Metak za Šefa – A Bullet for A Boss

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Metak za Šefa

Filip Turković je bio zaista trn u oku svima koji su radili u dostavi pošte. Čak i šalterskim radnicama kojima nije bio šef. Nama je bio. U stvari, pre nego što je bilo šta bio i postao, prvo je došao iz unutrašnjosti. Neki su tvrdili da ga njegova porodica želi lansirati što dalje zbog njegovih „kvaliteta“, bez obzira na to što su važili za imućne domaćine. Što je u Srbiji danas retkost… Kako god poslali su sina u grad na studije o svom trošku u nekom od „mega – mega“ fakulteta. Usput su ga i zaposlili u pošti. I ne zadugo Filip je od običnog poštara preko noći postao šef poštara. Kakav je bio poštar, takav je bio i kao šef. Nesposoban, lenj i arogantan.

Krasile su ga sve osobine narodne poslovice „ Može čovek da ode iz sela – ali selo iz njega neće nikada“. Oblačio se neukusno, dolazeći svaki dan na posao kao da je krenuo na vašar u Rumi da prodaje svoju rakiju, ali ovoga puta brendiranu u podrumu uz pomoć nalepnica koje mu je neko napravio za 2 eura. Prema šalterskim radnicama, sa kojima smo do izlasaka na teren usko vezani,  što blizinom što zbog samog dela posla koji su obavljale za nas a sastojao se iz pripreme preporučenih pisama za isporuku, se ponašao kao neko ko je ujutro u zoru izašao iz kafane, pa sreo srednjoškolke koje su krenule u prvu smenu. Često im je nepristojno dobacivao, davao im nadimke kakve ni seljaci kravama ne daju – misleći valjda da je tako simpatičan i pun humora. Na sve to dodavao je pomalo i gestikulacije, tako da je njegov govor tela govorio sam za sebe. Impotentan da kao muškarac priđe ženi koja mu se dopada on je to činio sa tolikom dozom skrnavluka jer mu je osećaj moći, kao šefa dostave hranio ego i bezuspešno lečio komplekse. A njih je naravno imao mnogo…

Prema poštarima se odnosio kao Dr.Džekil i mister Hajd. Pošto je i sam bio poštar, ali mlađe generacije, što u pošti ipak ima nekog značaja – jer ekipa ljudi koja zajedno radi kao mala armija ima jedan nepisan kodeks ponašanja i nevidljivu hijerarhiju. Tako da je od „ Matori, aj nekako, da sredimo ovo – ono, znaš…“ – muljavih priča u kojima je pokušavao sa svakim da bude dobar, znao da isto tako zabija noževe u leđa istima time što nije znao svoj posao niti je bio ikada spreman za tako nešto pa je neretko njegova „organizovanost“ ličila na prvu liniju fronta sa vojnicima bez veze sa komandnim kadrom. Prebacujući „u poverenju“ krivicu između ljudi sa jednih na druge, uvek je bio razotkrivan u trenu i ismevan javno. Neorganizovani haos koji se samo uvećavao je isto tako uvećavao i sam pokušavajući da se valjda dokaže ili opravda onima koji su ga na tu poziciju smestili, (jer među poštarima ima nekoliko ljudi sa diplomama državnih fakulteta i viših škola), tretirajući iste te ljude kao da su njegovo privatno vlasništvo. Sve to je činilo da malo –malo neko krene da mu preti, pa se onda on izvinjava, da mu ljudi otvoreno govore da izađe napolje iz prostorije kada u najnapetijim situacijama pod pritiskom posla, on sav nalickan smrdeći na parfem, jer bože moj, kako on da zna koliko je potrebno dezodoransa i parfema da čovek stavi na sebe a da to deluje prijatno, uleti u prostoriju i hodajući između stolova viče kao podoficir koji je sa akademije sišao pravo među ljude koji su u rovu duže nego što je on proveo na istoj: „ Ajmo ljudi! Trpajte što više! Da pucaju torbe! Šta ne možeš? Ma šta je to za tebe da odneseš to su samo dve – tri kutije… Ajmo! Trpaj! Trpaj, da sve puca…“.  Nažalost – pucali su samo živci mojih kolega i mene.

