Pam´s Bio:

Pam Hawley lives, works and loves life in Baltimore, MD. She has been addicted to the craft of writing since childhood, and spends much of her free time writing short fiction, creative non-fiction, and content for her blog at http://sixweasels.vox.com. Pam earned a BA in English and a certificate in writing from the UMBC in 1994. She currently earns her living as a project lead and manager at the same university, and is hoping to make her break in the world of fiction writing. She shares her home with her boyfriend and two ferrets, Vinnie and Ginny.

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The Pink Dachshund

By Pam Hawley

That first job out of college is tough for anyone. My own transition from student to professional involved not only adapting to office life, but to a boss who should have been a drill sergeant.

The truth is I don’t think I would have made it without the clown suit and the balloon animals.

When I wore heels, I was taller than my boss, Bill, but he still made me feel small. He was large, spherical in a way that couldn’t be disguised by the square cut of his pin-striped suits. His silver-white hair was slicked back with something that made it look like a streaked and bristly paintbrush, and his face was craggy.

A brand-new graduate, I’d landed work as a job placement coordinator at a local trade college. I spent my days on the phone, finding jobs for other recent graduates and avoiding Bill. Most of my co-workers did the same. The other job placement worker kept a Bible on hand and was sometimes heard praying in the women’s room after her talks with Bill. The computer guru strode about red-faced and sputtering when Bill was out, but stood ramrod-straight and called him "sir" when he inevitably returned. We came in early, stayed late, and rarely took days off. We accepted that we’d never make him happy anyway.

Bill critiqued everything, from the fact that my trendy boots weren’t as professional as plain black pumps to the sloppy stack of papers on my desk. He’d tromp to me with a printout of some document flopping ominously in his hands, and tell me to rewrite it. Trapped in my uncomfortable chair, I’d try to meet his frustrated deep-set gaze, but would inevitably resort to counting the nose hairs protruding from his beak to keep from dissolving into tears.

He stormed to my desk one Friday, as I was leaving. I was a bridesmaid in a friend’s wedding, and my own fiancé was waiting outside with the car to go to the rehearsal. Bill raged over that week’s employment stats and sent me fleeing the office. I had to make my fiancé pull into a fast food restaurant on our way, so that I could duck into the restroom and scrub the streaks of mascara that had flooded down my cheeks. I had cried and ranted for the entire hour-long drive.

I learned about the balloon animals on a Monday. My Sunday night had featured a raging headache and a stomach full of nervous knots. I yearned to go back to being a college student, and hated the 9-to-5 grind. I was furious that it was Monday again, and that my world was controlled by a temperamental, hard-nosed boss.

Things got worse when I got to work and learned that Bill wanted to see me. His office was down the hall, removed from the busy public area where his staff worked. As I shuffled down the corridor I received sympathetic glances from the others who were clacking away at their keyboards. Being called to see Bill was never good.

His office door was slightly ajar. From where I was standing, I could see him, twisting a bright pink balloon into something resembling a dachshund as he paced near his desk. His phone was cradled on his shoulder.

"Pick up another hundred or so balloons, Honey, and don’t forget about the helium tank," he was saying. He was quiet for a moment, as "Honey" rambled on about something, and then said he’d get the clown suit and makeup himself.

"No, sweetheart, you know that old suit doesn’t fit anymore. Too many desserts. I’m due for an upgrade anyway."

Bill turned then, and his jaw dropped when he saw me standing in the doorway. The pink balloon dog in his hand gave a strange squeak as he squeezed it and told the person on the other line that he had to go. He hung up and put the dachshund on his gleaming, orderly desk, still staring at me.

"Yes?" he said, furrowing his brows in what was supposed to be a menacing look. Standing as he was behind the little balloon dog, the effort failed.

"You wanted to see me," I replied. My knees were shaking just a little, and I was fighting back a giggle.

"Yes … yes ...," he said, and started shuffling through one of the neat stacks on his desk. "Just let me find that letter I wanted you to tweak, and we’ll talk …"

"You have a clown suit?" I interrupted his train of thought. The words flew from my mouth before I could stop them.

He stopped shuffling, tried to glare at me again, and then slumped into his chair. He tried raking a hand through his hair, but whatever he used to make it look so bristly made it impossible. I stared pointedly at the balloon dog to give him a moment.

"Yes," he said finally. "I put myself through college as a clown. You know, the ones who dress up and go to kids’ parties or festivals, and give out balloon animals. The wife and I still do it now and then for charity. It’s kind of a hobby of ours." By the time he’d finished, his cheeks were almost as pink as the dog.

I walked over to his desk a bit timidly, and picked up the dog. I studied it for a second. "He’s really cute," I said finally, setting the balloon dachshund back on his desk. "You’re good."

Bill furrowed his brows again, and then laughed. With a sigh, he said we’d talk about the letter later, and asked if I wanted to go get an ice-cream cone instead.

After that day, Bill seemed to mellow a bit. He still glared and blustered at all of us, but he smiled and joked now and then, too. He still tapped his watch when we were late on Monday mornings, but was just as likely to pop in at four o’clock on a Friday and tell us to "scoot on out." There was praise as well as criticism in our performance reviews. And every now and then, we’d come back from lunch to find a green balloon frog or a purple balloon parrot sitting on one of our desks.

The last thing Bill wanted was for us to know about his out-of-the-office life as a balloon-making clown. I guess planting that image in your employees’ heads makes it tough to be the stern, commandeering boss. I think it surprised him that being forced into sharing that human, off-duty side with me actually made me work harder and better. No longer as afraid of his penetrating glare, I was finally able to approach him with questions before I made mistakes, instead of just making them and feeling his wrath.

I left for a better-paying job a year later, and have had several since. Every now and then, I find myself face-to-face with another boss who seems like a humorless drill sergeant. When I do, I just take a deep breath and think of pink dachshunds.

***

What Pam Won:

• $150.00 Cash Prize
• Publication of winning story on WOW-WomenOnWriting.com website
• A Prize Pack from skirt!
• $50.00 certificate to spend at the WOW! Boutique
• A Year’s Subscription to Premium-Green Markets
• Interview on WOW!’s blog The Muffin