Volunteering my time, selling my soul

Please note that the following content is 100% true, not exaggerated, stylized, or otherwise altered to make for more entertaining reading.

Last Friday, my noble employer organized a collective effort to give back to the communities across the U.S. by volunteering its employees’ time to various causes. Activities in which one could partake ranged from planting flowers and painting schools to spending time with "geries" (as my colleague lovingly refers to the mature/geriatric population) and youths at risk. I selfishly selected a low-impact weeding/planting activity close to Central Park .

Weeding was actually very enjoyable, particularly because I don’t get to see the light of day much during the week, so I gratefully absorbed every ray of sunshine and took special pride in wearing my casual pants. This exercise required no skills; I was, however, reminded of how limited my vocabulary is, as I didn’t recognize at least half of the names for the tools I was supposed to use. Rather than stressing over my illiteracy, I consoled myself with the thought that I don’t know the names of the tools in Russian either (unless they happen to have the same names as the tools I played with in the sandbox as a kid). This is completely illogical, of course, but nothing was going to ruin my day of “giving back”… that is, until Frank showed up.

Now, picture this: A bunch of relatively young adults outfitted in the same light blue t-shirts with the company’s logo prominently displayed across the chest and company’s mission across the back, engaging in quiet small talk as they focus on pulling some dainty green plants. Out comes… dun dun dun duuuun (my impression of dramatic music effects; ok, so I guess I am embellishing a bit after all): Frank! Frank is wearing khaki shorts, tube socks, a hat, and most importantly, a white t-shirt with the company logo to stand out from the troops as a true commander-in-chief. Frank’s smile is so phony, I can sense it with my back to him. He exudes “leadership.” Frank is followed by a photographer/videographer and a diligent note-taking girl. To my horror, Frank and his crew make a beeline for my little plot.

Frank: Hi, I am Frank! – he extends his hand to shake mine, which is covered in two sets of gloves, gardening and latex. Frank doesn’t care to give his last name or explain who he is. This fictitious familiarity is but a thin veil of disguise for his uncontainable cockiness. He expects us to recognize and acknowledge his greatness, and I, no doubt, disappoint Frank with my ignorance.
Me: Hi… Excuse me a moment, I need to take off my gloves.
Frank: Oh, you don’t have to…
Me: Oh, OK - my gardening glove is already off, I now have the latex one on only, I extend my hand.
Frank: That’s disgusting! Ahahaha!
Co-Worker: Wow, you have an entire camera crew following you around!
Frank: Oh yes, when you get to be as important as I am, you get your personal biographer documenting your every step – he pretends to joke, but means every word.

This dumb exchange is followed by some further mind-numbing exclamations from Frank, who asks my co-worker and me to pose for a few happy pictures. We are then instructed to go up to the note-taking girl to give her our names. If we are lucky, our pictures will be featured in the company newsletter, acknowledging our significant contributions to the well-being of our community. As we get stand on line to give our names, Frank marches onto my plot to pose for solo pictures as he pretends to pull some weeds.

In my one too many years in corporate America , I’ve seen more dishonesty and hypocrisy than I can recall on a page. And though Frank’s shameless insincerity does not surprise me, it still makes me sick to my stomach. Frank, ironically, is anything but frank (you knew that was coming, right?), but in a way, his name couldn’t fit him better. He did, by the way, make it to the company newsletter with a group of other volunteers, who, unlike me, have photogenic faces and company spirit.