Chapter 14 #2
“Holiday leave is two weeks annually and doesn’t accrue year over year, it has to be taken every year.
Paid time off is six weeks, and everyone is required to take two of those every year at a minimum, the rest accrues.
If they don’t take the mandatory two weeks, it goes away and it’s noted on their performance review. ”
Renee’s jaw dropped. “You punish people for not taking leave?”
Alaric shook his head. “No. Not punish. But we try to foster a culture where we make people aware of how they’re spending their time. Work is important, but it’s not the most important.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You shame people for not taking paid time off? At your non-profit?”
He smiled again, just a little, like he seemed to do every time I challenged him.
For a moment I wanted to kick him under the table, but I’d left my pointy shoes at the door.
“It’s important that a workplace be a good fit for an employee and their cultural priorities, but it’s also important that an employee be a good fit for a workplace and that business’s cultural priorities, right?
No one should have so much work that they can’t take two weeks off a year.
If they do, then we need to evaluate whether the workload is too heavy, or there’s something impacting their ability to work, or the team member simply isn’t a good fit for that role.
My company’s culture is that employees shouldn’t—and don’t—live to work. We’re not interested in workaholics.”
“Why not?” I demanded. “Workaholics are productivity powerhouses. Following the Pareto Principle, eighty percent of work is done by twenty percent of employees. Are you saying the Pareto Principle is wrong? It can’t be wrong, it’s a principle.”
“But studies show workaholics also burn out at a much faster rate,” he said reasonably.
“Not only that, they’re not a complete person, are they?
If work is everything to them, then they’re nothing without work.
Those kinds of people don’t add true value to an organization, they add only artificial pressure to perform and stress. ”
Quinton nodded. “I agree. That’s not healthy. And being well-rounded is more important than making a show of being busy.”
“Not if they’re actually getting shit done,” I countered. “If it’s stressful for other employees, maybe they’re simply not productive enough.”
The two men exchanged a look across the table.
I interpreted Quinton’s look as at least semi-smug, but Alaric’s expression appeared carefully stoic, which had been very intelligent of him.
If he’d shared a smug look—even a semi-smug look—with this wierdo doctor, then there was no way I’d let him kiss me again.
And if there was one thing I felt certain of, Alaric wanted to kiss me again. Very badly. In an ironic twist on the fabric of reality, Alaric’s attraction to me was basically the only trump card I held.
“Fine.” I tried again, deciding to be curious instead of judgy. “Then what about sick leave? How much time do people get?”
Alaric, unflappable, said, “Sick leave has no upper limit. People take what they need. I don’t want people to worry about their paycheck, not if they’re sick.”
I set down my mug hard enough to slosh coffee onto the saucer. “Are you kidding me? And they get paid the whole time?”
“Of course.”
“Then what’s to stop people from pretending to be sick?”
He laughed, and the sound was genuine, as though he thought I’d made a joke.
When he saw I hadn’t, I was serious, he asked, “Who would do that?”
“Plenty of people! It’s called insurance fraud and it happens all the time.”
He smiled wider, looking at me like I was cute. “No.”
I stared at him, exasperated. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
He shrugged. “People want to work, they want to be occupied and make a difference in the world through their work. Especially if their work-life is balanced with their interests and personal life, and if their workplace recognizes and values their contribution.”
A strangled noise of disbelief left my lips. “That sounds like a fairytale.” He needed to touch grass.
Quinton, meanwhile, grinned at Alaric. “No, it doesn’t. It sounds awesome.”
What a sycophant!
Alaric returned the smile, the two of them co-conspiring in their mutual admiration for a utopian HR. But utopia didn’t exist. I was so frustrated by this imbecilic discussion, I considered scooping out my own brain with a grapefruit spoon.
The conversation rolled on, Renee and Quinton fielding questions from Alaric about the spa, the local market, their plans for Christmas, and I was left to grapple with the fact that, according to this room’s prevailing logic, I was the last functional cynic in the Western hemisphere.
I was still processing, running a rapid back-of-the-envelope calculation of lost labor hours under such a regime, when my mouth did a thing that surprised me, speaking without checking in with my brain first, “You can’t tell me you’ve never fired anyone for-cause.
You must have fired someone at some point. ”
Alaric didn’t miss a beat. “Of course I’ve fired people, for all kinds of reasons.
But the number of people I’ve fired for-cause is nothing compared to the number of people who we’ve hired and still work for us.
And, on that note, I think this is a big mistake a lot of companies make, which is drafting policies and procedures based on the people they’ve fired rather than based on the vast majority of employees who stay and continue to do excellent work for them. ”
Renee clapped, actually clapped. “Yes! I agree with that. Why base your rules on the small percentage of people who don’t work out. Your policies and decisions should be based on the majority, the people who show up every day and do their best for you.”
I felt my neck getting hot again. I’d made a career—literally—out of writing contracts and policies to minimize damage caused by the bottom percentile. Every worst-case scenario, every loophole, every systemic risk. It had never occurred to me to run a business based on the assumption of goodwill.
Admittedly, I’d also spent the last six years living my life by the same methodology.
Quinton, still nodding, said, “So true. That would be like punishing your entire group of loyal friends who stick by you because one friend betrayed you.”
The words hit me square in the sternum and I flinched. For a second, I thought I’d misheard, but he kept nodding, adding more examples.
But I remained stuck on, It would be like punishing all your loyal friends because of a single act of betrayal.
A phantom hand grasped the inside of my chest and twisted, hard. I felt the pain of every friend I’d ghosted, every number deleted from my phone, every email left unread after I’d left Boston, after Janet Marley had slept with my fiancé and taken my entire sense of certainty with her.
I’d cut everyone out and engineered my own exile. Was I better for it? Happier? More fulfilled?
. . . No. Absolutely not.
“Aly?” Alaric had leaned in again, his voice solicitous and gentle. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Sorry, where’s the bathroom?” I asked Renee, not wanting to answer Alaric with a lie.
Renee, instantly helpful, pointed down the hall. “First door on the left. This place even has a guest bathroom! It’s bigger than my apartment in Chicago.”
As I pushed away from the table, I heard Alaric say something, low and friendly. Renee and Quinton laughed.
I locked myself inside. From beyond the door, the distant hum of the breakfast table conversation continued, bright as ever.
As I stared into the mirror, I attempted to remember what I looked like—what it felt like—before I’d started treating every relationship like a hostile takeover bid and every act of good-will as either deficient or hypocritical or both.
How and why had I allowed myself to become so. . . miserly.