I always said I wouldn’t do it

I had a boss when I worked at The Alley in Chicago who thought if he tried hard enough, he could still be one of us. He didn’t understand that the boss-ness to employee wall could be made of plexiglass and seen through, but those crappy communication holes drilled through garbled the message so it was never received as intended.

Because an employee was once murdered behind the store, it was a rule that we all left together, en masse. We would finally get everyone finished tidying for the next day’s disaster, have all the lights off, and be jammed around the door. The boss would stand, with his hand on the door and the keys in his other hand, and force us to listen to stories of how he was once like us. No one but me understood that the sooner you gave in to the “You’re so rad!” exclamation, the sooner you got out the door. I must have looked like such a toady shouting, “Wow, you really stole a skull from a cemetery mausoleum? You’re so out there, man! That’s cuh-razy!”

Everyone else just twitched, release so close yet unattainable until the boss had had his way with us. I, though repulsed by his lame attempts at trying to be one of us, played the game to get away from him faster. Probably something I learned as a child. Say what’s expected, get along with reality faster.

I always vowed that I would never be like him. Every time he held us huddled around the door with the lights off and the keys jingling tantalizingly in his hand, I hated him, lost my meager respect for him, and I promised I would never be such an ass.

My friend (and library pseudo-mentor, J) recently introduced me to the term “creepy treehouse.” It’s like something adults do to imitate kids in order to attract them, but in fact the kids can see straight through the faux-hipster facade and are repulsed by it. In library terms, it’s like creating a Facebook page for your library and asking your patrons to friend you. Facebook users look at the library page and see creepy treehouse all over it, feeling a forced attempt at kickin’ it on their level that co-opts the personal cyberspace they intended for themselves.

There wasn’t a perfect name for it yet, but my old boss at The Alley was a creepy treehouse. Eck. He wasn’t on our side of the plexiglass divide, never would be again, and his forced communication only made us more leery of him. He didn’t lure us in with tales of wicked-bad head-bangin’ ass-kickin,’ he made us sick. “So help me god,” I prayed, “I will never be that pathetic.”

But, I totally did it. Just a couple of days ago. Even after just learning all about the creepy treehouse. Yep. I creepy treehoused all up in this joint.

I hired a new student-worker, and I liked her. That she had purple hair added to my affinity for her.

At the end of the interview—gack I’m going to barf—I said, “And I like your purple hair.” Here’s where it gets really barf-tastic. “I used to dye my hair all crazy colors, but then I got an office job. I’m covered in tattoos, you just can’t see them. Well, I guess it’s no secret, I wear a tank top to work then put on my long-sleeved shirt.”

The worst part of it is, I felt myself doing it. I felt myself sounding like my old boss. Hair-dying, tattoos, “really, I’m rock-and-roll just like you,” through those plexiglass air holes. I was too embarrassed for myself to notice her reaction, but she seemed to nod or something.

Two days later, I was walking the dog, and I realized, “I just creepy treehoused!” I felt miserable. I had done it. I was The Boss. That boss. No, I’m not cool. No, I’m not rock-and-roll. No, I’m not 20 and dying to be 21 so I can finally be legal. Me = The Boss. The Boss with the Excel spreadsheets and the nerdy Word documents explaining archival terminology. The boss who follow-up e-mailed and said, “We can play music really quietly so bring your ipod, and you can hang a poster over your desk if you want to.”

Yeah. I said all that. I’m on the other side of the plexiglass, deluded that I can speak through.

My only hope now is to keep my mouth shut and never do it again. Now, instead of saying “I’ll never be like that,” I pray ardently, “Please don’t let me be like that!” Patron saint of employers, I implore you to give me the strength to tear down the creepy treehouse and just be the boss.