Time after time

Okay — stop me if you’ve heard this one before. Every time I start a new job, I promise myself that I am all done showing up late. No more skating in on the fly, acting like I’ve been there the whole time. So far I’ve been unsuccessful, but each and every new job brings a renewal of the promise: This time I will be one of the punctual people — I will not be rushing around, flustered and embarrassed. Will not!

I know I am not alone in making this promise to myself, ror are the consistently disappointing results unique to me. The first couple of weeks go well: it looks like this time I have succeeded in my goal, but one day I’ll have a legitimate reason to start the drive late – one of the kids will need something, I realize I’m almost out of gas, I spill something down my pants and need to change clothes – the usual. And after one or more of these things happens a couple of times, I figure out how to cut a couple of corners to make up the time and it becomes apparent that I don’t have to leave home quite as early as I thought. I learn who to suck up to for being a little late, how to explain my tardiness in ways that a particular supervisor will accept as valid. And before you know it, I’m back to showing up just as my shift starts (or up to five minutes later than that).

Sad, isn’t it?

So once again, I made the punctuality vow with myself at the start of this job. And it’s a good thing, because my company values punctuality more than just about any other single employee virtue. It’s one of the only things anyone gets routinely written up for. The halls are constantly filled with people hurrying, rushing to be on time. And it’s not just critical to be on time for the start of your shift! There is zero tolerance for returning from your break even one minute late!

Here’s the story: I am on the way out the door — on time — when Buddy falls in the driveway and needs his knee bandaged. While we’re in the house, a friend stops by and parks behind me in the drive. By the time she gets her car moved to the street, I am about eight minutes late leaving. I start to pull out, swearing already, and realize that I’ve left my work-approved water cup in the house. I have to go back for it. Now I’m 10 minutes late leaving. And I am in a total panic. Driving (rather like a maniac), I round the curve of the entrance ramp to find the interstate entirely backed up.

I heave a giant sigh of disappointment and frustration and dial the number for the supervisor’s desk at work. My trainer answers the call.

“Oh, Molly. Yeah, no problem. I know — traffic is bad today. No worries. Just get here as soon as you can. We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

That went better than I thought it would. I am relieved and resume driving like a normal person. But letting down my guard proves premature.

Later that night, my trainer comes up behind me and asks that I pause the simulated call I am on. When I turn around she says, “Here, I need you to sign this.”

“This” is a half-sheet of paper, clearly labeled VERBAL WARNING. I turn my eyes on my trainer and shamefully realize they are full of tears. “Verbal warning?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah. For being four minutes late clocking in today. No big deal. Just sign it for me — it happens all the time.”

Okay, so I know I am being a baby, but I’ve never received any kind of warning from an employer. “But, you said ‘No problem’ on the phone. I thought … I mean … I called to let you know … ”

“Yes, you did. Which is good, because if you hadn’t I’d have to give you a written warning, which carries more weight. This is just a verbal — no big deal.”

As I am signing the slip of paper, I stammer, “I know it says VERBAL WARNING on it, but it’s all written out. What is the difference between a written and a verbal?”

My trainer looks at me blankly and shakes her head as if to indicate that this is a truly ridiculous question.

I press on. “Does it go in my file?”

She nods.

“Okay, if they are both written out and they both go in my file — what is the difference?” I can tell she thinks I am just being difficult now.

“You see here where it says VERBAL WARNING?” she allows. “On a written warning it says WRITTEN WARNING in the same place.”

“And is that the only difference?”

“No! Like I said, the written warning carries more weight. They get logged into the computer. I check a little box. The computer calculates your compliance scores. All kinds of stuff goes in there — your timings, your attendance, your accuracy, everything. And the computer keeps an ongoing score for you.”

I nod again, dumbly, and hand the verbal warning back to my trainer, who is clearly relieved that the conversation is over.

With no small degree of anxiety, I realize that not only is Big Brother watching me, but apparently Hal is on His side. (Note to self: No more old science fiction movies for awhile — I am seeing everything through Clockwork Orange lenses.)