Spring, 1989
“Eze ain’t perfect!” screamed Jasmine from the back of the classroom.
I could feel twenty-five pairs of eyes staring holes right through me. My body morphed into silly putty before sliding down the front of my chair.
My seventh grade teacher was having a rough go of it on that day. He couldn’t get his students to calm down, this after trying multiple different strategies to gain control of the classroom. When he was nearly at his wits end, his eyes fell upon me, the literal calm at the center of the uproar that was sweeping up every other kid in the classroom. He pointed his finger in my direction: “Why can’t you all be more like Eze?”
That’s when Jasmine and a few other seventh graders launched into a tirade against the teacher. Jasmine was the ringleader though. She spoke over the teacher and the other students occupying the classroom.
An exasperate Jasmine claimed that I wasn’t a perfect kid. Of course she was right about that, as I’d done some things at age thirteen that I wasn’t very proud off. However, I was a pretty good kid who listened to his parents and respected his teachers. Plus I was perfect in one very important way: I was one of the few seventh grade students to achieve a flawless attendance record that year.
Achieving perfect attendance was an unintended consequence. Because I hated attending middle school, a breeding ground for bullies who preyed on kids that were perceived as suckers for the crime of following the rules and working hard in school. However, I persevered until the end of the school year, when I was awarded a tacky certificate for perfect attendance. Reward systems for school children have drastically changed since I was a student. Kids are offered real prizes — raffle tickets, movie tickets, etc. — for making an effort to come to school. Realizing this and knowing that I have the opportunity to look back, I think that I deserved more than a certificate.
*****
August, 2000
It was my last day at my first job.
My coworkers and I took our places at the company meeting table during mid-day. I scanned the entirety of the presentation and gasped. Almost all of the available table space was occupied with sumptuous food and drink. After I finished gaping at all of the food I looked up to see everyone smiling in my direction. And then my eyes began to mist over. I really hadn’t been expecting such an effusive outpouring of appreciation from my coworkers.
We shared the food and engaged in conversation. When there were fifteen minutes left before we had to return to our offices and cubicles, employees were allowed the opportunity to speak their piece about me. Co-worker after co-worker offered a glowing testament of my easy personality and diligent work ethic. Big boss said that there would be a place saved for my eventual return. And then Cecilia, a bespectacled young woman with a mopped haircut and braces, raised her hand into the air to speak. She put forth her testimonial of my work performance and then said, “Your eyelashes are really pretty.”
“Oh, really,” I said. My face was flush. That was unexpected. “Thank you.”
“Yep,” she replied. “They are very long and curly.” She giggled. “Are you using an eyelash curler in the morning?”
Everyone laughs.
“Ah, no”.
“Well I wish my eyelashes were as long as yours.” She broke into a smile, her metal braces glinting.
“I do appreciate the compliment,” I said
I’d worked as a research assistant for the Center for Health Services and Policy Research from May 1999 to August 26, 2000. CHSPR (Center for Health Services and Policy Research) outsourced data collection software to home care agencies across the country. The home care agencies would use our technology to accumulate clinical information on their elderly patients and then send the data to our facility each quarter. After receiving the clinical information from our clients, CHSPR would create comprehensive medical reports and send them to the agencies. Home Care agencies would then use the reports to measure the progress of their patients.
My primary responsibility as an employee with CHSPR was to answer incoming inquiries from the home care agencies. If a client was struggling with the software that we’d developed and outsourced to them, my partner and I would receive a call with a request to solve the issue. My partner and I were college graduates, but we had no previous experience trouble shooting software glitches. Still, we were somehow able muddle our way though. I was overseen by two managers, but I mostly interacted with my direct supervisor. Her name was Sophia.
I can count on my fingers the number of times I saw Sophia smile in my direction. She had expected me to become a superstar immediately after I arrived for my first day. But I am a slow starter who can thrive only after being given very thorough instruction. My training during my first few months was facile, leaving me unprepared to do the job I was hired for. It wasn’t long before Sophia became aware of my deficiencies — other employees were constantly chirping into her ear. Of course Sophia blamed me for being unable to perform my job correctly.
After a few months of stumbling and struggling I was sure that I was going to be fired. Each morning I girded myself for a summons into Sophia’s office, where I would be told it was the last day that I would be welcome into the building. But I was never offered a formal notice of a dismissal. So I shrugged my shoulders and kept on coming to work on time to learn a little more about what I was supposed to do every single day. The dentist office was situated a few feet away from the CHSPR office. I went there for dental work on the only day that I missed time at work — I left work at midday.
