The following is a true story
Only the names have been changed
To protect the guilty
– Bon Scott
In April 2009, the management at Electrix silently urged Graeme Polglase to quit his job. For a few hours, he seethed until he reached the Arden Street bar, a place of beauty where mates conspire to share equal amounts of heroism, triumph and failure. That April night, The Pole had all the space he needed to unwind, unload and compare misery and humility.
We discussed his phone call earlier that day about profit share. Having worked in the electrical industry, it should’ve sounded a warning to latch onto. The Pole was wondering why he hadn’t had a sit-down with the boss yet.
‘Everyone else has their profit share,’ he said on that Friday two years ago.
A quickly delivered assurance, you’ll get yours, wasn’t accepted with determination. The boss, Graeme said, was avoiding him.
‘Something’s up,’ Graeme said. ‘I don’t know what it is.’
The allocation of profit share is a pivotal moment, proof of performance, an annual bonus that mightn’t fill a bank account. Having worked at Electrix from 2003 until 2007 I was the beneficiary of two rounds of profit share, $2000 in 2003 and $3000 in 2004. The Pole, according to his braggarts boast, would be getting about $6000.
Instead, the manager allotted him $500. I read the letter, a document he’d folded into a crude rectangle. It’d been screwed up before being folded.
In 2009, there was $88,000 in the profit share pool. It seemed clear he’d been shafted. There was no other answer. Other people in the branch were given about $6000. The manager took home more.
Two years ago, Graeme had definitive proof of how much the management at Electrix valued his performance. He claimed it had something to do with a clash with a former employee who had recently been made redundant.
‘They’ve given her my profit share as a payout,’ the Pole said.
In hindsight, that seems to be what happened. Graeme and Sandy definitely didn’t get along. She didn’t get along with most people. She cried occasionally, not because her fellow workers were rude, but because she was too sensitive. Eventually she complained to the new manager, a man called Dwayne I’ve never met.
In the Arden Street bar, having dissected all the possibilities, the men settled on a neat conspiracy theory. His profit share debacle was a play at getting him out. With long service leave due in ten months, eight weeks of gratitude for ten years of toil, Electrix figured they could save money by convincing him to leave.
As conspiracies go, it was easily the best of the night. In giving him nothing, the manager would have to expect him to quit. That eight week sweetener, a reward for dedication, would become redundant.
A man in the bar, Dave, gave his succinct appraisal of the situation.
‘They get rid of Graeme, who’s got experience and is paid because of it and employ a kid on twelve grand less. That’s free money for the company. And they don’t have to pay out long service. Expenses go down, profit goes up and the manager looks like he’s doing a good job.’
The Pole was given simple, forceful advice not to quit. As a collective unit, we came up with a set of drunken solutions. He couldn’t quit, and for the next ten months, he couldn’t give Electrix any reason to sack him.
That night in the Arden Street Bar, we plotted Graeme’s revenge. It would take two years to execute. It would be fuelled by further disappointments and objectionable behaviour. The Pole’s desire for revenge wasn’t built on disgust but it ended up that way. In seeking a new start, the rural life, he volunteered to move sideways, taking a job in Warwick.
His pay remained the same. Electrix wanted him to west, over the range but refused to cover his moving costs. He went to Warwick at for his company’s pleasure, saving them thousands in relocation and training fees. Prior to leaving he still hadn’t signed a document of acceptance. If senior management ever questioned his loyalty and motives, his move to Warwick should’ve allayed their fears.
But it wasn’t enough. Whenever he came to Brisbane for a visit, when we went to Warwick or talked on the phone it was clear the job wasn’t going well.
‘They’re fuckwits,’ he said of the people he worked with. ‘I do more work than them. They don’t know how to run a branch.’
That was typical bravado from the Pole, but having worked with him, the bragging had merit. A hard worker, he loved living in Warwick in a huge house on a massive block of land. There were sheep in nearby paddocks.
Knowing he could sell anything to electricians, I didn’t expect the situation to degenerate, figuring he’d be in Warwick for years. I didn’t expect the Pole to call me one night telling me he wanted to quit and asking for a reference. I didn’t expect him to come back to Brisbane seeking his revenge.
