Dilemma (yes, the story)

Jack's Dilemma topic: This is a generic topic, but the dilemmas we face throughout our lives often tell us who we really are. We put ourselves or are put into situations where there are multiple ways to go, but none of which are truly ideal. Write a brief story, fictional or real, that centers around a dilemma -- moral, romantic, any kind you want.
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"Time To Move On"

I’ve never been a good employee. It would be a close call if I had to weigh the proposition of hiring myself or a bipolar illegal immigrant with one foot who can only speak in dead languages.

While I don’t steal from or lie to my masters, I have never really done anything exemplary. I do what I am told (unless it requires too much effort) and show up on time. That is about where my productivity as an employee ends; I won’t go to the extra effort or try to think of an innovative solution to a reoccurring problem. I’d rather just clock in, perform the tasks, and go home. Likewise, trolling the Internet or chatting up coworkers are not aversions of mine. These problems don’t revolve around laziness, but some grand combination of a general disinterest towards busy work and specific desire to avoid getting in trouble.

Despite my failings, supervisors often believe I possess some sort of untapped merit and routinely trust me with more important assignments. It is as if they think “Gangster’s Paradise” will begin playing at any moment. Usually, I find a way to finish the assignment in such a way that burns no bridges and satisfies the supervisor, but does not really revolutionize the fast food, museum attendant, or athletic ticket taking worlds. I often luck out in that the assignments end up being immeasurable and thus I cannot truly be evaluated my superiors.

The last time a supervisor trusted me with a crucial project, the project turned out to be more imposing than I first thought. While working at my real job post-college for my university’s football office, the supervisor called me in her office. Sharon was a short, husky woman who I never actually saw stand up. Her large bangs reminded me of the Mary Tyler Moore reruns from TV. That being said, she did not remind of me of Mary Tyler Moore; the razor burn over her lips and the cigarette-marred voice killed that illusion. Sharon had lived a hard life in a small town and she showed it. Suffice to say, people didn’t screw with this five feet of fury.

“Shawn, I’d like you to take over the new mailing program for the season ticket holders. You’ve done a good job so far this year and if this little experiment works out, you will be doing every year,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll make my assistant Kevin check in on you every once and a while. What do you say?” Sharon asked as the smoke emanated from the ash tray near her keyboard. Smoking was technically prohibited by the university, but no one dared to tell her.

“Yah. Sure, whatever,” I mumbled in response. The fate of the season ticket holders didn’t bother me either way. What did spark my interest was the fact that I wouldn’t be forced to handle the phones any more. With the football team nearing bowl-eligibility, the college football equivalent of the playoffs, the phones never stopped ringing. Alumni were desperate to score tickets for the perceived big game; people simply wouldn’t stop calling and when we explained that no tickets were available yet, they simply offered more money. It was like running at an auction that claimed to have the last puppy on earth.

Extricating myself from that ordeal seemed like a good plan even if it involved a little more responsibility. In fact, managing the mailing effort the season ticket holder program turned out to entail a lot more responsibility coupled with very little oversight. My task involved designing all the promotional materials, writing the content, selecting the printing companies, organizing the mailing effort of over 30,000 packets, coordinating the follow up phone calls, and managing a budget that ran into the thousands of dollars.

Up until this point in my life, I still confused the routing and accounting numbers of my checks. Very quickly, I realized I was over my head. And like any young professional entrusted with task important to the greater good, I lied about my progress at every opportunity.

“How’s that list coming, Shawn?” Kevin, the boss’s assistant, would ask.

“The vast majority of it is on its way to being tackled,” I would respond without realizing how my obfuscation had taken on a life of its own. Any competent assistant would have seen right through the nonsense I spouted, but Kevin was no such person. When the boss said that Kevin should check in on me, he simply poked in to say hello and reported back on my outstanding progress. In reality, he knew less about the project than me…and I knew nothing. His knowledge was somewhere in the negative zone; in fact, whenever he appeared, I began to forget the little that I knew. The fact that Sharon delegated more responsibility to Kevin whenever she needed to go to the doctor (which became more frequent as time went on) meant that I had less oversight than ever. I would come into work, stare at the reams of paper, and then wait until I could go home again. Having an office all to myself made my hiding much easier.

