Taking a Stand: I’m stuck being club president
I’m the kind of guy who wants a lofty position but not the responsibility which goes with the job.
I’ve always said my dream job would be Vice President of the United States or backup quarterback for the Tennessee Titans. In both cases, you have the title, the notoriety and the sweet paycheck, but you don’t have all the hassle of having to say “the buck stops here.” Instead, you can pass the buck one step further.
That’s one reason I like what I do here. Everyone knows me, I have a title, the pay admittedly isn’t the NFL league minimum, but, when push comes to shove I can always point the person to the editor’s door if they have a problem, thus invoking my buck-passing privilege.
Given my preference for the second-in-command status, it will be somewhat odd when I take over this summer as president of one of our local civic organizations. I’m not revealing the name of the club, which meets at noon in McMinnville to exchange ideas, since I would probably feel the wrath of my fellow members.
Anyway, I was offered the position last year by our present president. It took her a little talking, given my avoidance of anything having to do with work, but I eventually consented to be president-elect. Hey, I figured it would be a new and different challenge and a way for me to give back to the community. Plus, I could make all the club members call me El Presidente when I walked in to the meeting puffing a Cuban in my olive green revolutionary uniform.
Being asked to head a major civic organization was a great shot for my ego, at first, as I believed they had obviously, after much research, sought out the person they thought best suited the position. Of course, that was until I saw “the box.”
Let me explain “the box” contains all the records and paperwork the president is expected to keep up with. So, it was much to my alarm when I saw the past president bring in the box to her successor, a box which was big enough to conceal a body or something. Then, if that wasn’t enough, she pointed out she would go out and bring in the other two large boxes which accompany the first box. I think she was likely unloading them with a fork lift.
With the specter of my regime only months away, it became time recently for me to look for who will follow me in the president’s chair. Like had happened to me, I figured I would find the person most qualified for the job and they would quickly consent to be my successor. Wrong!
It was while looking for my successor, I deduced how I came to be president-elect. It was quite simple actually, my name begins with “S.” I fully believe the president likely exhausted the 17 other letters of the alphabet before hitting on someone, namely me, to take the job. I now feel her pain.
My fellow club members are avoiding me now like I’m a leper, knowing I’m looking for a president-elect, or more clearly, someone to inherit “the box.” Word has already gotten around so that many members have a prepared written statement declining the position. Pretty soon they’ll probably just refer me to their attorneys for comment. It’s become a game of tag-you’re-it, with me being the present “it” in the equation.
I’m thinking my first act as president may be to host a raffle where the winner gets “the box” and the title which goes with the bearer of the box, in this case, that of president. Otherwise, I may be “it” for a really long time until I have to buy a larger house just to accommodate the ever-growing box.
(Duane Sherrill is a reporter for the Standard. He can be reached at 473-2191 or by e-mail at [email protected].)