"It's a condom," he said

Over the last year or so, I've heard several tales from Irvine Valley College employees about Wayne Ward, the Director of Facilities and Maintenance. Most of these stories have come from those who work with or under the Waynester.

Wayne runs a crew of maybe thirty employees, including three on the Administrative Staff, thirteen in the Custodial Department, five in the Grounds Department, and eight in the Maintenance Department. (See IVC Facilities and Maintenance.)

Those who work with Wayne—and even those like me who observe him only occasionally or from afar—are quickly left with the impression that the fellow has a very high opinion of himself and of his station in life. This can be gleaned from where he parks his car—anywhere he damn well pleases, evidently (see Wayne's World)—and even from his car's vanity plates, which say, "ALL WARD."

I've asked some of his crew for a brief description of Wayne. One told me, "He's the kind of guy who'll say, 'I don't come here to make friends; I come here to do a job.' —And, sure enough, he doesn't make any friends, not with us."

Another employee said simply, "Wayne thinks he owns the college. The guy's got a real attitude."

Then there's the issue of Wayne's alleged unprofessionalism. Workers have told me that Wayne sometimes issues orders that plainly violate rules, such as limitations imposed by the workers' contract. When someone calls him on these violations, Wayne doesn't take it well. "Wayne doesn't like it when we stick up for ourselves," says one employee. "He really hates that."

"Plus, when you make him look bad, he is liable to retaliate against you."

But does he at least get the job done? Certainly, one hears stories about Wayne's incompetence, and, though it is often difficult for those on the outside to determine these stories' validity, it is obvious to anyone with eyes to see that maintenance at IVC isn’t exactly Job 1. For instance, plainly, some rooms aren’t cleaned on any schedule. Instead, they are cleaned only when someone finally complains that they have become hellish shitholes.

And then there are the bathrooms. They're pretty important. You'd think that Wayne would make a point of getting them cleaned and ready for Monday morning, the start of the school week. Not so. Often, over the weekend, organizations use some of the facilities, including bathrooms, and, as a result, the bathrooms are trashed, sometimes appallingly so. Typically, when Monday morning arrives, they're still trashed: toilets are unflushed, towels are strewn, and so on. (This is my own observation—I teach at 8:00 a.m. on Mondays.)

There have been several incidents bringing faculty directly into Wayne's sphere, and these have generally left a very poor impression of him. The recent "unfinished temporaries" episode comes to mind. (See Abject finger-pointage.) That time, somebody dropped the ball bigtime. But Wayne didn't take responsibility. (Neither did Roquemore. It was pretty frustrating.)

RECENTLY, a custodian described a remarkable Wardian incident.

Evidently, a month ago, in the late morning, Wayne called in the day custodians for a meeting. The workers arrived at the designated time and then waited for their boss. Finally, Wayne showed up. He tossed a condom onto the table.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s a condom,” said one worker.

Angry, Wayne demanded to know which of the custodians left a “wet condom” on a table and a second, still-packaged condom in groundskeeper S's locker. That's what the meeting was about. These mystery condoms.

Wayne commenced cursing. He raised his voice. More than once.

The guy who told me this story insists that the custodians—at least those present—had nothing to do with the mystery condoms. Indeed, he says, they can provide proof that they were not even present when the condom incident occurred.

During the meeting, the custodians asked about their accuser. Wayne would not identify or produce him/her. Wayne then announced that, if he finds out which custodian left the condoms, he would personally see to it that he is fired. Wayne would personally escort him "out."

But why, asked the custodians, are they being singled out for accusations? What about the groundskeepers or the maintenance workers or others who could have condomized Mr. S's locker?

The custodians were offended. They felt that they were being accused of something that they had not done, and that, as a result of the accusation, their jobs were now threatened.

Later, they began to think: if Wayne gets away with this, he can do anything to us.


The custodians decided to pursue an official “incident report” (see above), which is essentially a formal complaint. It involves official channels and a defined process. Good.

They submitted the IR paperwork and then waited. After a few days, they called HR and, to their surprise, they were told that the IR document had not arrived. So they submitted the paperwork again, and, this time, they took steps to insure that it would arrive at HR.

But another problem arose. The custodians had submitted their complaint. But then they were told that they would never learn the results of the complaint. For instance, if, as a result of the IR, Wayne is disciplined or cited for misconduct, the custodians who made the complaint—and who still fear what Wayne might do to them—will not be told about that!

Naturally, the custodians feel that the situation is unacceptable.

What do YOU think?