Management Case Study 17: Down East Chicken - 3

By D. E. Fredd

I send everyone home by ten. I want to be alone. I have to write my mission statement or whatever it is she wants. Buh Buh begs me to come over, but I take a rain check. I dim the store lights, sit at a back booth with a large Coke and begin. Ten minutes later I haven't progressed beyond the title, My Management Philosophy. I decide the job isn’t worth it; why not take a demotion to shift supervisor and free myself from all my troubles. I scribble "I QUIT" in huge block print on the pad and sit back. I’m at peace. I grab my cell and am about to punch in Buh Buh's number when there's a metallic tap on the front door. I figure it's some drunk who thinks were still open, but it's Carol.

                                    **********

She looks like hell. A heel has broken so she limps. She has been crying. Her makeup resembles a child’s finger painting. Her stockings are torn at the knees, and one shoulder seam on her jacket has separated. When she is fully inside, she grabs me and hangs on for dear life. We stagger to the nearest booth where I manage to plump her down. She begs me for a drink, scotch, vodka—whatever I’ve got stashed. I want to go into my alcohol situation but decide now is not the time. There isn’t even any coffee so the best I can do is a large Coke.

She is shaking. Her lower lip trembles. The Coke is too cold so I put it in the microwave until it steams. She takes a sip and it's better. It seems Bangor did not go well (an understatement if ever there was one) with the firing of the manager, Diego Ramirez, despite the fact that there was plenty of evidence he was stealing. At first there were angry words. Then shouting, some very bad language and things turned violent. A knife appeared. A stampede as staff and screaming customers tried to escape. She was knocked down in the melee and stomped until an off-duty fireman rushed Diego, receiving several slashes to his arms and chest before he had to back off. After that and before the police arrived, Ramirez totally wrecked the store. The plumbing was destroyed, fires started and broken glass was everywhere. Tear gas was used and, when he blindly stumbled outside, he swore he'd have his Dominican family and friends kill everybody who had a hand in his plight.

It took her a half hour to relate the tale. She told it in spurts of three or four minutes each and then, like a winded sprinter, she'd rest and start again. She had done this job for nine years and this was the worst day she’d ever had, the absolute worst. Staff had been fired before, and it hadn't gone well but never—never like this. She couldn't get the pictures of blood and shattered glass out of her mind. It was sure to make the eleven o'clock news, but she didn’t want to watch it. After giving statements to the police, she began the trip back to Connecticut, thinking that driving would relax her. Just north of Portland she almost ran off the road. She thought of me. So here she was, and as she said that, she reached out and grabbed my hand with both of hers just before letting loose a torrent of tears that had been gathering behind a very flimsy emotional dam.

I got up, went for more Coke and managed to find some aspirin. I thought about making a run to the package store, but knew I would never be able to resist the temptation of letting her drink alone. I moved to her side of the booth and held her for a while. Slowly she began to settle down.

"It’s a good thing I stayed late tonight to work on my management statement." As I said this I secretly added an "E" to "QUIT" and cleverly turned the "I" into the word "BE," which made no sense, but I couldn't think of anything else to disguise my viewpoint.

"I don’t want to talk about work. Even being here in the store gives me the creeps."

"I can drive you up to South Portland. There are several budget motels near the airport; I'm sure you could get a room."

"I don't want to be alone now."

"Well, I could let you use my place. It's not much; a studio apartment with a pull out couch you'd be welcome to. I fall asleep in the La-Z-boy watching TV most nights anyway."

I could see this idea wasn’t sitting too well with her. In a few days she might regret what the company gossipmongers would say about a supervisor spending the night with a lowly manager. "You know what, one of my shift supervisors, Claire Bustee, has a mobile home with plenty of room. It’s ten minutes away. I'm sure she'll help out."

"Oh, God I don't know how to thank you. You're so nice to me, and I probably don't deserve it in your eyes. It's easy to see why your employees love working for you. That's not true in every location."

"It's not a matter of deserving. You've had a tremendous shock. I don't know how you got this far. I'll make a quick call to Claire and let her know what to expect. She might even have a bottle of wine lying around as well."

She struggled to get out of the booth. "Before we go I want to get something from my car that will help you write up those management goals. I've got a notebook filled with ones managers have written over the years. It's the least I can do."

She held onto me for leverage as she took off her one good shoe, having decided she could navigate the parking lot barefoot. She tip-toed out the door towards her car. I went back to my office, locked the safe and did a quick inspection of the store before triggering the alarm. When I got back to the front, Carol was not there yet. Instead, rapping on the door with his keys was Carlos. I gave him a "what the hell's up" gesture, but he motioned me to let him in.

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