Every time work gets weird I think of this old joke. Its application gets broader and broader.
This guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, ‘Doc, my brother’s crazy; he thinks he’s a chicken.’ And the doctor says, ‘Well, why don’t you turn him in?’ The guy says, ‘I would, but I need the eggs.'” — Woody Allen, in Annie Hall
I’ve covered this territory before. This anecdote has so many facets. Is it existential? All I know is that when it’s a good day, I think of this joke. The day’s been rotten, this joke comes to mind.
But work didn’t get weird. Not really. Things have changed the last few weeks but not in the long term or even the middle. It’s the same. When you’re an employee for a while at one place you spot the rhythm. You can’t relax, oh no no no, but it’s a cycle, and you don’t seem to be on the wheel this time. Nice.
Bosses — I have been one but not now — know themselves that no one under them is perfect. You as manager know you’re not perfect, and you, too, hope your supervisors don’t catch on. But you need the eggs you’re gathering from your roost.
Whether in the middle or toward the bottom of a business’s hierarchy, we workers provide our superiors what they want. Few of my duties are what I can do best, or really enjoy doing, but that’s not important to them. It can’t be. That’s not the way the world works. I produce what they need. Eggs. Some colleagues do better than me, while others — thank God — a little worse. Yet when I forget my self-reassurances about the cycles in a workplace, I fret. Bosses are restless beings, because their bosses poke and prod and prattle. What are they seeing, though? Could they get more from me? My quality stays high, for the feedback’s instant. The rare deficiency is instantly corrected. So why a duck? Why not a chicken?
[Groucho: “Here is a viaduct leading over to the mainland.” Chico: “Why a duck? Why-a no chicken?” Groucho: “Well, I don’t know why-a no chicken. I’m a stranger here myself.” The Cocoanuts]
I am no spring chicken. The law of the barnyard will catch up.
What is the law of the barnyard? Its occupants have different jobs, the horses, the donkeys, the goats, the sheep, and the chickens. When you no longer can do your job, or the farmer decides he’d prefer a tractor or going to the store — then you’re put to pasture or in the pot, and not in a fun way.
Instead, think of Woody’s brother, in some tiny New York apartment they share. The brother is doing a job. When Woody’s around, the brother clucks and flaps his arms. When Woody’s away, the brother sneaks out and gets some eggs. Woody has eggs; the brother gets left alone. Win-win. Win?
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