Chicken Little was one of my most despised types of co-worker: the type that figures they can take a job that depends on constant computer use, claim they’re “not good at that stuff” and get paid to sip coffee all day. Because why should you learn anything new just to cash a paycheck, am I right?
Anyway, she got her name because everything was a crisis. She didn’t recognize her new homepage? A crisis. Didn’t know how to use a Word template? Total meltdown. I cannot count the number of times she stood in my doorway, halfway between screaming and tears, saying “I just don’t know what to DO!”
Gee, maybe if you consistently don’t know what to do at work, that’s a sign you should maybe do something else? Far away from me?
So, there were two printers in our part of the office. The main, industrial printer, which everyone shared, and a small laser printer which was connected to Chicken Little’s PC. This printer existed so that she could print confidential stuff without having to let it sit in a public printer, and allowed her to print onto specialty papers without fussing with the large paper trays. It was not, however, SOLELY her printer, and a few people such as myself mapped to it as a backup.
Chicken Little, however, always had it in her head that this printer was hers and hers alone, and would print off batches of address labels, leaving the rest still in the tray. This would mean if I printed a report, I’d walk to her desk (knowing full well she wasn’t there and therefore not using her printer) and find it had been printed on address labels. This would not happen once or twice, but in fact became a pattern. And when she would discover the wasted labels, she would act surprised.
It got to the point where I would hear her talking with her co-workers at the other end of the building, decide to use her printer, and as soon as she heard the paper churn through, she’d be literally RUNNING down the hall (dress and heels, no less) screaming “NO NO NO WAAAAIIITTTT!!!!” as if she expected the printer to listen to her. Who knows, maybe she did? And without even getting up, I knew I needed to (again) go change the paper back because she’d left the good stuff in the paper tray.
It was maybe six months before it was decided that Chicken Little needed to find another henhouse.