Left Photo Credit: Lindsay William Ross on Flickr

This is a story about someone you've probably met before. Someone obtuse and arrogant with a strong will and fragile ego — A person who asks no questions because they know everything already. Yes, I'm talking about someone you've invariably worked for. This is the tale of the bad boss.

This particular someone hired me to organize the sponsorship and logistic details of concerts and festivals. I had no specific experience with anything on that scale, but accepted the job without hesitation. Previous gigs in event marketing had taught me the basics. Plus, it was a small staff, which would allow me to be a sponge and learn quickly. The team consisted of me, one peer, and our fearless leader.

Soon after I started, my co-worker tried to warn me that our boss didn't have the experience to manage our event endeavors. Worse yet, she didn't have the sense to realize how much she didn't know. "Ask her what time it is, she'll look you right in the eye and say, 'three o'clock,'" my peer told me. Then she leaned in close and whispered, "but you ought to know: that girl does not have a watch."

It really didn't matter what time it was. I already had my suspicions that this woman was the All-Time Worst Boss (ATWB.)

The first event on the calendar was a concert in a park. Upwards of 30,000 people were expected for an all-day festival featuring twelve acts ranging from local rappers and dance groups to national hip-hop recording artists. This was the event that would be my on the job training. Under the leadership of ATWB, I learned everything the hard way.

We had a site check two weeks before the event. Our crack team trekked out to the park with our clipboards in hand — Went to meet the sound engineer to nail down the last of the critical details. Long past his deadline for our equipment needs, we'd only produced half of the artist's technical riders. And on this occasion designated to map out placement of speakers and board equipment, we'd failed to invite an electrician. He finally lost his patience.

"This thing is like a concert organized by some ladies at the DMV," he told his own clipboard-carrying assistant in anger. As ATWB launched into some version of the ever-effective "Do You Know Who I Am" speech, my co-worker and I stood quietly in the open field. We communicated non-verbally with a shoulder shrug and shake of the head, which translates in words to, "nailed it."

It should be noted that major elements like staging, sound and security were handled by contractors — seasoned professionals that could be trusted to get the job done right. It was in all the other details handled by us that left the most room for disaster. Things like catering and credentials. See, an event that size requires all but the general admission to be classified, color-coded and labeled like so:


ALL-ACCESS PASS for walkie-talkie toting insiders...

BACKSTAGE PASS for performers and roadies...

GUEST PASS for people you need to make feel important...

VIP PASS for guests who actually are important...

The VIP pass is one's golden ticket to the tent with buffet and open bar, therefore they must be well organized and controlled. When it came time to distribute credentials, the scene was chaotic. We had stacks of laminated passes and lanyards from one side of our shared office to the other. Our system of keeping track had been muddied by unclear individual responsibilities. ATWB was sitting in the center of the floor, Indian-style in her skirt, berating us for bad execution of her well-managed plan when a promoter arrived to pick up his stack of passes.

"How many do you need?" she asked him from her same spot on the floor.

"Twenty-two," he said. This number would have been shocking if he were the first person requesting passes. But part of the reason our credentials were such a mess was the fact that we'd failed to plan for the addition of each group's entourage. This act, for example, would only have three people on stage. But nineteen of their closest peeps needed A-list treatment too.

We were so far over our projected catering budget, ATWB let her frustration show. "OK, so who's got to eat?" she asked impatiently. She cocked an eyebrow to let him know she meant business, then added, "'Cuz I ain't feedin' no girlfriends or hoochie mamas."

That's right. She said it. She told the man his friends were hos.

I was too busy making OMG-Do-You-Believe-Her eyes with my co-worker to hear the remainder of the conversation. I'll tell you that on the day of the event, feeding hoochie mamas turned out to be the least of our worries.

Amazingly, ATWB didn't work there much longer than that, and a real grown up with some experience to learn from was hired. But her legacy lived on. For months following, I would call out to get my co-worker's attention. I'd wait for her to ask, "what?" before I hit her with the philosophical question: Who's got to eat? This never stopped being fun, because every time she'd react the same way. After she howled like I'd just ripped a band-aid of her skin, she'd shrug her shoulders and shake her head. "That girl better get a watch," she'd say.

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