The once a week meetings with Sophia were akin to the dentist using floss to rake my gums. They were painful. Sophia’s kept the lights dimmed in her office. It was also so chilly inside of that small space. Sophia herself was a plain looking individual. She wore these wide-framed octagonal glasses that hung off the bridge of her nose; she wore no discernible makeup on her face; and the hair framing her head was combed into an Afro. She wore dresses and long sleeve blouses every single day except for casual Fridays.
Her desk was clean and organized. She was always so formal and controlled when she spoke to me, mostly frowning through our exchanges. Her rare smiles were tighter than a sound knot. Her observations were succinct and clinical. Perhaps she was so tightly coiled because our meetings were centered on my performance in the office. But I was a callow and somewhat insecure twenty-three year old man who was working his first full-time job after college. Her criticisms of my performance cut to the bone, but I wrote down what I heard because I wanted to become a better employee. After measurable progress was observed and documented she opted to nitpick on some other perceived shortcoming. I never once came out of one of our weekly meetings feeling uplifted.
So when Sophia raised her hand into the air at the tail end of my fete I automatically steeled myself for the absorption of more soul crushing criticism.
“Another thing about Eze was that he was very reliable,” Sophia said. “He always came to work and I knew that I could rely on him.” She turned her head in my direction until her eyes met mine. “You never missed a day the whole time that you were here? Am I right? I don’t think I’ve worked directly with anyone with your attendance record.”
My mouth hung open for a few seconds. Of course I knew that she had been right about my attendance record. For unlike Sophia’s other underlings, who often called in sick for whatever reason, I always came to work. On time. Still, I was struggling with how to respond to Sophia’s feedback, a genuine acknowledgement of the fact that I was better than anyone she’d ever known with a basic requirement of work.
I smiled and said, “I think you’re right. I paused as I was still processing the compliment from Sophia. “I came every day because I really liked working here. I’m going to miss everybody here after I’m gone.”
I left CHSPR in possession of something that I’ve received once during my professional career: good terms. I wasn’t reimbursed for the accrued sick time though.
****
Present Day
452 Hours.
That is how many sick hours I’ve accrued over seven years as an employee at the local hospital. Four-hundred fifty-hours is the equivalent to fifty-six and one half workdays, or nearly three months excluding the weekends. The last time that I had to legitimately call in sick to work was early January, 2015.
I’ve been employed as a client services professional at the hospital. I estimate that I’ve received more than fifty-thousand calls in that time from doctors, nurses, laboratory technicians and patients. Most of the callers have been pleasant, but there have been a significant number of callers who’ve tested my patience. I’ve learned to treat every phone call as an emergency. Apart from a minuscule amount of complaints from unreasonable clients — complaints are an inevitable part of the customer service business — my record remains clear of any infractions. There is not a spec of red on my ledger, which is an accomplishment since I’ve been interacting with multiple dozens of actual human beings each and every workday.
Of course it’s my job to come to work each day, interact with strangers and co-workers, and remain professional while doing so. And I’d like to humbly submit an assertion: There are not too many employees who’ve been better professionals than me. Four hundred fifty-two hours of accrued sick time! If you multiply those sick hours by my hourly wage, you arrive at a staggering amount of money that I could have earned without having to do an ounce of work.
In my daydreams I march over to the Human Resources Director’s office, confidently take me place in a chair,and calmly ask for compensation for those sick hours. The young brunette sitting across from me would offer a compliment on my attendance and hard work before passing the check with no questions asked. My eyes would pop open at the exorbitant number, and then I would look up at her and say, “Thank you very much.”
The HR administrator would nod and say, “You’re welcome. And you don’t have to say thank you for this money. This is our policy and you certainly deserve every single penny.”
Of course I do.
The reality is that I will never receive a pay-out for sick leave at the end of any year. Sick hours are going to keep on accruing unless I start calling in sick more often for frivolous reasons. I’ve been so tempted to do it too. Because I wake up from sleep depressed some mornings — Trump’s ascendancy and the resiliency of the Covid-19 epidemic weighs me down — and I wish that I can stay asleep for the rest of the day. But as I’m debating with myself over whether or not to call in, I think about my father and mother, both of whom were underappreciated immigrant workers who toiled as airport employees for eighteen years straight. I don’t ever recall my mother or father ever calling in sick for dubious reasons. So I’ll sigh and roll myself out of my bed, drag my butt to the bathroom, take a morning piss, and then run the shower. As the warm water slides down my body I am imbued with a new hope.
These people are going to miss me soon.
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