With the rancor subdued, we went to work on the remaining
projects due inside two months. There was still some cleanup waiting. The guys
at the blueprint shop still weren’t speaking to us. It was over their being
blamed for the big screw-up. Of course they would do our work but the effort
would lack any enthusiasm.
Here, I was stuck in a sea of ignorance. My folks in the
office weren’t going to teach me the printing business. They were to busy or
too obstinate; take your pick. I knew “jack-diddly” about it,
and figured one couldn’t learn it from a book.
As my Sainted Mother would say, I “backed my ears,” and
called the print shop, when no one was listening, and asked to speak to the
printer. He came on and I introduced myself. He responded with such chill that
I felt cold air coming through the phone’s receiver. I took a deep breath and
said, “Look, can I just come over and talk?”
Sure, why not?
The shop wasn’t far from the office, so I walked over. Once
there, a pleasant man—I found out later that he was the owner’s
son-in-law—showed me the way to the print shop. I opened the door and a
familiar smell overwhelmed me.
I knew the smell from having worked my last year of college drafting
for the U of A Editorial Service. We prepared graphics and did printing for
research papers and dissertations. The job was a huge step-up from being janitor at the
Chi Omega house, but I had missed the sorority girls, some of whom liked to run
into the hallway wearing bras and panties when I yelled up, “Man on the floor.”
But, I digress. Back
to the printing business and the smell of the presses.
It was a smell I would come to love. In the room stood a
rotund man with swept-back gray hair along with a sour-faced man, balding and wearing
dirty spectacles. The heavy-set man was Bob French, the printer. The other was
Bob Wilson, the photographer.
Before the dialogue had a chance to deteriorate, I said, “First,
may I apologize for any misunderstanding that our two companies have had?”
It caught the two by surprise. In fact, one of the cruelest
lies that I’ve seen foisted on young people is from a character on television
who tells his underlings, “Never apologize. It’s a sign of weakness,” That’s the
crassest piece of bull hockey I’ve ever heard. There is, when you have been wrong,
nothing more disarming and effective than a sincere apology. Trust me.
Anyway. After a moment, Bob Wilson said, “So you are in
charge of printing at your company now?”
“I’m in charge of trying to get it all done.”
“What’s your experience?”
“Absolutely none. That’s why I wanted to ask a favor of the
two of you.”
“What’s that?” Bob asked. His demeanor had softened but still
displayed suspicion.
“I want to ask you to help me learn how to do things. I know
you have better things to do than teach beginners, but we have lots of work to
do and, if we can work together and get it done, I’ll be your friend forever.
No more confusion. No more blame. No more bullshit of any kind. I’m asking for your
help, and your friendship.”
They gave it. It started that day, particularly with Bob
French. He was my pal and mentor from that moment until his untimely death from
cancer 30 years later.
On that day, we agreed that I would come over each time a
new printing job came up that required close coordination. They would help me
to understand the processes involved, and I would give them both due credit and
respect. Those are tactical maneuvers that have gotten me over many a hump throughout
the years, and I recommend them without reservation.
I never heard him, but it’s told that Bob French was a
talented singer and quite popular in small venues after working all day as a
printer. He looked a bit, and evidently sounded a lot, like the singer Charlie
Rich. I wish I had taken the time to hear him, but regrets are the songs that
teach us to be better people, if we only listen.
After I promised to bring the next job in and go over it
with them before any step was taken, they showed me out. I started walking back.
Knowing that I had steered around a dangerous shoal, I began to hum to myself,
mindlessly and with some degree of satisfaction. Then I started singing, so no
one else could hear, an odd tune.
Of all things, it was The
Marine Corp Hymn.
“Never apologize.” What a crock of shit.
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