(A short-lived career. A short jerk. A summer best forgotten)

I call him Turbeaux. That’s not his real name, of course. A dwarf generally has a first and last name, just like you and me, unless the dwarf is dumb enough to lose one of his names (it happens more often than you might think). And Turbeaux was an exceptionally stupid dwarf.

Even for a corporate dwarf.

As we know from several songs, sung by people who are now dead, “life goes on.” And mine has. But before the memory fades – or before my psyche blocks out the whole episode as part of a protective auto-defense mechanism – let me tell you about my summer with the dwarf.

It’s a fairly standard tale, I suppose, to those of you who have figured out how to go to work every day, week after week, surrounded by walls and waste and weird report requests and unwarranted office rearrangements and mandatory pencil requisitions in triplicate and Secret Santas and corporate dwarves – and then do it again, and again, all without going clinically insane.

So I’ll attempt to not bore you with my bit of a tale, partly by interspersing a few flashbacks from my diary, which I maintained during my days in the company of a company’s bi-polar dwarf.

Witness…

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, the dwarf got disoriented during our weekly “Chip & Dale Carnegie” motivational meeting. As a result of his confusion, the dwarf rescheduled his secretary’s schedule so she could work the “paradigm shift.”

See? That’s the kind of nonsense I had to deal with, earlier this year, when I found myself working with … and then working for … a bi-polar dwarf. Or course, we didn’t call him Turbeaux at first. That came later.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, the dwarf was late for work. Turns out he’d let his shampoo confuse him and then he got caught in a vicious “lather, rinse, repeat” loop.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at lunch, somebody convinced the dwarf that he couldn’t possibly get salmonella, because he wasn’t eating salmon. So now we know: a bi-polar dwarf with food poisoning turns a really weird shade of green.

As you might imagine, being barely taller than a grade-school ruler presents its own problems for a dwarf, especially when you’re a corporate dwarf swaggering around and burdened with that deadliest of combinations:  a middle-management job title and a very short fuse.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, the dwarf went ballistic after learning that normal-height people use these things called “light switches,” and that’s what actually makes the lights go on and off. Until now, the dwarf had thought meeting rooms were just sad to see him leave.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, a tall woman accused the dwarf of staring at her knees. The dwarf, of course, pouted and whined, saying he preferred women half her thighs.

Turbeaux had learned to simultaneously suck up and pout, which of course qualified him for a middle-management position, his own office, and keys to the corporate lunchroom. The dwarf didn’t eat much, though; he somehow acquired nourishment from attending endless meetings and parroting drivel like “you’re so right, Bill” and “paradigm shift.”

Turbeaux is mad for meetings. (That’s how he got the nickname “Turbeaux.” Think “Tasmanian Devil” armed with a quiver of Venn Diagrams.) Turbeaux will schedule an afternoon meeting to talk about planning a meeting to analyze that morning’s meeting, that he had convened to discuss the inordinate amount of non-productive time middle-management’s been spending in meetings.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, while loping from one meeting to the next, the dwarf ran into another wall. For the rest of the day, he walked around cupping a seashell to his head. When asked why, he said he’d been advised to file an injury claim, and somebody told him if you hold a seashell next to your ear, you could hear OSHA (he really is a very stupid dwarf).

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, the dwarf had another “green” epiphany, and confiscated everybody’s Earth-killing light bulbs. Sadly, though, his little corporate dwarf cranium had forgotten to buy replacement bulbs, so he had to redistribute our originals. Of course, the rest of us worked that little “gift” all day long. We spent the rest of the day complaining that we had to work using somebody else’s light.

Right about now, you may find yourself thinking about some of the middle-management characters at your office. Hmmm. Could Fred in Purchasing be a bi-polar dwarf? Hmmm. Sure, that Angela in Accounts Payable is taller than a fire hydrant, but … might a dwarf run out and purchase shoe inserts? Hmmm?

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, a rogue “who’s your secret gift partner” email exploded, destroying half of the dwarf’s moustache. At least, I hope that’s what happened to his moustache. I’d hate to think the little guy walks around looking like that on purpose.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, the dwarf inexplicably insisted that everybody start referring to him as “The Hammer,” possibly because he’s exactly the same height as one. Unimpressed co-workers just let him rave on, and on and on, until he finally fainted from a hubris overload. Then we all rolled him into a corner and voted on whether to keep calling him “Turbeaux,” or to just stick with our current pet name, “Irrelevant Yard Ornament.”

Of course, a middle-management corporate dwarf with a job title is still a member of middle-management, with all the petty, vindictive, destructive, career-warping power that such a position confers.

And as I was about to learn, you can only push a bi-polar dwarf so far.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, I switched some characters on the dwarf’s keyboard. As a result, a huge client got an email, inviting them to fake their sales witch at a Friday seminal.

That was the beginning of the end.

And then, one day, the dwarf got terminally angry at me because, according to him, I didn’t look at him often enough when he was “making a point.” (a.k.a. shrieking, throwing extremely light objects at people’s knees, and pulse-popping the few remaining veins in his Malibu Barbie-sized forehead)

Yeah, I know. I thought the same thing you’re thinking right now. A corporate dwarf, in a position of tiny-step-ladder-assisted authority, mad at me because I didn’t look at him enough.

Whoa.

You know, as part of my initial conversations with this company, Mrs. H.R. Lady had submitted me to a psychiatric evaluation. Standard stuff, nothing invasive, no dials or restraints, no goofy paper outfits that never quite close in the back, thereby allowing you to simultaneously freeze to death while letting you advertise your spine and, um, points south.

A standard psych analysis. Just a last-chance, optimistic opportunity for the Human Resources department to weed out the finger chewers, the criminally insane, and other members of Congress.

I got the job, so obviously, I evaluated as “sane.” Turbeaux was already here when I got here, so obviously, he’d also slipped one past the goalie.

And obviously, the Psychiatric Evaluation Metrics review committee of the Federated Union of Human Resources needs to reassess their standards.

But life goes on, and now I’m unemployed again.

Have I learned anything, you ask? Well, yeah. Sure, I’ve learned something. Two things, actually:

1. From what I know of psych exams, most of corporate America could very well be insane.
2. If you ever need to rub out a dwarf, you can’t necessarily depend on salmonella.