Tako je bilo i tog meseca u vreme deljenja računa. Kao i uvek  šlihteri su bili puni. Vreće za depoe su bile pune a mi smo radili istim tempom ne obraćajući pažnju ni na njega ni na njegove pretnje kojima je pokušavao da ustoliči svoj nikada priznati autoritet.

Jednog jutra je kao i obično došla ekipa iz GPC-a (glavnog prijemnog centra), u kojoj su bili Žare i Milence. Oni su imali posao sa skraćenim radnim vremenom zbog zdravstvenih problema i on se sastojao od toga da poštarima vreće za depoe odnesu na njihove lokacije. Žare je bio miran lik, retkih zuba ali večito nasmejan i pred penzijom. Milence je bio na teškim antidepresivima, sa vijetnamskim sindromom zbog godina provedenih u ratu sa Hrvatskom i Bosnom ’90. – tih. Usput je pio „kao smuk“, ali ga je sve to činilo „iznivelisanim” i nikada nije pravio probleme. Čak, većina ljudi nije ni znala za njegove probleme, koji su bili takvi da bi u svakoj iole normalnoj zemlji, takvog čoveka smestili u penziju bez obzira na godine radnog staža i starosti. On je već bio odavno duhovno osakaćen, a za to još nisu izmislili protezu.

Tog dana svađa između Milenceta, Žareta i Filipa je izbila kada im je dotični naredio da zbog manjka ljudi zamene čoveka koji je radio kao dostavljač na jednom od reona. Žare je samo reko da mu ne pada na pamet da to radi i da ga ne zanimaju posledice kojima mu je Filip pretio. Ali, Milence je otvoreno oterao dotičnog u očin i on onako nemoćan i bez imalo shvatanja ljudske psihologije je zaigrao na kartu još većeg zastrašivanja. A kako zastrašiti čoveka koji je nekoliko godina proveo po najvećim ratištima u jednom od najkrvavijih bratoubilačkih ratova na Balkanu krajem 20. veka ? Zaista ne znam.

Svađa je eskalirala tako što je Filip prvo zvao upravnika Pošte pa potom i neke sive eminencije koje su reagovale tako da su Žare i Milence dobili putni nalog da taj posao ovoga puta moraju da urade – hteli to oni ili ne. Milence je tada počeo da „puca po šavovima“. Prvo ih je sve izvređao, a onda kada su mu rekli da će dobiti dreger da duva, bez obzira što su znali da je ionako pijan i drogiran lekovima svaki dan, umesto da pokažu malo ljudskosti, poneli su se prema njemu kao prema psu koji je dobio besnilo. Međutim ovaj „pas“ nije dobio klasično besnilo. On je samo zaiskrio i u određenom momentu odbivši da duva u dreger napustio radno mesto. Mi smo izašli na teren komentarišući da će jednog dana neko zaista „pući“ i ući opasan dinamitom u Poštu kao mudžahedin. Svima nam je smetalo kako su se poneli prema njemu jer smo delili istu muku, ali samo što se tiče posla. Ipak koliko god da se nismo slagali i razlikovali u ličnim stavovima i interesima, spajao nas je posao i solidarnost prema kolegi, bar tu, na poslu.