The reference I wrote follows this short paragraph. When he read it, the Pole wasn’t angry. He laughed briefly then said the situation was serious and he needed my help. More than two years after the profit share debacle, we went to work to extract his revenge.
8 March 2011
To whom it may concern:
I have known Graeme for seven years. I first met him in 2004 while working for Electrix at a branch in Stafford. A few days ago when he asked me for a reference I thought he must be joking. But he wasn’t.
In the seven years I’ve known Graeme he’s shown a real aptitude to run things, whether it be barking orders in the store, in the office, at suppliers or at customers. His natural grace and good humour is often overlooked. Actually, it’s always overlooked and colleagues, suppliers and customers tend to focus on his get-to-the-point attitude.
His product knowledge is excellent, much better than everyone who worked at Electrix, a fact he regularly reminded staff and customers of. Rapidly he was able to memorise obscure part numbers and their locations, so he didn’t need to be told where to go to find things, but he usually was anyway.
At Electrix Graeme did it all, frequently letting everyone know he was doing it all, and better than everyone else. He spared no one his motto, I do it right the first time but you fuck it up every time. It didn’t matter if it was a million-dollar customer, a female sales representative offering free DVD players or management, they all got told. I can’t count the number of times he said you should’ve let me do it or asked am I the only professional working here?
He received goods, booked them into the computer and put them on the shelf better than anyone else. He knew systems and procedures far beyond anyone else at Stafford and was nearly always helpful. I’d show you but it’s pointless because you’ll never remember, he often said. The point is he almost offered to help, and that set him apart from other staff members who couldn’t be bothered almost offering to help.
Graeme was punctual, arriving at work at 8am and starting about half an hour later, after a coffee and a few smokes. His casual attitude in that half hour was often a highlight of the day. Our former boss, Russ, upon finding Graeme in my store office one day, wasn’t happy and asked:
‘Have you got any work to do, cause I fucking have.’
Russ, Graeme and I laughed about it over beers later on. It would’ve been so much better if we were together. Graeme could’ve told us how much more work he did than us each day and he would’ve almost been right. He definitely did more work than Russ.
Graeme constantly demanded to be promoted to management and despite the tepid encouragement, remained focused on his ambition. His still constantly demands to be promoted and is regarded highly enough by management that one out of every seven ideas he comes up with are considered before being discarded.
Whether it is abusing customers, suppliers or colleagues, out-performing staff at making coffee and emptying bins, Graeme always gives every task at least 89 percent (based upon an average performance rating recorded over six phone calls with customers) and often means what he says.
When the boss and the secretary disappeared into the pub for beers or into the female toilets for sex, Graeme was adamant about his untapped ability. I should be running this branch, was a common statement. If I ran this place things would be different, was another sentence he often uttered. None of the staff think the secretary would’ve had sex with him in the female toilets, so things wouldn’t have been that different, unless he employed another secretary.
When goods don’t arrive on time because of a purchasing error or forgetfulness, Graeme found innovative ways of shifting blame to suppliers, which ensured the branch’s reputation remained intact. A few times he blamed other staff members, which caused internal problems and internal bleeding.
Working with Graeme was a pleasure for him. I learnt a lot just watching him interact with customers and made sure I interacted completely differently. I also listened to his cheeky dialogue with female sales representatives and admired his confidence and determination that he wouldn’t be charged with sexual harassment.
I would recommend Graeme for any position, whether it is standing in the sun smoking, sitting down ignoring the phone, slouching over a counter pretending not to see a customer or leaning against a desk while ignoring a delivery. Some of the female sales representatives recommended him for a long distance position, but he’d just brag if that needed explaining.
I’ve known Graeme for seven years. He’s bona fide. I’ve introduced him to mates, some of whom I’ve never seen again. When there’s a job to be done, Graeme is the first to tell someone else how to do it, which shows class and initiative.
He’s also the first to criticise how the job has been done, which shows real potential for management.
I can be contacted to verify that some of the above is almost true. Look me up in the phone book.
Matthew W.C Watson