Sometimes I would attempt to begin, but the initial products of my work were so abysmal that I would abandon the attempt shortly thereafter and return to the previous plan: duck and cover. Having the trust and respect of my boss meant that these stall tactics appeared to reflect careful planning; a sentiment as untrue as your girlfriend’s statements about her sexual mileage. I didn’t really intend to deceive any one, but the enormous nature of the project intimidated me. Admitting I couldn’t do it was more than my pride could handle, so procrastination became the most effective focal point of my energies.

Periodically, Kevin would check in on me again and during those times I would highlight might impressive looking, but truly meager progress. After his visits, I would be spurred to action: phone calls would be made and documents drafted. But after a little while, I would again crumble under the pressure of a task I didn’t understand and feared I would fail. Instead of putting my effort into and failing, avoiding the task meant that I could I always reserve the “I could have done it if I really tried” excuse.

As the weeks went by, deadlines began to approach. The NCAA, the governing body of the college sports, dictates very specific deadlines for when any sport-related activity can occur. Most of the publicized rules apply to student athletes. For instance, due to a rule against gambling, a university once had to cut a hole through a hotel wall to prevent the players from walking through a casino to enter the arena. However, a whole host of regulations also deal with tickets and a school’s administration. Through my procrastination and dereliction of duty, I actually missed the deadline for when my project could be mailed out. To mail it afterwards would bring the Gods’ fury upon the university. My extremely preoccupied boss didn’t appear to know about the deadline.

The real question is, what would I do? I stewed over this issue for days as I waited for my boss to come through my office doors. I could stay silent and hope that no ever noticed. If asked, I could either lie or tell the truth. Recognizing the flaws in both those plans, I even considered mailing the forms anyway and hoping the NCAA didn’t catch me. One part of me felt guilty for screwing this project up; another really didn’t care all that much. Despite those competing emotions, what I really wanted was to avoid getting trouble. One thing was for sure, I had really committed a “fireable” offense. If the university found out, I would be promptly discharged without a second thought. I was going to be fired from my first real job. How was going to explain this to my dad?

Days past as I waited. By this time, a week had passed after the NCAA deadline. Yet, no one ever came to check on me. My plan to wait in silence appeared to be working. But finally, Kevin walked in with the grimmest look of any one I have ever seen.

“Shawn, you need to sit down. We need to talk,” he said. "But first, would you remind clearing out of this office. I don't think you'll be needing it any more."

“Okay,” I said. This was going to be it. I was going to be fired.

“I don’t really don’t want to hurt you, but something terrible has happened and I think its best that I treat you like a man and just tell you.” he said as he paused and put his hand on my shoulder. I could feel my heart thump as my job was put on the chopping block. “Shawn, Sharon died of pneumonia over the weekend.”

To this day, I am ashamed to admit that my first thought was Ya-fucking-hoo. Sharon was a great person and her loss was a sad day, but something more important had occurred: I was saved and no one would ever know. In the wake of Sharon’s death, the project would end up being forgotten and I could cover up my incompetence. And that is exactly what I did. For weeks, I transferred documents and evidence from the office to my car: every lunch a folder, every day a box. Slowly but surely I put Andy Dufresne to shame.

Weeks later, Kevin would be promoted to Sharon’s former job and another revelation would come: Kevin would be promoting me based on how well the season ticket plan was selling. He appeared to have no inkling whatsoever about my efforts. Tickets were selling at a record pace and my nonexistent “mailing plan” was being assigned the credit.

From this ordeal, I learned one simple fact: death can set you free.