A Facilities Manager’s Problem: Underwear Running Wild
This is a true story. Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent.
The picture associated with this blog post has nothing to do with it. It just so happens that I am posting this on our anniversary so the picture is from our latest wedding.
Panty Man, Part 1
A facilities manager’s life, like that of an elevator manager, has its ups and downs. Sometimes it is the best of times and other times are the worst of times. There are eight million stories in facility management, and this is one of them.
Call me Ishmael. That’s a joke. Lol. Some people call me Speedo, but my real name is Mr. Earl. LMAO. That’s another joke. Yes, I am the great pretender, adrift in a world of my own. HEE HAW! Okay, enough of my brilliant humor. My work handle is MikeyD. That distinguishes me from MikeyK, another brilliant facilities manager.
I’ll never forget that day. It was early spring, around early August, but I can’t remember the year. It may have been a Monday morning, can’t help that day. Or maybe it was yesterday when my troubles seemed so far away. Monday morning gave me no warning of what was to be.
As usual, I started the day at my desk, my feet propped up on the top, smoking a stogie and having a morning whiskey snort with my work wife, Mary Magdalene. Magdalene's back story: She grew up in the slums of Rio de Janeiro and led several criminal gangs. She is one tough woman. I pay her protection so she won’t beat me up.
“Damn good whiskey, MikeyD. Thank you!” she said with much enthusiasm.
“You know I only drink the best. Any time you want to come into my desk for a snort, you’re welcome. But, be careful not to be seen. The man will punish you for drinking on the clock. Remember what happened to me.”*
“No one can forget what happened to you. You made us contribute to your GoFundMe campaign to pay for your lawyer.”
“I was going through a rough patch,” I said. That was my excellent excuse for questionable professional behavior holding the timesheets hostage until everyone contributed.
Suddenly, things went to hell in a handcart. Jack ran into my office, out of breath, and yelled, “MikeyD, we have a problem!”
A little background on Jack. He is a Black gay trans man, born in the slums of Calcutta. Fighting was his middle name. Gangs of Hindus tried to beat him up because he was Muslim. Gangs of Muslims and Christians tried to beat him up because he was gay. DeSantis sent gangs of white Floridians to Calcutta to beat him up because he was Black and transitioning. As a result, he grew into one tough motherfucker. Although he has never threatened me, or anyone else, Magdalene insists I also pay him protection money.
Back to the story. Jack runs our HELP Desk Division. People call our HELP Line in order to report problems with the buildings, such as it is too hot, too cold, the toilet is overflowing, etc . We never answer the phone. If they care, they have to leave a message. My staff then compile the recordings into a Spotify play list. At the close of the day, we all go to the HELP Office to listen to Spotify. We break out some cheap whiskey and laugh our butts off, listening to the unwashed complain. Especially from women who complain about the buildings being cold. Don’t they know we have to keep the buildings cool so men are comfortable in suit jackets?!? Jeez!
Back to the story. I had directed Jack to never interrupt me, unless it's a HELP call for a major crisis, like the big boss man getting killed falling down an open elevator shaft.
Jack's appearance in my office was absolutely terrifying. I could smell my fear as sweat dripped off me. Worse than just being here, Jack said, “We have a problem.” I started throwing things in my backpack to get out of Dodge.
“Do you even want to know what happened?” Jack asked me as he totally ignored my activity, getting ready to leave.
“Give Magdalene the info. She’ll take care of it. I’m taking the rest of the day off,” I said while I quickly sprinted to the door. Madeline stuck out her foot and tripped me, crashing me to the floor. At eye level I spotted rat-droppings in the corner of my office. That reminded me I needed to call the cleaning crew. “What the fuck?” I yelled in pain from my prone position, my face resting on the toe of Magdalene’s shiny black thigh high boot.
“You ain’t dropping this shit on me. I’m out of here!” She started walking out the door and I grabbed her ankle and held on for dear life. In response, she started stomping on my arm trying to sever it from my hand that had a vice grip on her foot.
“Stop!!” screamed Jack. He said it authoritatively, and we froze. He went on, “We had an incident in conference room 102W6.17R in the north 40. A group of old male engineers went in for a meeting and found a woman’s panty in the middle of the conference table. They ran out of the room as fast as they could and called our HELP line. They want the item removed and the table top sterilized before they return for their meeting. Oh, and one engineer fainted from the site of the panty and he’s still unconscious on the floor.”
Magdalene and my eyes locked in anger. She was standing on my hand and me on the floor holding onto her foot for dear life. Then she nodded. That was our secret signal that we have this. Magdalene spoke first, “Okay, Jack. Send the HAZMAT team in to remove the panty. Then take it to the lab for DNA testing. Get the cleaners to spray the entire table and all the chairs with concentrated sulfuric acid. Tell the engineers the body is their problem, we only dispose of dead people. They can use the conference room again after the cleaners do their thing. Q.E.D.”
I added, “Yeah, and get the cleaning crew to sweep these rat-droppings from my office.”
Jack left my office walking with the authoritative air of a man on a mission.
I got up off the floor, dusting myself with my hands. “That’s what I love about you, Magdalene. Like Elvis, you take care of business. But don’t you think the concentrated sulfuric acid is a tad over the top?”
“Remember, these are old white guy engineers, and they don’t know shit about women. The acid wash will make them feel safer.”
And so we relaxed, going back to drinking while cogitating on what else may come up that day. Nothing else happened. It was a chill day in the neighborhood.
We were unaware a runaway train was coming at us.
That will be in the next part of the story.
* This tragic story will be the subject of another blog.
Music references associated with this blog post:
Call Me Ishmael: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pXX3GvwxhSk
Yesterday: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NrgmdOz227I
Monday, Monday: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h81Ojd3d2rY
The Great Pretender: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBj2HN2uuNA
They Call Me Speedo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p9uZvrsAoyE