Weeks came and went; another month slipped by unnoticed. A new support manager had appeared. Young, new and inexperienced, his often rash decision making seemed reminiscent of Angie’s vicious and brutal idea of management, though it seemed driven by immaturity rather than vindictiveness. We continued to exist in the knowledge that there was nobody who would be like our first ITS manager. But, thankfully, nobody like Angie either.
I had two major projects after Angie’s departure. I was in the midst of successfully redeploying the laptops complete with fully working software. However, it became apparent in the days subsequent to her finding out that Angie had opened administrative access to AD to the entire Helpdesk. As you can well expect, our sparkling and carefully maintained AD structure now had contradictory group policies, login scripts which went nowhere and more phantom accounts and objects than I think we would ever finally sort out. It was if Angie had left me a parting gift, a final “fuck you” from the Queen of Aggression.
It’s two-pronged effect seemed unintentional given her ineptitude. But it had encroached on every single user in the company as their login times grew exponentially, together with seemingly random permission sets which denied sometimes even the most basic of privileges.
It was getting to be the hottest summer I’ve ever known in Britain. I still hadn’t taken time out to wash my Mondeo; it’s recent costly repair bill had left a bitter taste in my mouth. The grime that lay affixed to the bonnet and wings seemed an apt punishment for depriving me of yet another wage check.
Arriving back to the office from a well-earned summer pub lunch, I walked towards the building across the car park. As I passed, a familiar Jaguar graced a VIP spot in the car park. Sleek and shiny, its black finish shone in the midday sun, freshly polished and lovingly detailed. Its congeniality seemed marred by the fact that Angie had once owned a car like this, her angry face refusing to even make eye contact as she stared over the leather steering wheel.
I had finished replacing a dead hard disk in an OptiPlex and was delivering it to a damsel in distress. Particularly, this was one of the sales guys damsels in distress. As I connected the machine back up, he came out of his glass-clad office for a chat.
“Did you see, your ex manager is back,” he grimaced.
I knew what he meant; this man had been trained to smile and lie for a living. The news that Angie was back seemed unpalatable.
“Who, Angie?” I questioned. “She got sacked, didn’t she?”
The Sales Manager shook his head with a learned look. “People like that don’t get sacked!” he explained.
I hung on his every word, as if this was the most important lesson I would ever receiving in my life.
“When someone like that is put into a particular position, it’s usually because someone recommended her for it. Someone put her there, Jon6! If she had done well, the person who recommended her would have gotten a nice pat on the back. But, if she cocks it up, there’s no way they’re going to turf her out. Whoever recommended her would have their nuts in a sling for recommending such a dud; nobody would ever take them seriously ever again.” He continued “When people like that in such positions of power make a fantastic fuck up like that, they get paid off. They get promoted with a golden handshake just so someone above her can save face with the board! Admitting failure isn’t even on the menu!”
Despising the obvious truth to his words, I had to probe deeper, “Then, who got the blame for all that then?”
I looked up from over the desk partition. Across the cavernous office, I could just about see the familiar twisted frame of Angie as she stormed with intent around a small section of desks, her shrill and piercing tone somehow breaking through the human noise, over the sound of printers, phones and chatter. Another hapless team of underlings were getting it from her, both barrels.
I turned, eager to continue this discourse; however the Sales Manager had already retreated to his office. He held his phone to his head as he clicked the door closed.
As the OptiPlex spun into life, the Windows XP splash screen floated as if to stand testament to the spoils. Who had really won here? Well, nobody it seems.
As I struggled to think for a moral to the story, I was interrupted by the returning damsel. She thanked me for my time turning back to her work, our brief moment of temporary friendship now at an end, politically and autocratically ceased with the completion of my task, the only remaining duty being the closing of the support ticket.