As we now know because people have been studying such things for a couple of decades, in any large office we can expect to find a number of disturbed humans per one hundred of the species.
Among the one hundred we might find at least one serious narcissist, a psychopath, a sociopath, a pathological liar, an incurable bully and a sexual predator.
I once worked in a large office in the middle of the Big Swirl, Perth, where the bully was the easiest to find and I baited him at every opportunity, but this was not enough, as he continued to intimidate friends of mine, mainly women.
One day, with my pulse racing, I confronted him as he sat behind his desk. When I say confront, I mean with pumped body and steel-tight mouth, and let him know in very clear and certain terms, that I would no longer tolerate his behaviour in my presence.
What I did – which I would never recommend to others – was run full pelt at his desk, put my hands on it, and launch my feet at his face.
He ducked out of the way, which was lucky, for both of us, for if my feet had landed where they were aimed, he would have suffered serious injury and I would have been sacked and charged with assault.
I never saw him again. He avoided me like the plague.
Hard to imagine, I know, but such folk as those on the above list still exist in large, and small, workplaces today and they often flourish because companies, corporations, institutions and departments encourage them, believing them to be crucial to their success.
And others, those who excuse such behaviour, or deny it, enable it.
This is dysfunctional thinking and always ends badly. As we know too well.
Such behaviour should be confronted whenever it occurs.
The following is an excerpt from Boy on a Wire, my first in the Young Boy’s Journey to man trilogy, published by Fremantle Press.
The third novel, Return Ticket, was released last year.
To be fair, she always looks harried and nervous the closer we get to Christmas because that means the annual Rotary Club Christmas party and the Arthur Collins kiss. Arty Collins is a big fat local butcher and[W1] fat and the local butcher and every Christmas he gets drunk at the Rotary Christmas party and insists on kissing every wife of every Rotarian except his own. It is an ugly sight: the fat drunken ugly bastard approaching with his greasy lips poised ready to suck saliva from every female mouth in the town hall. Mum is in a state every December before the Arty Collins attack.
…. Don’t let him, Mum. Walk away.
I can’t, darling, he’s a Rotarian. And he kisses all the others. I can’t stop him. It’s a tradition.
Is it in the Rotary Code of Ethics, that framed thing Dad has on his desk? Does it say: All Rotary wives must allow Arthur Collins to slobber on them every Christmas?
Mum almost laughs.
Have you told Dad?
He knows I don’t like it. Don’t say anything about it. It’s not worth making a fuss.