A disgruntled lab employee unleashes a devastating virus or did he?
©2003 by Mae Ondracek
Disgruntled? ME? You bet I’m disgruntled! I’m so upset I could spit nails. How can they do this to me? I have worked here at Bellows Nursing Home for six years when the supervisor asked me to attend college part time for one year to become a medical lab technician so I could help the R.N.’s with mixing medicines for the residents. I did that without complaint and kept working at the home, too.
I’ve worked in the lab for six years now and never once made a mistake. Now the supervisor says they must downsize and guess who gets the pink slip? ME! They gave me two weeks notice but I’ll show them. I’ll get even before they pull the plug and send me on my way. Drat! They can’t do this to me without a showdown.
How will I survive? They never advised me to save my money in the Keogh plan they offered and I am one of those young guys who likes to show the girls a good time. So, all I have saved is $1,000.00 plus the last paycheck that’s coming.
Man, if I would have known they were going to down-size me, I wouldn’t have purchased the Porsche two years ago. I’ll be paying for that for another five years, if I don’t lose it now because of them. It was a sleek white model with gold trim and the red velvet interior was gorgeous. Boy, it was snazzy and I needed this job to finish paying for that car.
Oh, great! Now I can’t remember what I was doing. Did I already mix Mr. Sholes’s medicine or didn’t I? I could dump it and start over but then the wasted dose will be subtracted from my paycheck. Can you believe that? They charge us for the wasted medicine and old eagle eye watches the bottles to see how much has been used.
I haven’t wasted anything, yet. We-e-e-ll, just once when old lady Higgins knocked her orange juice out of my hand. It had her medicine in it, and she yelled, “I don’t want that junk. I hate orange juice.”
I patted her shoulder, saying, “There, there, Mrs. Higgins. Orange juice is good for you.”
She took a swing at me, barely missing my chin. She yelled, “Get away from me you lying S. O. B.” Then calmly she said, “I’m a lady, so I can’t swear.” Then she laughed as she revved up her electric wheelchair and darted off in the direction of her room.
Then there was the time old Harry was doing a little song and dance number when I was taking his medicine to him. As he was going into a slow turn, he brought his arm up, hit the glass in my hand, and that entire sticky, yuck splashed all over my shirt front. I really could have pasted him one, but he was so apologetic I smiled and said, “That’s all right, Harry. It will wash out. I’ll go get you another shake.” All the while thinking, ‘There goes another $3.75 out of my paycheck.’
After that, I again asked the supervisor why I had to mix the medicines and deliver them, too. She was a Miss Smarty Pants and replied, “Because it’s your job.”
She wrinkled her nose, smiled, and turned away and said, “Back to work, James.”
If I wasn’t a gentleman, I would have pinched her big fat butt and now I sit here with a pink slip in my hand, wondering if she had read my thoughts that day.
I have one and one half weeks to think of a way to get even with this bunch of crackpots. I’ll show them they can’t toss me out like an old shoe.
I tell you, it isn’t easy thinking up a bad scheme to unleash my maddening power on a bunch of great co-workers. If it were only Miss Smarty Pants, I’d have no-o-o-o problem.
I’d think of a plan. Then reject it. Think of another one and reject it, too. I’ll bet, over the next week, I thought up two-dozen schemes and rejected them all. I scolded myself, saying, ‘Don’t be such a boob. They didn’t care about down-sizing you, why should you care what happens to them.’
So, my plan was called, ‘Operation Miss Smarty Pants.’ It would cost me few bucks but it would be worth it to see the expression on her dying face.
Two days before I had to depart, I announced I was giving myself a farewell party and everyone was welcome to come. All my co-workers said I was nuts for doing that, but I told them that would make me happy to treat them as long as I wasn’t going to see them again.
So, the next day at break time, I laid out the spread of cookies and pastries. On one plate I set an extra large Bismarck with the supervisors name on it. I heard a few remarks, “It’s not fair. She shouldn’t get the best one.” Or, “That will add two more inches to her back side.”
But I shushed them up as Miss Smarty Pants entered the room. Looking surprised at the large roll for her, she said, “How sweet of you, James,” as she took a huge bite.
I could hardly contain myself until she had eaten over half of it, then I said, “I didn’t know if it would have tasted better with type A or type B blood, so I used some of both. Hope you like it.”
Miss Smarty Pants’ face grew ashen, she pushed back her chair, and waddled as fast as she could out the door. I had a good laugh over that until I saw all the co-workers had stopped eating and were looking at their rolls. I said, “Not to worry everyone. The pastry is fine. Her roll was filled with strawberry jelly, her favorite kind.”