Kada sam se posle celog dana posla izmrcvaren vratio sa terena, sa vrata glavnog ulaza sam shvatio da nešto nije u redu. Prvi put su 2 čuvara šetali levo desno ispred osmatrajući ljude i radili svoj posao isuviše revnosno. A onda ušavši unutra je usledilo i objašnjenje. Otišavši sa posla, u ko zna kakvom duševnom stanju, ali i pod dejstvom barbiturata i alkohola, Milence je prvo poslao jedan SMS direktoru pošte, pa upravniku i na kraju šefu. Poruka je bila zlokobna i nije slutila ni na šta dobro… „ Pacovi su krenuli da napuštaju brod…“. Ispostavilo se da sms- ovi koje im je poslao nisu bili samo obična pretnja, po nekim kolegama, koji su se zatekli tu, Milence se ušetao u poštu sa pištoljem. Otišao do diretkora koga nije pronašao, ali sekretarica koja ga je videla se paralisala od straha i dok je pozvala obezbeđenje koje je do drugog sprata dotrčalo stepeništem, on se spustio liftom u prizemlje i uputio ka kancelariji upravnika. Ni tamo nikog. Što i nije tako iznenađujuće jer u vreme kada se to odigravalo, negde između 10 i 11 časova pre podne pola i više radnika administrativnog dela Pošte ide po gradu da završi „svoje poslove“, jer su svoj zvanični posao već završili!

Na kraju je došao do prostorije u kojoj je bio smešten šef Filip sa ostalim kontrolorima. I dok ga je obezbeđenje uzaludno tražilo po dvanestospratnici, on je zatekao samo jednog radnika na sortiranju pisama za poštu koja je išla u Poštine kutije za fahove, (iznajmljeni mali boksovi za poštu koji korisnik uz ugovor može da podiže kad njemu odgovara), pitao je dotičnog kolegu koji je ostao skamenjen videvši ga onako smirenog sa pištoljem u ruci „ Jel ovaj tu negde? “ , misleći pri tom na šefa Filipa. Kad je dobio negativan odgovor, repetirao je pištolj a metak koji je bio već u cevi je izleteo i moglo se čuti kako mesingana čaura odskače i pravi specifičan zvuk po pločicama. Milence se lagano sagnuo, podigao metak, prišao stolu vajnog nam „Šefa“, i stavio ga uspravno. Zatim se okrenuo ka kolegi i rekao mu: „ Poruči ovom mamlazu da ću kada ga sretnem, sledeći da mu uručim lično, bez potpisa…“ – Zatim se mirno išetao na zadnji ulaz i otišao u kafanu preko puta da popije svoj doručak, ostavljajući prestravljenog kolegu iza sebe.

Epilog: Nakon što je stvar dojavljena policiji, ovi su došli, bespotrebno pravili cirkus uzimajući otiske, kao da kamere ne rade i svedoci ne postoje, a zatim je jedan od kontrolora nazvao Milenceta pokušavajući da spreči tragediju i smireno ga ljudski pitao da li je svestan šta se događa i gde se nalazi. Milence se predao bez opiranja – a pušten je ujutro iz policije jer je ustanovljeno da u momentu kada je imao tendeciju da liši života nekoliko ljudi – nije bio uravnotežen i pri čistoj svesti. Suspendovan je. I To je bilo sve. Filip se malo smirio posle toga ali su ga zato nekoliko meseci nakon toga suspendovali ne zbog nedoličnog ponašanja prema koleginicama i kolegama, mobinga kojim su mu manje više svi pretili, već zbog otuđivanja poštanske imovine. Naime čovek je na primopredaji pošte u ranim jutarnjim časovima pod izgovorom kontrole , sklanjao sa strane pisma iz inostranstva zbog kojih smo neretko manje više svi bili sumljivi i praćeni. Ali… cvrc.

Međutim priča se tu ne zaustavlja. Sada neki drugi Filipi Turkovići, ali ovog puta poučeni iskustvom iza debele zaleđine i dalje „turiraju“ poštare da rade kao feudalni kmetovi i kao što onomad neko reče, mislim da je bio Zolika…  

,, Neko će jednog dana ući u ovu zgradu ujutro, opasan eksplozivom..“

A Bullet for A Boss

Filip Turković was really a thorn in the eye of everyone who worked in a mail delivery. Even to the women who worked at the counter and to whom he was not a boss. He was to us. As a matter of fact, before he even became anybody, he came from a province. Some claimed that his family wanted to launch him as far away as possible because of his „qualities“, although they were considered for wealthy householders. Which is rare in Serbia today… Anyhow they’ve sent their son to study in the city at their own expense, to some of those „mega-mega“ private universities. Along the way they found him a job at the Post office. And not for long, Filip became from a postman a postmen manager, overnight. The way he worked as a postman, he worked as a boss. Incompetent, lazy and arrogant.

