The Policy Says You're a Douchebag

Ever have one of those days where you want to strangle yourself with the red tape you've been forced to endure?  The kind of day where you want to stand on the street corner like a homeless doomsday preacher waving a tattered copy[1] of Atlas Shrugged around while screaming, "Is there not one thinking man left?!?!"[2]  When you find yourself praying for the zombie apocalypse to hurry up and get here to eliminate the weak minded sheeple and ridiculous regulations?

No?  You haven't?  Am I all alone here?

Well, then, um, let me dial back the crazy a bit and just go on with my story.

My day began at 4 am.  I had set my alarm for 5:45, but woke up unexpectedly early.[3]  I decided to hit the gym on the military post because they have a few intense spinning[4] classes.  I thought there was a 5:30 class, so I arrived at the spinning gym at 5:23.  It was empty save the man sitting at the desk.

Now, military gyms are staffed by low ranking soldiers.  I'm not in the army, but I'm pretty sure when a batch of new young men enter the army, they are pegged for various duties based on their aptitudes.

The higher ups might say, "Look at this lad!  He's an excellent shot.  We shall make him a sniper.  And this one seems to have a good head on his shoulders.  We will make him a medic."

They quickly identify the ones who will rise up amongst the ranks and take their places amongst the elite Special Forces and Ranger warriors.

Then you have the retards whose sole acceptance into the army was based on a pulse and a GED.  Those are placed at the fitness center desks.[5]

I walked in the empty lobby, realized there was no class, and said, "Excuse me sir, but is there not a 5:30 class anymore?"

"No m'amm.  The next class isn't until 6:30."

"That's fine," I replied.  "Can I just sign up for that one?" I asked.  

"I can't put the sign in sheet out until an hour before the class starts."

(As with most spin classes at gyms, there is a sign in sheet due to limited bikes).

"Yeah, I understand," I said, thinking he might have misunderstood my intentions.  "I want to sign up now for the class in an hour.  I'm going to go get a hot chocolate while I wait."

"The policy says I can't put out the sheets until an hour before class," he said, deadpan.

"Yeah, I know that.  So I want to come to the class that starts in an hour.  I want to write my name on the sheet, you give me a bike number, and I will return in an hour."

"I know," he said, in a monotone voice.  "But it's only 5:23.  I can't put out the sign in sheet for seven minutes."

I looked at him, stupefied.  

"Um, it's not like there's going to be a stampede of people showing up at 5:30," I pointed out, indicating an empty lobby.  "Can I just tell you my name and you sign me in?  Or I can write it on a sticky note?"

"No, the rules say that you have to sign in.  And I can't put the sheet on the counter for six more minutes."

I stood there, in complete shock and awe.  

He.  Was.  Fucking.  Serious.

Now, as much of a libertarian as I am, I understand that the military needs some rules and regulations.  Weapons control?  Sure.  Nuclear safeguards?  Got it.  Security measures?  Probably a good idea.

IN NO WAY WAS ME SIGNING INTO SPIN CLASS SIX MINUTES EARLY A THREAT TO NATIONAL SECURITY!!!!

So I decided to intimidate (ok, maybe not intimidate, but annoy) him into letting me sign in the sheet.  I crossed my arms on the desk, leaned down, placed my chin on my hands, and stared unblinking at him.  I was less than two feet from his vacant noggin.

He just sat there and stared off into space.

At 5:30 exactly, he took the clipboard with the sheet on it, placed it on the counter, and gave me my card.

"You're bike number one," he said.

Less than 12 hours later, I found myself entrenched in yet another bureaucratic nightmare.  

I work in IT, but I needed a program uninstalled and reinstalled on 70 computers in 2 rooms.  Unfortunately, not only did I not have the installation software, but it was also not my job.  Since I'm a contract employee, my superiors wouldn't approve the extra pay.  They told me to call our home office and have them send someone down from Virginia Beach.

I called the IT department and asked for the director.

"Is Omar there?" I asked.

"What can I help you with today?  My name is Brian.  Can I have your name?"

"OK, my name is Shawna, and you can help me by connecting me to Omar.  I don't have his cell number in my new phone."

"Can you spell your name for me?  Are you calling about a new or existing problem?"

"Well, I had one problem, but now I have two problems.   My first problem is that I'm not speaking to Omar.  Can we resolve that?"

"He's not here.  What can I help you with?"

I sighed.  I looked at the clock.  It was lunchtime.  Of course the A-team was at lunch and had probably left this tool in charge of the phones.

I explained my problem.

"Um, uh, wow, um, let me get my supervisor," Brian said.

I waited patiently until a man picked up.

"How can I help you?"

"Didn't Brian tell you why I was calling?" I asked, dumbfounded.  I repeated my problem.

"So you need work done on those 70 computers?"

Ding ding!  We had a winner.

"Yep, so can you come down next week?  My director wants it completed by Friday."

"Well, I need all those serial numbers and model numbers.  They're on the back of the computer."

"OK, they are all identical.  You want me to go read you one?" I asked.

"No, I need separate work orders."

"One work order for each room?"

"No, one for each computer."

What.  The.  Fuck.

"No no," I said, again thinking he might have misunderstood me.  "There are SEVENTY computers."

"I know.  The policy says we need separate work orders."

"So wait, let me get this straight," I said, trying to wrap my head around the situation.  "You want me to get down on my hands and knees, crawl under the desk with a flashlight, write down the serial number and model number, and then fill out a work order SEVENTY TIMES?"

I laid my head down on my desk.

"Yes, that's what the policy says."

"Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?"

"That's the policy.  I can't do anything about it."

"Get me Omar."

Without lifting my head off the desk, I put him on speaker phone and wrapped my arms around my neck, looking for sand to bury my head in.

"He's not here."

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.  Not here.”

"Take a message."

"I can help you-"

I started banging my head on the desk.

"No, obviously you can't.  Is Omar going to be there today?"

I started banging my head against the desk out of sheer frustration.

"If you don't want to abide by the policy, I can't help you."

"Can you take a message for him?" I asked.

"I don't know if I can do that.  I'd have to ask my manager what the policy is.  I’m willing to help you if you get me those serial numbers.”

“In the time it would take me to write those work orders, you could be down here and back to Virginia Beach by dinner time.”

“I know, but I have to abide by policy,” he said, as if I was a child who misunderstood him.  “I mean, if you’re not willing to work with me, I’m going to have to go find Omar I guess....he'll know what to do."

Of course he will.

---

[1] Or an iPad

[2] If you haven’t read the book, don’t try to understand.

[3] Because the early bird gets the worm.  Or at the very least, the first treadmill at the gym.

[4] Because riding a stationary bike is as close to “aerobics” as I get.

[5] Or in the Oval Office.