 by Dr. Jeffrey Lant . Author's program note. This article was inspired by a dear friend of mine I'll call Doyle, leaving you to figure out whether that is his real name, or not. Yesterday he threw a rip snorter of a tantrum, I mean working himself into a real good lather of the "you're an idiot, I'm a blessed saint" variety. Now this particular tantrum used a technique as old as pen and paper, never mind that it was carried by e-mail right into my life on a major holiday week-end when I already had two-Excedrin staff problems, the working classes unaccountably preferring the beach on this sultry week-end, rather than helping out their beleaguered and needing-all-hands-on-deck desperate CEO. Yeah, it was Comrade Jeffrey doing his tantric "I can stretch from Mumbai to Kansas City" number, never mind that I was one tired ol' puppy, the more needing TLC than providing it... are you sobbing in your beer for me yet? I confess it's my clear objective until your tears are falling thick and fast into your brew, every one a rosary bead for yours truly. Anyway, there I was performing feats of derring-do already unexampled in the "CEO Book of Legerdemain and Cleaning Toilets", a learned tome I don't have to study, since its every hard-learned word is engraved on my amazingly big, always empathetic and ultra understanding heart. I kid you not. Then The Letter arrived... And what a magnum opus it was. Each word carefully calculated to sting and torment, to leave an indelible impression on my tender and tremulous flesh; each one exquisite in its ability to bring a venerable, vulnerable old man to his very knees, there to utter searing jeremiads and heart-felt pleas of near Biblical woe and high lamentation, more feeling and profound than emanating from the great Sanhedrin itself, my eloquence still memorable despite my heart-rending plight. Are you sobbing yet? No matter, I'm just getting wound up.... The structure of a tantrum. Doyle's words came thick and fast, each one as sharp as Zola's epic line, "J'accuse". Doyle was outraged... Doyle was chagrined... Doyle had never in his long and useful life been so humiliated, insulted, and infuriated. Doyle was good. Doyle was better. Doyle was the best. Doyle was a saint laboring long hours in obscurity for the good of mankind. Doyle was... but you get the picture. I expected the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to arrive any minute, to sing out about this righteous man of near holy proportions. Amen, Brother, Hallelujah! What had caused this veritable volcano of rage and acute self justification and total loss of his usual and habitual sang froid and icy self control, the very model of grace under pressure? What indeed! He didn't get the exact hours he wanted in the company schedule. And so he was determined not merely to throw the baby out with the bath water, but to puree that infant in the Cuisinart of his scorched and hurting soul. First, he was quitting his job... never mind that he had never held a place which he loved so well, amongst people who respected and, yes, even loved him; where his beautiful and lovely-of-soul-and-spirit wife (call her Casey) was welcome, admired and petted whenever she dropped by; a place where he was valued, respected, heeded, and shamelessly flattered, deferred to, and extolled by his so perceptive CEO who knew a good person when he saw one and who was never afraid to lavish care and consideration on such a complete paragon. Doyle cast all this aside, so titanic was the cauldron of his wrath. "I wanted certain hours. I must have certain hours. And since someone else booked those hours I am going to burn down the house, destroying all and everyone within, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead, hasta la vista, bebe. P.S. This is the best company I've ever worked for, with the best people on earth and you, sir, are the best CEO I've ever had, and the smartest man I've ever known. But I am going to burn the house down just the same, because this is my tantrum, and I never do things by half... and you know that's true, sir. Good-bye, forever." Now let's get this straight. Friend Doyle was leaving kith, kin, friends and valued colleagues behind because "his" hours had been taken by a perky lady (we'll call her Sherry) who had the unmitigated gall and temerity to get up early, check the schedule three months in advance and pencil in her John Hancock, never mind that this still left Doyle with dozens of well placed hours to select from. This, this