“Bully Boss”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

Note: What follows here is completely true. As with ‘Dragnet’ only the names have been changed, to protect the innocent.

One-hundred-percent.

During my retail career of 33 years duration, I encountered many different types of managers. Some inspired me to accept greater responsibility at our stores, a decision I never regretted. Others seemed to suggest that a career in supervision was ill-advised. I used them all as human guideposts to steer my own habits while learning to be in charge.

One fellow from this crowd stood apart from the rest, during my journey.

We first met, abruptly, in 1992. My pair of supermarkets had been sold by our private owner to a local chain based in Cleveland. We were scheduled to close forever at 6:00 p.m. on Saturday. A handmade sign in the window thanked patrons for their past support of the business.

Tank Tatra entered the store before our doors were locked. He was a small man, balding, with a faint scar visible on his forehead. His eyes were piercing, like those of a restless badger on the hunt. He spoke with the rough dialect of city dwellers. I would later discover that he had worked his entire career with Fazio’s, a local group of supermarkets. Despite the fact that our crew had been terminated en masse and that only a few would technically be employed after the keys were surrendered, he began to give orders. “I want this done, 100%!”

No one had any inkling of his true identity.

Inexplicably. one of my coworkers began to hustle racks and displays out of the lobby. The rest of us were snickering, because we knew the poor sap would not be paid for his efforts. When I finally asked our intruder about his purpose in barking orders like a chihuahua, Tank became irritated.

“I am the MANAGER! He huffed. “THE GENERAL STORE MANAGER!”

That uncomfortable moment set the tone for three years that would follow.

Under the private owner, I had been a member of the grocery crew and a weekend manager. My tour-of-duty was productive, as I worked with veterans of many other chains like A & P, Valu King, Golden Dawn and Kroger. I learned much about the industry while stocking shelves and waiting on customers. The fact that I had long hair and a beard made no difference. I wore a tie during daytime hours, according to our dress code. That was enough. My place on the team seemed secure.

Under the new regime, all of this evaporated.

Without notice, I ended up on night crew. My second day as a corporate employee lasted 18 ½ hours while we frantically struggled to revamp the building in time for a Tuesday opening. I worked a delivery of regular stock while refrigeration trenches were being dug. Fumes and chemicals filled the air. The din drowned out music being played over our public address system. Tank shouted threats and curses where a simple word of encouragement would have sufficed. He bullied everyone. I reckoned it must have been a result of ‘short man syndrome.’ A transfer of anger from years of being teased about his lack of vertical stature.

Only one friend from the old crew remained with me, on third shift. We were baffled by our new leader and his assistant, another Cleveland import who had also worked his entire career with the company. Ferd was calloused lump of human flesh. A broken horse, flogged and starved for bouts of incompetence. He proved to be incapable of making out a proper grocery order. Our back room soon filled with overstock. Before long, unopened cases of product were going out of date. But when we voiced a sense of alarm, he shook off any idea of change. “I have to keep ordering because you guys can’t finish the pallets!”

Tank regularly interrupted our labor so that we could spend time conditioning the shelves. Appearances were everything to our masters by Lake Erie. With many items sitting by the back door, we straightened and dusted the half-empty shelves.

Every official note finished with the same written admonition. “MUST BE DONE, 100%!”

One morning, we were doing price changes with an older clerk named Groh, who looked like Chico Marx. He had the soft-speaking demeanor of a priest and was faithfully religious. When we complained about Tank using the management style of Benito Mussolini, he assured us that Jesus was nearby. A terse response echoed before I had time to mentally engage my brain. “Christ should be here right now, helping us!” I exclaimed. Groh simply bowed his head and continued to peel new shelf tags from his stack. In the morning, our boss arrived early, as was his habit. After sorting newspaper sections for the front end, he approached us in an aisle. Curses flew when he realized that our new friend had been putting tags in the wrong places.

I punched out at 7:00 a.m., per my schedule. When Groh tried to leave, Tank met him at the lobby doors. He repeatedly used the ‘F-word’ which surprised me as the store had just opened and gentle customers were filing inside, their heads still clouded with lingering grains of slumber left by the sandman. He demanded that the wilting clerk remain behind, off-the-clock. “You screwed this up and now you’re gonna effing fix it!” he screamed.

A few weeks later, Geauga County received a traditional blast of winter weather. Lake-effect snow buried our store and parking lot, to a depth that Tank had never seen in his Cleveland neighborhood. Hurrying to arrive, as ever, he lost control of his Ford Tempo sedan and flipped over a mound left by our plow company. With no remorse for his persistently sour mood, he approached me about being pulled out of the snow. “You have a four-wheel-drive truck, right?” Even our night crew captain warned that I would regret offering any assistance. But I grabbed my coat and cheerfully rescued the bully-mobile from its snowy grave.

Two weeks later, Tank wrote me up - the only formal disciplinary action I ever received in 33 years. We had endured a particularly dreadful night at the store. Due to employees calling off, only crew chief Rand and I were on the job. Before the start of our business day, I had to break away and clean the floors as our porter was one of those missing from action. When the boss arrived, we were far behind on our duties, due to the lack of manpower. He yelled, threatened, misdirected us and then, as we were leaving, waved the corrective forms in our faces. Both of us refused to sign. Outside the store, I sat in my truck for nearly half an hour before turning the key. The same scenario played out over and over in my gray matter. I wanted to walk inside and tell the little bully what I thought of his crude manner and indifference to logic. But I knew such an act would result in unemployment of a permanent kind. That had been his intention. Afterward, our union steward broke out laughing when he heard about the incident. “That is garbage,” he said with disbelief. “He is lucky anyone showed up at all.” The dubious paperwork ended up in a trash can.

Life had taken a downward turn when Tank entered our consciousness. I bought an answering machine because he frequently called my home to complain about issues, instead of addressing them when I was on duty. I declined to give up hours as our labor budget was reduced, and got hounded for the deed. When a layoff seemed imminent, one day of seniority saved me, with much scorn and harassment as the result. Then, after the passage of years, this experience ended much as it had begun. I returned to the store on a Thursday, after a quick nap at home, to pick up my paycheck. The head cashier asked if I had heard the news that made everyone bright-eyed and cheerful. “Tank was called to the offices on Richmond Road,” she whispered. “They are sending him to Mayfield. He starts there on Sunday!”

I could not stop smiling for weeks to come.

In years that followed, I was able to escape the graveyard shift and return to management duties. I bought a razor and got my facial appearance in line with corporate standards. Eventually, my path led to a salaried position, at a high-volume location, once again under private ownership. I found myself using Tank as a yardstick of sorts. A guide on how not to supervise others. A tarnished turd who held on too long to methods born in the 1950’s. Yet strangely, I also came to respect his unflagging resolve. His devotion to the business and attention to detail. His determination to instill discipline and wring profit from challenging stores. I rejected his methods, but the focus on success made sense.

Finally, he was forced into retirement after the company itself survived a takeover. He could not fit the paradigm of new-age ideas. I felt slightly sad for the flawed warrior. In his shadow I had found new life. A useful part of myself hardened and sharpened by the uneasy time we spent together.

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