He was adorned with all those characteristics of that folk proverb „A man can leave the village, but village can never leave a man“. He was frump, coming to work everyday like he was going to the fair in Ruma to sell his brandy, but this time branded in a cellar by stickers made for 2 euros. To the counter workers, to whom we are closely bonded until we leave to our district, some because we are situated next to each other, some because of the work they do for us, which is preparing registered letters for delivery, he behaved like someone who left the bar early in the morning and then met, on his way a bunch of school girls. Often he rudely called them out, gave them nicknames, farmers wouldn’t give to their cows-thinking, I guess, he was congenial and full of humor. On top of that he added a bit of gestures, so his body language spoke for itself. Impotent to aproach a woman he likes, as a man, he did it with such amount of desecration, because his sense of power as a delivery manager fed his ego and hopelessly cured his complexes. Which he had a lot, of course…

With the postmen he acted as Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde. Because he himself was a postman of younger generation, which in Post office still had some significance- because a team of people who works together as a little army has one unwritten code of conduct and invisible hierarchy. Meaning that he went from muddy stories such as „ Hey pal, let’s  somehow cosolidate this or that, you know…“ trying to be a good guy with everyone, to sticking a knife up the back to the same ones he was „good“ with, by not knowing his job he was never ready for, so his organization looked like the first line of battle field with soldiers who lost contact with a commanding officers. Tossing guilt, „in confidence“, from one man to another, he was always exposed in a moment and publicly ridiculed. Unorganized chaos that was getting bigger each day, he enlarged trying to prove and justify himself to those who put him in that position. Because amongst postmen there are people with state college and university degrees, treating that same people like they are his own private property. All that led to, every once in a while, threats sent to „his address“ which made him apologize; to be openly thrown out of the room when  in a most tense situations under the preassure from the work, he, all buckish and stinking of the perfume (because, god forbid how would he know how much of the deodorant and perfume should he put on to be pleasant) stomps into the room and starts to walk between desks shouting as a corporal, who straight from the Academy came down to the trench amongst people who are there longer than the time he spent at the aforesaid Academy:“Let’s go people! Tuck in as much as you can! Let the bag burst! What is that you can not do? What is that for you? That’s only two-three boxes! Com’n! Tuck! Tuck, let it burst!…“ Unfortunately all that was bursting were my peers and my own nerves.

It was like that and that month at the bill delivery period. As always, shelves with sorted mail were full. As were the bags for depots. We were working at full speed, not paying attention to him or his threats with which he was trying to enthrone his never accepted authority.

One morning, the crew from the Main reception centre came, as usuall, in which there were Žare and Milence. They had jobs with shorter work time because of their health issues and it consisted of taking tha bags to postmen’s depots locations. Žare was a calm guy, with rare teeth, always smiling and waiting his retirement. Milence was on a heavy anti-depressants, with Vietnam syndrome because of the years spent in wars with Croatia and Bosnia in nineties. Along that, he was a heavy drinker, but all that made him „levelled“ and he never caused any troubles. Most of the people didn’t even know about his problems, which were that big that he would, in any decent country, be retired no matter how old he is, or for how long had he worked. His soul was crippled so long ago and noone invented a prosthetic for soul, yet.