is what occasioned his let-'er-rip tantrum sure to be the model for the next couple of centuries or so; a 6.9 on the Richter Scale? What is wrong with this picture? Buffalo-ed, I needed acute insight into the human condition and this (let's be frank) non-existent "problem" which now was morphing into a real mare's nest, I called upon that Canadian cutie Justin Bieber and paid his hefty fee to ensure I benefit from his wit and profoundest wisdom. It was money well spent, never mind he already owns all of New Brunswick and has an option to buy Manitoba. About Justin. When I told my friend Joe I had hired Justin, he went on a bloody rampage, "Justin is cotton candy... Justin is everything that's wrong with America... Justin is totally plastic, made up, sick-making." Yikes! Another tantrum in the making, this time by a guy who in his dim, distant salad days majored in nude frisbee on the glorious sun- swept beaches of Santa Barbara; he's still miffed he never got on the Olympic team for his provocative, eye-catching sport and smolders about it even now. Besides Justin earns more in five golden minutes than Joe has earned in a lifetime. Make no mistake, consulting the Clearasil boy with the Midas touch made good sense... Justin (born March 1, 1994) was the very picture of adolescent courtesy, "Hey, dude, what's the prob? Wanna a pudding pop?" I explained about Doyle, about Casey, about Sherry, about Joe... and about me, the CEO, taking it on the chin, about to lose a valued colleague and two friends, for no good reason whatsoever. And this is what this phenom told me, every word divinely inspired. "Dude, send Doyle the link to my wicked cool tune, 'Baby'. He'll know you love him and he'll feel like a pig about how rotten he's been to you and all his friends. Take an extra pudding pop on your way out. Ciao, dude." I couldn't wait to hear the music and the lyrics and so raced to the nearest search engine, there to be acquainted with what passes for music nowadays. "You know you love me. You know you care. Just shout whenever, and I'll be there. You are my love, you are my heart. And we will never, ever, ever be apart." Yeah, that'll work alright and so I sent Doyle the link accompanied by these words, "Your resignation is not accepted. Listen to the lyrics. And we will never, ever, ever be apart." I held back until the utmost need a drawer full of Doyle and Casey mash notes to me, to be used only in extremis. But it's been a day now... and Doyle, anchored in petulance and a whopper of a bad decision, still hasn't responded. This time it was my Gargoyle who helped me out. The wisdom of the Gargoyle: "Get over it!" In December,1967, aged just 20, I made my first visit to Paris and, on Christmas Eve, to the glorious pile that is Notre Dame. There I became acquainted with a mischievous imp, a Gargoyle of wit, insight, impertinent remarks and often unpalatable wisdom. I felt an immediate kinship, even to his pointy ears and a tongue always stuck out at each and every visitor. Of course I came to know his expression well; it said, without hesitation or pause, "Get over it!" And on this basis, he has accompanied me through life, unexpurgated, incorrigible, forever saucy and deflating. It was this Gargoyle who advised me now. This was his counsel... Friend Doyle is a proud man, but often acts without fully considering or understanding what his actions will engender. So it is in this case. The "problem" here was simple and could be simply resolved, for Madam Sherry is a reasonable woman. Had Doyle sent the merest message about his concern, he would easily have been accommodated. But instead he made the unhappy decision to send an email which should have been written -- and trashed. Thus he put himself in an untenable position and you, your excellency, must help him get out of it. But how, Gargoyle? By making him laugh, even smile... for the minute his mood lifts, he will understand how foolish and shorted-sighted he has been; remembering all he has to lose, admitting he was hasty and ill-advised, and so the "problem" that wasn't will be solved and the turmoil subside. I took Gargoyle's advice and have just sent this article to Doyle. Hopefully, he'll get the message so that things can return to "normal". But just in case even more is necessary, I am resending the link to Justin Bieber's "Baby" so "we will never, ever, ever be apart." I've asked Joe, who loves Justin so, to serenade Doyle and Casey this evening, sure to be memorable in every way, baby. |
