed my shoulders while walking passed my table. Suddenly I missed unmissable shots and became an expert in finding my way out of position. He had given me the touch of death. I lost the next 7 games in a row.
So how does this get me fired? Well, I didn’t say hello to Jerry’s mother, who had also come along to the tournament. He took it as an insult to her, but really it was an insult to him (I’d find it hard to talk to Barbara Bush too). Perhaps this will explain:
…You are done at MY pool hall. You smug arrogant English prick!!!!! By the wayway, you never said thank you fort me paying you entrance fee to the tournament! Must be nice having grandma paying all the bills. I have plenty of money and want to have people who respect me around…. You have been replaced by Tony Robles and George Sansouci as house pro. Goodbye Nick, happy trails.
This was news to Tony and George, so I didn’t take it too seriously. I managed to squirm my way back into his good books with a little flattery, but it didn’t work for long. Within two weeks, when I was trying to organize a little party there (thirty female 18-24 year old interns from my new job), we had this conversation via email:
Jerry S.:
We can accommodate your group. We will set aside four tables. What date specifically?Nick Broad:
I’ll have to work it out with them. Probably on one Thursday around the latter half of July.Jerry S.:
Since you can’t say thank you forget it, take them elsewhere. Good luck son.Nick Broad:
When you stop referring to yourself as “we,” I’ll make my responses personal. Thanks!Jerry S.:
Goodbye Nick please do not enter MY business again. You have officially been banned. Goodbye son.
I love how he always spells MY in capitals!
You may, by now, be wondering why I have titled this “the stereotypical boss.” Well, here’s the kicker. Apparently, this man is not so out-of-the-ordinary; this man, whose words were so incomprehensible to me that I went as far as to secretly tape them; this man, who has given me a better understanding of that class of American the rest of the world calls a “classless American”; this is not an exceptional man. Not according to an expert.
Over two years ago I contacted Bob Johnson, founder of a school of bar management, to see what he thought about my new boss. I was writing an article for class about the bartending industry, and thought he’d have some gems to share. (Edited for length)
Subject: Hi Bob, I’m looking for some advice
Hi,
My boss has done many wrong things—from sexual discrimination to intimidating the workforce to wrongful dismissal to not paying overtime…the list goes on and on.There are assholes in every trade, but I would just like to know more about the ones in mine. Any information you could give would be very appreciated,
Nick Broad.
###Nick,
I share your anger about the idiot, asshole type owners/managers found throughout the industry. The bar business seems to attract it’s share of losers. My favorite “stereo-typical” owner is the one who has absolutely no knowledge or experience in the bar business, then mortgages his house to come up with enough money to “get in,” then proceeds to drink himself into a stupor every night at the end of the bar, occasionally sticking his hand out desperately, trying to get one of his low cleavage cocktail waitresses to talk with him so he can flirt with her. This type ends up divorced, then loses the business—a loser from the beginning. All for the privilege of seeing his name in lights, you know, “Joe’s Place.”
[Their] defense is “This is America – we still have the right to choose our own destiny.”
Bob Johnson.
###Hey Bob,
If you’d said “Jerry’s Place” I’d have asked you my fortune. You described him perfectly: he continually tells everybody he’s the owner, uses the sentence “you don’t respect me” disproportionately more often than “please” or “thank you,” he’s racist, homophobic, bigoted….
According to Bob, then, Jerry is just a small fish in a big, murky pond, one that I had the misfortune of wading in for more time than I’d care to remember. It’s one of the worst parts of this story, that this contemptible being could be in fact so ordinary. When I was doing research for that article I heard horror stories from local bartenders. One owner kept an ad out in Craigslist for a cocktail waitress position even though he wasn’t hiring—he just wanted to get the number of hot young girls. At least Jerry doesn’t do that.
As for me, I worked there for four years, made more money than I deserved, and can forevermore say that I was the house pro at a pool hall (a line I have, admittedly, dropped quite often). However, since being banned from the place I’ve hardly played, and I don’t miss it. It turns out that life has gotten better since I stopped going. And yet again, I have something to thank him for, something I’m far more qualified to control: my freedom.
Tags: eastside billiards
