Sins of Omission: Suppressed Work History - Part Two
Customs Broker
This is a continuation of my previous story about jobs that were omitted from my resume. This particular job is sometimes included in my C.V., but usually not.
Here is a link to Part One:
To continue:
During the early 1980s in northern Italy I found a job at an extremely busy customs brokerage. I was hired primarily because I had some experience working in international shipping and because I could manage commercial terms in a few different languages. What allowed me to stay was being capable of handling an insanely fast-paced environment and high tolerance of verbal abuse.
The pace and the pressure were truly relentless. I’ve worked in maybe 25 or 30 jobs where co-workers complained of unrealistic expectations, but nothing — nothing — compared to this.
The company dealt with overland shipments via truck. The trucks and their drivers either originated from or were driving to various European cities. The most common drivers were Italians, (who spoke only Italian), French (who spoke only French in the most disdainful manner possible), various Eastern bloc nationals (who, other than their own native languages, generally spoke German), Northern Europeans (who all spoke German and an oddly hearty version of English), and occasionally British (who spoke the most peculiar English dialects).
Most of the drivers had beefy physiques, hands like catchers’ mitts, and very little patience. They were on tight schedules and tolerated no delays. They also greatly enjoyed watching the owner of the brokerage shout and abuse the brokers who were almost all women. If they had to wait for paperwork, they at least got a good show to pass the time.
Our task was to review the manifests, find commodity codes, and create new documents in multiple copies. Not duplicates, not triplicates, but unthinkable numbers; it was not uncommon to produce documents in octuplicates or more. And remember, this was the 1980s — no printers where you chose the number of copies you needed. Oh, no. You made carbon copies on a semi-manual typewriter, and you had to SMASH the keys down to have any hope that the last sad copy would actually register more than a ghost of an impression. Furthermore, there was no white-out tape or ribbon corrector. There was only this bottle of a white paint-like substance that you would dab onto each copy with the error, and blow on the paper frantically so it would dry — all the while a driver would be literally breathing down your neck, cursing in one or more languages.
One of my colleagues was a gentle soul named Silvana (not her real name). Silvana was a single girl in her early 20s, petite, pretty and soft-spoken. She was generally efficient but could get very flustered when the pressure was on. In addition to the customs paperwork, she was also tasked with any and all odd jobs, including making and fetching coffee, finding files, filing papers, putting documents in order for the drivers. I recall the owner, at least hourly, bellowing:
SILVANA! Where the f$ck is the ….” Or “SILVANA!!!! Are you f$cking sleeping? — Go, Go, GO… these drivers are waiting on you! What do I pay you for?”
Or for those of you who read Italian:
“SILVANA, dove cazzo sei?" Oppure "SILVANA, ma che cazzo, stai dormendo? Muoviti, muoviti, MUOVITI! Gli autisti ti aspettano. Ma per cosa ti pago a fare?”
The abuse would stop only once she began to cry. Yes, she literally sobbed with great chest heaves and snot dripping from her nose. Then the boss would snort, throw up his hands, cast a hopeless look at the drivers as if to say “look at what I have to deal with”, and storm off to abuse someone else.
Of course, I received my share of abuse, but most of the time I would just ignore it and focus on the job. You see, the pay was that good.
One day however, I learned the depth of anger that could be levelled at me. I had four trucks to sort out. One was going to the Yugoslav border, one to Austria, one to Switzerland and one to France. Feeling rather smug at having produced all the paperwork in record time with no histrionics, it was getting close to the end of the day, and I was looking forward to being released for good behaviour.
Note: There were no cell phones in those days.
The phone rings, and the boss was summoned to take the call. As he listened to the caller his face literally changed colour. And then he looked at me.
Have you ever seen a toddler when they unexpectedly get hurt? The first thing you see is the look of shock on their faces, then their mouths open wide in this odd rectangular shape, but no sound comes out. Then, after that initial pause comes the wail. That was the reaction of the boss. He thundered my name and yelled to get over there.
Next came the scary part. He paused, took a deep breath, stared, and then in the quietest tone imaginable hissed:
“That was the driver at the Yugoslav border. He is driving back here because YOU gave him the paperwork for the French border. You better pray that the only he and the French driver are messed up, and not the Swiss and the Austrian too”.
Did I ever pray!
But, to no avail. Gradually, over the course of about six hours, the other three drivers reached their border crossings and called in with the same issue. All four had to come back, and all four were clamouring for the death penalty and the privilege of watching me be publicly flogged before the hanging.
Meanwhile, poor Silvana was pulled into service. The owner began yelling at her, threw a set of his house keys in her face, and instructed her to go to his home right away. Once there she was to go to the “cantina” and fetch at least 8 bottles of his best wine (for some reason I remember he specified the Valdobiaddene) along with four large San Daniele cured prosciutto hams (the big ones, each about the size and shape of a cello), and bring them back to the office double quick.
I fearfully murmured something inane, like whether I could help in some way. The silence was profound. I was told, quietly but with underlying menace, to sit my behind down and await the drivers’ return — all four of them. I timidly pointed out that this might take maybe another six hours. The comment wasn’t dignified with an answer, only a glare.
Eventually the drivers returned, got their paperwork, their wine, their hams, and some fistfuls of cash. Each driver looked at me like I was a dirty piece of chewing gum stuck to their shoe. Silvana eventually was allowed to go home, and I recall her glancing back at me with the saddest expression possible. Poor thing. She was concerned for me.
Saint Silvana, The Blessed Patron of Wine, Hams, and Cash in Envelopes. Had she been canonized, in art she would have been painted alongside St. Vincent (patron of wine), Anthony the Abbott (patron of pig herders and all things porcine), and St. Matthew (the finance saint and patron of customs brokers); yes, there is a saint for everything.
I believe I worked there for about three months or perhaps more, and oddly I wasn’t fired for my colossal error. Why did I stay? The pay was good, and there was never a dull moment. And I learned how to eloquently curse in many languages.
I may continue another post with more suppressed histories… or not.
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