Here is an English translation of a memo I received from one of my staff:
"Dear Boss,
The files have all been printed and arranged in alphabetical order. I've put 350 of them in boxes that will be sent to the warehouse. As for the test scores, I've put them on an Excel spreadsheet and I should be finished by the last day of the month. That will be the last day I work for you, too, as I will resign that day.
Cheers,
Rit."
Talk about burying the lead.
Rit is an administrative assistant at my language school. He's been working with me for five months. In Thailand when you hire somebody, they get four months probation during which they can be let go at any time.
Once that four months is up, everything changes. This is crucial because probation is really your only shot at letting staff go with minimal damage. After that it's almost impossible to sack them. When you do, you are hit with giant severance payments.
Thai labour laws are a bit of a minefield. The Labour Court always sides with the employee too. For this reason, I am a little ruthless when it comes to staff on probation; the tiniest hint of transgression or character flaw and they're out. In my company there is room only for one temperamental diva with character flaws, if you get my drift.
Rit is not temperamental, and his character flaws fall well within the acceptable range on the bell curve. He is hard-working, meticulous and trustworthy.
There is just one problem.
"Rit's got a problem travelling to and from work," my office manager explained.
"Don't we all?"
"He sent you a Line message explaining his situation."
So that's what that lengthy tome was about! I did get an extremely long message from Rit, but it ran on way too long. I assumed it was further instructions about the spreadsheet. Thank God Rit didn't choose to be a journalist. Not only does he bury the lead, he commits the cardinal sin of being verbose.
"Send him in to see me," I ordered, trying not to sound like a too much of a diva.
Rit recently graduated with a Bachelor's in something I can't remember. I'm sure I read it on his CV during his job interview. He's a skinny, almost goth-like young man with a fetish for all things Korean. His hair is spiky, he likes to wear dark clothes and often comes to work with a little too much white foundation on his face.
"You probably know why I want to see you," I said when he came in. "Why are you leaving?"
"Boss, didn't you read my Line?"
"Way too long. Just tell me now."
And Rit launched into his story. He lives in an apartment deep in a soi off Lat Phrao Road. Each morning he catches a bus to the canal ferry stop. From there, he takes the ferry to Klong Toey, where he must catch a bus down Rama IV to get to our office at the Channel 3 building.
"It takes a long, long time and it's very expensive," he said mournfully, dabbing at his eyes, though I suspect that was more about clearing away chunks of foundation than sorrow at his plight.
Rit explained that by the end of the month, when he subtracted his travelling expenses and rent, he had nothing left of his 16,000 baht salary. Just a little for food. No wonder the kid is so rakish.
The answer was simple.
"Move here to Rama IV," I said. "Seriously. You save all that time and money, and it's not such a bad area."
Rit closed his eyes and raised his arms into an X position.
"I can't move. I have a cat and I share a room with my friend."
I started on the cat first.
"Moving is only temporarily stressful for cats," I explained. "They soon get used to a new place. Just find an old box, shove it in, tape it up and call a cab. Punch some holes in the side so it can breathe. In an hour, you're at your new apartment."
Now Rit's eyes were wide with mortification. "You're joking, aren't you? I could never do that."
I wanted to give Rit a lecture on pushing your limits, but it wasn't the right time. Instead, I moved on to the second obstacle preventing his move.
"This friend of yours. Is he… your… you know…"
"He's my friend, that's all," said Rit. "He and I have shared a room for a year. He works in Min Buri and I work here. Our apartment in Lat Phrao is half way for both of us. It wouldn't be fair to move all the way here."
He took a deep breath. "There is one other thing."
Here we go.
"You told me after four months' probation you would assess my situation, and give me a raise. It's been five months now."
Ah. Got me there.
Now I was stuck. I knew Rit had told our office manager, confidentially, that he needed an extra 3,000 baht to survive. That sort of pay increase was untenable. I could give him an extra 10%, but any more than that would result in a mutiny by the rest of the staff.
In Thailand, salaries are never secrets. Everybody knows exactly how much everyone else is making. For Rit to jump in pay almost 20% was impossible. Still, I didn't want to lose him. I just lost two key staff last month right at a crucial time thanks to family commitments.
"Please… just move. I'll give you a day off to move with full pay," I said. "You can take the company car. I'll even throw in a cardboard box for the cat."
Rit kept shaking his head.
"I can't," he said.
"I'll increase your salary 10%."
"Boss, I love working here. But I just don't get enough money to survive. I'm really sorry."
That afternoon my operations manager poked her head around the door. "I have an idea," she said.
As a full-time member of staff, Rit was entitled to a travel allowance. He could receive his 10% salary increase, then receive an additional 1,500 baht monthly travel allowance, thus solving his financial difficulties thanks to choosing to live in Nakhon Boondocks for the sake of an oversensitive cat and alleged platonic flatmate.
Plus his salary would jump 20% without any of the other staff developing feelings of man sai, that unique Thai emotion which is a cross between envy and wanting to blow somebody's brains out. What a clever managing director I am to think that up!
When Rit heard the news, he broke into a smile that caused a mini-avalanche of impacted foundation around his mouth.
"Thank you," he said, with a wai. "You're the best." That was two weeks ago.
I'd almost forgotten about the incident until yesterday when my office manager came in with a leave form in her hand.
"Rit wants to take Friday off," she said.
"Why?" I asked.
"He's found a studio apartment on Rama IV. He wants to move his stuff over on Friday. And something about you promising him the company car?"
