1990, Sacramento, California

By Jordan Dakota

Charlotte was rapidly skating her way toward termination from her job as a key data operator.

As anyone who has ever worked in the government sector knows, of course, it’s virtually impossible to get yourself canned once you pass probation, unless you do something incredibly stupid or heinous. Discrimination policies and political correctness being what they are, many a questionable employee can figure out how to sidestep demotion or firing by simply figuring out which buttons to push first.

It would be charitable to suggest that Charlotte was smart. “Desperate,” I think, would be the better word. When I became the supervisor of the clerical unit in which she and eight others were employed, she already knew that her chronic absenteeism and poor work habits had put her on the lengthy list of personnel problems I was assigned to resolve.

In our first meeting together, her tear-choked voice vacillated between apologies and promises. Over the next six weeks, it was to be the pattern of all my meetings with Charlotte, who was convinced that she was the victim of bad karma over which she had absolutely no control.

Her monthly pay by now was routinely being docked by at least a third. No amount of gentle warning on my part seemed to be having any impact whatsoever on her spotty attendance or mistake-laden work product. The morning I called her in for what was to have been a prelude to official administrative action, Charlotte had clearly figured out what was in store. What I never anticipated was her response.

Her rail-thin body was violently shaking, and tears were streaming down her face. “Oh God,” she said, “you don’t know what it’s like to have to go through it every single day!”

“Go through what?” I inquired.

Charlotte blurted out her horrible secret - that she was being sexually harassed by Michael, one of the programmers. There were never any witnesses to his crude remarks or touching, she explained, and his very presence in the same office made her sick to her stomach.

My first question, of course, was why she hadn’t reported any of this behavior. Without missing a beat, Charlotte replied that Michael belonged to the same church as our department head and had been hired by him as a result of their camaraderie outside the office.

On the promise I’d look into the matter, I approached my boss with what I had just learned.

“Michael?” he responded with a laugh. “That’s the funniest thing I ever heard.” His reiteration that they attended the same church and that Michael even sang in the choir was completely dismissive of Charlotte’s distress.

“Whether or not it’s true,” I replied, “it’s still incumbent upon me as her supervisor - and you as the head of this department - to make sure everyone is aware of the sexual harassment policies.” I suggested that we call Michael in and get his side of the story.

My boss balked at first, deeming it a silly waste of time. He further alluded to the fact that Charlotte was “skinny, bug-eyed and butt-ugly,” and that if Michael were going to make overtures to anyone, it would more likely be a female who was attractive.

Michael, of course, feigned shock when questioned and insisted that he had never said or done anything inappropriate. Across the desk, my boss had folded his arms and was wearing a smug “I told you so” expression.

As diplomatically as I could, I advised Michael that I was not only moving Charlotte’s station to a different part of the office but that I had also asked her to document any further incidents.

“Don’t worry, Mike,” my boss heartily assured him right in front of me. “It’s not like it’ll ever go on your record.”

Having won the functional equivalent of a reprieve, Charlotte seemed to rally a bit in her new workspace and even made it to the office on time four days in a row. On the fifth day, she called from home in tears and told me it was starting all over again.

The previous afternoon, she said, she didn’t discover that she had left her purse in her desk until she got to her apartment and had come back downtown to get it. Michael, who usually worked late running backup data, was there when she arrived and made no secret of wanting to continue what he had started.

I went to my boss a second time and informed him that Charlotte would have grounds for a grievance if we didn’t take the first step of putting a disciplinary letter in Michael’s personnel file.

“You’re not going to get my signature on it,” he retorted.

That was probably true. What I could get, however - and did - was the signature of the administrative director who was the next one up the chain of command. He concurred that my own boss’ handling of the matter was deplorable and, further, that the men’s friendship had both impaired his sense of judgment and given Michael a false sense of security.

Neither one lost his job as a result but, having seen my boss’ real personality revealed in such an ugly light, it was not long thereafter that I left for a different agency.

This should have been a story I felt proud about for having risen to the occasion of protecting someone with low self-esteem who truly believed that she was defenseless. While a part of me wondered whether Charlotte was banking on my compassion as a way to stay employed, I knew that it would be better to err on the side of trust than to risk this pathetic little creature committing suicide or coming to the office and engaging in an act of violence.

Two years later, I came to realize my mistake. I was running an errand across town and had decided to take the light rail rather than drive my car. A couple of women had boarded the train and sat down a few seats behind me. I recognized the voice of one of them and glanced around.

She didn’t see me, but it was definitely Charlotte, engaged at that moment in an animated discussion about the time she had really pulled one over on her supervisor by pretending a guy in her office was always trying to feel her up. There was just enough detail in the recounting of her hoax that no doubt of her supervisor’s identity was left.

A hundred things raced through my head that I wanted to say to her, my anger at the boiling point for her having taken advantage of me.

When the train came to my stop, I got up to exit toward the back, a move that put me right in front of Charlotte and her companion. I paused a moment and looked down at her but didn’t say anything. Her mouth dropped open at the surprise of seeing me, of realizing that I had probably overheard her entire boastful confession.

It would have been pointless to exchange any words with her. As I moved on, I heard Charlotte’s friend ask her who I was.

“I have no idea,” Charlotte lied.

Former actress and director Jordan Dakota is an award-winning author and script consultant whose credits include 25 books, 125 plays and musicals, and 5 optioned films. She is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, January 7th, 2008 | Email This Post

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