Set of Rules

I worked hard for forty five years as an administrator for a service company. I learnt a lot about how a service company can bill the clients for services they do not really perform and how to pay employees as little as possible while getting the work of two employees from each of them. Not surprising, then that employees did not stay long with the company. The ones who did not leave for greener pastures were deemed incompetent and were summarily dismissed before they were owed significant separation allowance. Yet, I spent my whole working career there. It was not because the bosses liked my work but because no one knew I was there. I kept such a low profile that I was not on their radar. I was never offered ten, twenty or forty year service awards and, thanks to the innate survival instinct, never claimed any. Anyhow, I became the first person to retire from the company in its long history. The company did not have any retirement plans but they did have a little reception on my last day in the afternoon break and presented me a ticking Timex.

My good wife was pleased that I was now available to help her at home. I was never good at cooking but I could chop the vegetables, do the dishes, vacuum the floor and water the garden of which she was particularly fond. I offered to pull out the weeds but she reminded me of the occasion twenty years ago when I pulled out the precious poppies. “No thanks. Just water it. Make sure hose is on long enough and no corner is missed. You can look after the grass, mowing, watering, weeding and feeding. Make sure the lawn furniture is put back.”

But things didn’t go as smoothly as we expected. Before long she was complaining that I am snooping on her phone calls though all I did was looked up from the Sports section when she laughed boisterously. Then the tea cup was left lying around, snacks disappeared before her visitors arrived, newspaper sections were scattered all over the house, complaints galore on and on. It couldn’t go on. I had to find a way out.

A friend at the Bridge Club mentioned that his company needed a consultant to straighten their administration. Aha, here was the solution to all my problems and some money in the bank too. I got the number of the manager from him and made an appointment. Before long I had an assignment. But to do the work I needed an office. To look after the office I needed an Office Assistant. Fortunately, the shopping plaza had just the space and an ad in the local paper brought forth an application. Jeanette was an experienced lady who could handle the phone, keep company books, make out cheques to Revenue Canada at proper times and of course did not mind serving tea when I needed it. Her salary expectation was not unreasonable considering the times and all she wanted in addition was the option to draw her salary in Canadian or American dollars, have lunch with her ‘boy’ friend in her office and be able to leave immediately after lunch on Fridays. I needed her more than she needed me and I knew there was not much room to haggle. I agreed to her conditions without giving them much thought. Following Monday Rare Management Consultants were in operation with a client, an office and the full complement of staff.

Well, not quite. Jeanette spent an hour making a list of things that we needed to function properly. She needed a computer, printer, fax, telephone system, copier, filing cabinets, more furniture, small office accessories like pencil sharpener, hole punch, file holders, on and on. It took several days and several months’ anticipated billings to acquire these basics. At last every thing was in place and working to Jeanette’s satisfaction and a smile flitted across her usually dour face.

Her boy friend, he indeed was a boy, couldn’t have been half her age, showed up at noon for lunch. She closed the door to her office and opened it at one sharp and her boy, I have a temptation to call him toy boy but I will resist, disappeared without saying hello or goodbye. I spent my time reviewing my client’s organizational charts, revising them in various ways and considering pros and cons of each. Jeanette spent her time playing solitaire on the computer. I was relieved she could occupy herself and didn’t bother me about giving her things to do. As the minute hand moved to zero with the hour hand at four she picked up her hand bag, put on her brown Holt and Renfrew coat with a fur collar, said goodbye and left. On Fridays she left at one after her lunch soon after her ‘boy’ had departed.

At the end of the month she told me that it was easier for accounting to treat American and Canadian currencies at par and make adjustments at the end of the business year. I did not see any problem and agreed. She responded by informing me that she will take her cheque in US dollars. On my way home I heard on the business news that our dollar was trading a little below par.

The following month, Jeanette’s lunch hour started at 11:45 and had progressively moved to 11:00 three months later. She left on Friday after lunch as was our agreement, now at noon. Another change occurred at this juncture. Canadian dollar was now trading at premium and Jeanette switched to taking her salary in Canadian dollars. These changes should have rung alarm bells but a trusting soul who had learnt to keep waters still in his working life is deaf to such things. I carried on merrily, often whistling tunes from Gilbert and Sullivan operas.

Six months went by, Christmas was now approaching. Jeanette requested the week between Christmas and New Year off. I did not expect any thing important to happen and agreed. On Christmas Eve, she wished me a Merry Christmas, handed me a gaily wrapped packet and left holding the hand of her boy.

Three days after Christmas I was juggling the organization chat of my new client when the phone rang. It was the bank. They had my cheque for tax withholding to Revenue Canada but no funds in the account. I was shocked. We had received a large payment for my second job and I had asked Jeanette to deposit it promptly. “Sir, there was a big deposit last week, but many withdrawals as well, the last being 9,879.56 which took the balance to the credit limit.” I did not believe him, “I will be there in half an hour and we will straighten it out.”

I found the bank file in the cabinet, stuffed it in my brief case and rushed to the bank. There was the receipt of the big deposit in the file but no record of withdrawals. The bank manager showed me the cheques with what looked like my signatures made out to Jeanette. Obviously, Jeanette had forged my signatures and had taken off with every penny in the account.

The police were called. Jeanette had left her apartment and no one knew where she had moved to. I learnt my lesson and moved as well. Back to a small office in the basement of our home with a set of twelve rules just above the computer: rules dictated by my wife before she will let me stay at home in work hours.

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