My supervisor was a real trip. Her name was Doris and it was my first experience with someone who didn't like me. She was always on my back about something, not in a constructive criticism way, but just to be nasty. Either I looked bored ( I was) or wasn't "counting the numbers they asked me to count"' correctly. It was true: I didn't understand my so-called "job" or what I was there for. Neither did anyone else.
The truth was that Ed had me on the payroll until something better opened up. As it turned out this position of organizing schedules in the county was exactly the same position Doris wanted. for her sniveling daughter. who also worked in the office as a gopher. Here I was, green out of school, not really having a clue, and I was awarded her coveted job.
I really didn't want it, anyway. As we know, I wasn't into computers. Or schedules. Or politics. I just wanted to do Social Work, the passion why I went to school in the first place.
It wasn't just me. Doris had low self-esteem issues and was grouchy to everyone-except Ed. She had him convinced she was a nice person and a wonderful supervisor. I thought of my supervisors before her at internships and this lady couldn't hold a candle to any of them, either in ability, leadership or personality.
No one in her department had the guts to tell Ed the truth about her. She would twist it that it was our fault .I soon learned a lot about office politics and kept my mouth shut. I was clearly intimidated. It was nice to finally have real money to help Mom with the monthly expenses so I didn't want to make trouble. If they wanted to pay me for doing nothing, then fine. I wasn't happy but I wasn't stupid either.
One day a group of us went out for lunch because it was Doris' daughters' birthday. I really didn't want to join the crowd and would've preferred to stay back and answer the phones, but I was told- go or else.
Doris was assigned the task of folding my wheelchair and putting it in the trunk of her car, and she bitched about it. "If I hurt my back I'll get workers' comp," she whined out loud. "They don't pay me enough to do this crap."
That year the county had their annual Christmas party at a place which was not accessible for a wheelchair. I was made to feel embarrassed because some thoughtless person, knowing they had an employee who used a wheelchair, still picked an inaccessible location. Suggestions swirled from carrying my chair up the flights of steps ( with me in the chair). to finding another location, to asking me to ride the waiter's dummy elevator upstairs. I ended up not going at all.L ater I was accused of "not being a team player."
I regretted not taking the hospital gig, but knew that was only temporary, so I felt trapped.
After a few months I couldn't take it anymore. I finally went to Ed and said I wasn't happy. Not only with Doris but with what I was doing ( or not doing). I appreciated his kindness, the fact he hired me, and I knew the taxi each day was costing the county a bundle. Paratransit wouldn't cross county lines to get me. Even with Ed;s influence they didn't bend the rules. I didn't make any friendships to car-pool, plus everyone who worked there seemed to live in or around Norristown.There sure wasn't another kind-hearted Lori, someone willing to go out of their way to help.
Once Ed knew how unhappy I was he "arranged" for an opening in the offices' Intake and Referral department.
That meant a new supervisor. Her name was Debbie. a short girl with curly blond hair like little Orphan Annie. She looked like she was barely out of school too.
This new position was more Social Work, which was great. It involved doing intakes over the phone and routing people to the appropriate help they needed. It meant sending out information, referrals to organizations in the county area, counseling people who walked in off the streets of Norristown .I loved it!
The small group of fellow caseworkers were friendly and fun to work with. Each call and each case was different and challenging. Some days the phone rang off the hook and other days it barely rang at all. Just never knew who would walk into the office. Norristown was known for it's share of drugs, the homeless and poverty-stricken. The job was exciting yet dangerous too.
I'll never forget the afternoon two guys had a knife fight in our lobby. The Aging offices were located on the 8th floor of the tallest building in town. Back then security was nothing. It would have been nothing for a desperate, troubled or disgruntled client to take the elevator upstairs and gun down a caseworker. The knife fight made that clear, as these guys came into the office looking for monthly hotel vouchers. When one didn't play the game and act out the routine they planned, the other one turned on him and tried to stab him in the back. They ended up rolling on the floor, right there in the lobby, until the cops from the Courthouse across the street came over.
Another time I met a young African-American guy, nothing unusual. He was quiet, didn't have much to say, with his eyes searching the floor. He wouldn't look me in the eye as I spoke. What's up with this, I wondered?
He was looking for county assistance, either money or a voucher or both. I took him into the interview room, alone, which was not unusual. About 15 minutes after he left ( empty-handed) two gentlemen wearing dark suits appeared outside the office and asked to speak with the caseworker who had just helped that young guy a few moments ago. That would be me.
They introduced themselves as FBI agents. The young man they were trailing was wanted for murder. They asked me what he wanted. Money, as they all want. Where did he go? He didn't tell me and I didn't ask. All I could think about was how I was alone with this guy in the interview room.
The following week I saw in the local Noristown paper that he had been arrested and confessed to the murder.
Many seriously ill clients drifted into the office. Many were the same homeless folks we encountered every day. Most looked for money, shelter or food.Since the county courthouse was directly across the street we saw many well-dressed attorneys and other professionals crossing from our building to the courthouse area. Walk a block away and find a totally different world full of hookers, homeless and drug addicts, many of whom made their way to our office in time.
Usually around the first of the month everyone on the streets knew the county had money and vouchers to give away, first come, first served. The line would form down the hallway to the elevator on the first of each month, right at 8:00 when the office opened. After the free stuff was given away, usually by lunch, the rest of the month was fairly quiet with the usual cases.
One month an older gentleman with dirty, ragged clothes shuffled into the office, looking for money. Since it was almost time to close the office there was none left. I was the one who told him the bad news. He didn't like that answer and threatened me. I called my supervisor ( by then they had hooked up a silent buzzer in the interview room to call for help). and spunky little Debbie asked him to leave the premises immediately.
When I wheeled down the hall to the elevator to meet my taxi in the parking garage, the guy was waiting for me. He boarded the elevator without saying a word. I was scared. Luckily other people were on board with us but they got off on the first floor. We still had the parking garage to reach.
Again he asked me for money. I bravely told him he would have to come back the next day and I would see what I could do. As he started to move toward me the elevator door opened. A security guard was waiting.
I quickly got out, met my cab, glancing back and noticing the security guard escorting the guy upstairs.
He never did come back.
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