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Hank’s Blog – Schräderfreude


Here’s a new one on me; how are you supposed to feel when your boss gets shitcanned? Because mine just got shown the door. Not fired, per se, but asked ever-so-nice, pretty-please-with-just-do-it-already-on-top, to resign.

I never had a problem with the man. Not personally. Sure, as a boss, because bosses as a species are sickly animals. He was no different. Didn’t know his left hand was wiping his ass unless his right hand was handing him a properly formatted report about it. But all in all, he wasn’t a bad man. I don’t think, at least. Let’s put it this way: I’d be genuinely surprised if one day they catch him with his hands down the pants of some hooker in a Pokemon costume or somesuch. He ain’t perfect, but you turn a man who’s a Law Enforcement Officer into a mid-level bureaucrat and what do you expect to happen? He’s not got gonna get better at stopping bad guys; he’s gonna get better at pushing paper.

I’m not gonna get into the he-said, she-said reasons why it went down. You can speculate all you want. Me, I don’t want to speak ill of the departed.

But here’s another thing when your boss goes bye-bye. It’s not really good news for you. It’s not like your boss’s bosses are gonna look down from on high and say: “hey, let’s forget the paperwork. Let everyone run themselves for awhile.” Hell no: you, my friend, are gonna get a new boss. Bureaucracy abhors a vacuum. It’ll create a boss out of thin air, if it has to, because no one, but no one, can go bossless.

And all bets are off on New Boss. Could be worse — some jagoff who thinks he knows your job and your cases better than you do. Sticks his nose so far into your business he can smell the shit you’re thinking. Could be better — some political hire that doesn’t know his ass from his elbow and just stays the hell away from you. But wherever they start, they end up the same. They end up like my boss (former boss, I mean): middle-of-the-road, not really making a difference one way or the other. That’s convergence.

Try explaining all this to my wife. To her it sounds like I’m gloating. “Acting all superior,” is how she puts it, which maybe she’s got a point. I don’t know how to feel unhappy about being on the right side of things. I like being right; who the hell doesn’t?

That doesn’t mean I’m glad my boss is suffering. In fact, I don’t think he is! He’s getting full pension; he’s easing out to the golf course for the rest of his days. He’s staying far, far away from the world of shit he’d been dipped in for years and all the flies it draws. Bet he takes up some hobby that lowers your blood pressure and makes you sleep real well. He took a bad bump, but he’s moving on. No one can look me in the eye and say I don’t already know a goddamn thing or two on that score, too.

So tell me: how am I supposed to feel? Because right now, I don’t feel much more about it than I used to feel when I was playing football, back in high school. You’d see some long pass go up and when it started to come down you could see, either out of the corner of your eye or full-on, that some schmuck was gonna be right in the wrong place at the wrong time. There were big guys barreling down on him and he wasn’t getting away. Whether he caught the ball or not, he was getting his ass handed to him. And it didn’t matter if he was on your team, you winced and your nuts clenched up in your gut when the hit came and you thought: “There but for the grace,” y’know?

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