The entrance was dramatic.
Mark swept into my office like a diva would sweep onto a stage, only there as no spotlight to herald his entrance, and Mark is no diva, other than in his own bathroom and during office hours.
There was an expression of profound sadness on his face as he took the liberty of sitting across the desk from me. His mouth was in the shape of a downward horseshoe. I knew things were serious, as my young staff member had applied an extra layer of foundation on his face.
"Boss … I have something to tell you," he said. Pause. "Something … shocking."
He wiped an errant hair away from his fringe. He took a deep breath, as his eyebrows parted to allow his eyes to soar up to the ceiling.
"What I want to say to you is this. I feel so sad to say it … but –"
"You got a new job starting next month selling cosmetics," I blurted out, turning back to the work at hand on my screen.
This deflated my staff member. He'd been building up this dramatic crescendo to its inevitable climax and I just pulled the rug right out from under him. I'm the guy who posts the twist ending to the movie without SPOILER ALERT at the top of the post.
"You know already?"
"I know," I said.
In a Thai office, there are two things you can absolutely depend on -- no secrets, and absolutely no straight answers. My HR head told me two days ago Mark would be resigning at the end of this month, after he'd gone to see her and swore her to secrecy. To give my HR credit, she did tell me to register shock upon hearing the news, but I wasn't having any of that.
"I love working here, boss, but I really love cosmetics, and so this new job is a dream job," he said. "It's in Central Embassy. Very hi-so, you know? I'll finish at the end of this month, then start at the new place on the 15th of October. That gives me two weeks to … heal."
I didn't hear rightly.
"To what?" I asked.
"To heal," he repeated, in English.
Is that what young people do these days, is it? Is this the mot du jour for Thai millennials? "Suffer" has finally been laid to rest, has it?
Heal from what? In Mark's case, certainly not hard work.
Mark's work hours are 9am to 5.30pm and he arrives around 9.30am. The first 15 minutes of his day are busy, as it's spent buying a cup of bubble tea from the shop in the lobby, which entails a trip downstairs and then back up again.
He then disappears into the bathroom to apply his make-up. After that there is a reflective period as he sits quietly on his smartphone checking on his friends via Instagram. Then it's TikTok, after which it's a Facebook sweep, a Twitter romp, a YouTube scan and finally a quick survey of nearby potential Grindr hookups.
This takes Mark to around 10.30am, and that's when he starts to attack his first pile of work. While working he has K-pop videos running on his iPad which command 40% of his attention. Before 11 he disappears for a cigarette break, and is back by 11.20 and works solidly through till noon for lunch. He's out to lunch the moment the second hand hits 12.00 -- Greenwich could set its clocks to it. When he returns at 1.30pm, it is much like a rinse and repeat of the morning before heading home around 4.45pm.
If this is something my precious Mark needs time from which to "heal", then God help him when he comes face to face with lofty perfume sales targets at upmarket shopping malls. What is it with resignations in Thailand? They're never straightforward affairs.
Foreign managers should be forewarned of this. I do not belong to that tattered line of tents in the farang camp that eschews working with Thais. I absolutely enjoy my Thai staff and you will hear no complaints from me -- other than in this column, of course -- but it does have to be said: When it comes to resigning, a snake couldn't be more slithering.
Take Nott, for example, my staff member who one Friday filled out the official resignation form, then disappeared off the face of the Earth.
Nott was rostered to work the following day but he was a no-show. A few days later when I did try to call him, there was a weird bleep-bleep-bleep sound at the end of the line.
I'd been blocked. Similarly, I'd been unfriended and blocked from his Facebook page.
Nott had made a clean getaway. But from what?
"No need to take it personally," said my HR lady. "He is just feeling kreng jai. About leaving."
There it is. That infernal phrase again. Kreng jai.
I had known Nott for 10 years. That is a long time to work with somebody -- and then he just ups and leaves on a Friday and blocks me by Monday? You only do that to scorned lovers, clingy relatives and friends who betray you -- I belonged to none of those three categories.
"He doesn't want to hurt your feelings after everything you have done for him," said my HR lady. "So don't be sad."
Then there was Pui, a sales staffer who came in tearfully to tell me she needed to go home to go work in the family business. In Thailand, "family business" generally means "the opposition", which is where she ended up the week after her farewell party that I paid for.
Recently one of my staff members, Yai, concocted this intricate story of a sick stepfather, a doting mother and having to run the farm for two months while they had to go away.
"But I'll be back in two months," he said in May. "Don't worry. I'll still be in contact with you via Line." That was the last I've ever seen or heard of him. He's working in Chon Buri full-time now.
I do understand the kreng jai thought process -- by resigning, Nott knew I'd be upset. Nott doesn't want to upset me. So the best way to avoid upsetting me is to quietly resign, then block my telephone number and Facebook access. In that way, I am spared the agony of having to listen to Nott announce his resignation, thus sparing me the upset of having to cope with his resignation.
The same with Pui. She knows I'll be sad and disappointed if she comes in and tells me she's leaving to work for the opposition. And Yai, I suspect, had had enough of working with us. He needed an escape hatch, and what better excuse than family illness?
In Thailand, these three are being considerate of my feelings. Is this really being considerate? I wonder if sparing my feelings is just the outer layer of a more inherent character trait -- cowardice.
I must hurry to say that this deceit is not restricted to Thais. It just happens a little more often here.
Nor do I level this accusation at Mark. At least he told me the truth. I thanked him for that, and told him how wonderful it was to make changes in our lives now and then, and wished him luck.
"But I will I need time to heal, too," I said.
Mark could sense I was pulling his leg.
"Really? Fifteen days like me?"
"Ten minutes. Now get back to your K-pop and leave me in peace."