That day an argument broke out when respective ordered them to fill in for a delivery man in one of the districts. Žare only said that there is no way he is going to do that no matter the cosequences Filip was threatening him with. And Milence openly sent him to hell. But respective, being powerless and with no understanding of human psychology played on a card of even bigger intimidation. And how do you scare a person who spent  years on the biggest battlefields in one of the bloodiest brother killing wars in Balkans at the end of the twentieth century? I really don’t know.

The argument escalated with Filip calling the prefect of the Post office and then some grey eminences, who reacted in a manner that Žare and Milence got themselves an itinerary ordering them to do the work this time wanting it or not. Milence exploded with rage. When he started insulting all of them, they told him he is going to blow in an alko-tester, even though they knew he was drunk and on medication every single day, instead of showing some humanity towards him, they behaved like he was a dog with rabies. His eyes just sparked and in a moment he refused to blow in a tester and left work. We left for our districts, commenting on the way that one day somebody will really snap and enter the Post office wrapped in dinamyte likemujahedin. We were all bothered with how they treated him, because we all share a common agony, but only concerning work. Still however much we were different in personal opinions and interests, we were connected by work and solidarity towards a fellow coworker, at least here at work.

When I came back exhausted from my district, after a whole day’s work, at the main entrance I realized something is wrong. For the first time, both security guards were walking back and forth scrutinizing people, too eagerly  doing their job. And then as soon as I walked in, an explanation came through. Leaving the work in who knows what mental state, but also under the influence of barbiturates and alcohol, Milence first sent one sms to the director of the Post, then to the prefect and lastly to the manager. The message was sinister and it didn’t abode anything good… „Rats had started to leave the ship“… It turned out that the messages he sent to them were not a mere threat. By claims of some of my colleagues who were there, Milence walked in with the gun. He went to the director whom he didn’t find, but the secretary who was there paralized in fear called the security. While they ran up to the second floor, Milence came down to the ground floor by the elevator and walked to the prefect’s office. Noone there either. Which is not so surprising, because at the time when that was taking place, somewhere around 10 and 11am, more than half of the administrative workers of the Post goes around the town finishing their „private bussiness“, because they have already finished their official one.

At the end he came to the room where Filip and other controllers are situated. And while security unsuccessfully searched for him through the 12 floor building, he found only one worker sorting the mail for the PO boxes (rented little boxes for mail, which user can with the contract pick up whenever it suits him or her), he asked the above mentioned worker, who was petrified seeing him so calm with the gun in his hand:“Is he here somewhere?“, meaning boss Filip. When he got a negative response, he cocked a gun and a bullet which was already in the barrel flew outside and you could hear a brass shell making a specific sound on the ceramic tiles. Milence slowly bends over and pickes up a bullet, comes to the desk of our make-believe „Boss“ and puts it upwards. Hereupon he turnes around to the colleague and says: “Send word to this jerk, that when I see him again, I will deliver the next one personally, no signature required…“ Afterwards, he walked out peacefully through the back door and went to the bar across the street to drink his breakfast, leaving a terrified coworker behind.

Epilogue: After the police was notified about the matter, they came, made circus with no real reason taking finger prints, like cameras are not working and witnesses are not existing and then one of the controllers called Milence trying to prevent the tragedy and calmly asked him is he aware what is going on and where he is at. Milence gave himself up without resistance- he was realesed from the custody in the morning , because it was established that at the moment when he had tendencies to unlive couple of the people, he was not balanced and in clear consciousness. He was suspended. And that was it.

Filip eased the grip after that. But a few months after the incident he was also suspended, but not because of misconduct towards coworkers, mobbing for which more-less everybody threatened they will sue him, but because of alienation of postal property. That is to say, a man was at the handover in the early morning hours, with the excuse of controlling the mail, putting away letters from abroad, for which we were all often suspected and tracked. But… it came back right to his face.

Nonetheless, story doesn’t end here. At present some other Filip Turkovićs, but this time taught by experience, behind thick background are drilling postmen to work like feudal serfs and like someone once said and I think it was Zoli:

„Someone will walk into this building one morning wrapped in explosives…“