Bitter Is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass, Or, Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office : A Memoir (5 page)

I said, “I bet you’re having so much fun right now that you don’t want to stop.” He laughed and splashed some more, this time speckling the natty tortoiseshell Ray•Bans that I’d swiped off Todd’s dresser earlier that day.

I glanced at my cheap Timex fitted with a grosgrain watchband. I needed to get that brat out of the pool tout de suite if I was going to tackle the sink full of dishes. I was counting on Mrs. Bedlamski’s tip. The club pro at the local golf course was holding a particular Izod for me, but only until the end of the afternoon.

And this was no ordinary polo. It was bubble gum pink and Kelly green striped, and instead of a boring old knit collar, this one was constructed of crisp and immaculate white cotton. This shirt spoke of prep schools and old money and summers on the Vineyard and the kind of old-boy networks that don’t exist on the plains of northeast Indiana. I knew the minute I put that shirt on, I’d immediately be catapulted away from my painfully average Midwestern roots. To this day it is singularly the greatest shirt I’ve ever seen in my life. Also? I knew that Shelly Decker would shit itty-bitty alligators the minute she saw it on me.

“Danny, sweetie”—really meaning
fucktard
—“I have to go in the house and you can’t swim alone. You need to get out of the pool right this second.” He giggled and screeched and ducked his head under water. This time his splashing hit my book.

OH. NO. HE. DIDN’T.

When he came up for air, I brushed the pageboy out of my eyes and retied my tartan hair bow, careful to do something with my hands to keep them from making choking motions around the hell spawn’s neck. It was time to break out the big guns…Jen’s Babysitting Axiom #578:
Don’t Get Mad, Get Medieval.

I leaned in close and whispered, “Danny boy, you are coming out right now. Or else I’m going to take that radio from the table, throw it in this pool, and electrocute you.”

Tell me that little bastard didn’t fly out of the water.

Harsh? Perhaps. But I finished the dishes, got the extra tip, bought the shirt, and wore it on my first day of eleventh grade. Shelly
was
beside herself when she saw me. In a deliciously ironic twist, my best friend, Carol, had been named editor in chief and she appointed me to be the new features editor. My first order of business? Scrapping the
Muffy
strip, of course.

As for Danny, he’s all grown-up now. But I have to wonder if any time he sees madras plaid, he doesn’t die just a tiny bit inside.

You know, the corporate world really isn’t that different from babysitting. It’s all a matter of understanding when to kick off your loafers and take charge.
²⁷
Plus, most of the people I work with act like children, so the transition to the professional world was practically seamless. No wonder I rock it so hard.

However, I will concede that working for a nice company makes things a lot easier. I am
so
much happier at Corp. Com. than I ever was at my last job at Midwest IR. The work environment is really positive and the pressure is way less intense, even though I have to put up with Will’s antics. What a colossal washout he is. Although I report to the head of my product line in New York, I had to interview with Will because he runs Chicago. And what do you think his selling point was in my interview? Room for advancement? Stock options? A generous 401(k) match? No. Will loved Corp. Com. because they gave employees
free sodas.
Yes, and so does McDonald’s but you don’t see people lining up to work there.

My problem with Will began on day one of my employment. I arrived sporting a smashing tweed Tahari suit trimmed in striking black fringe, ready to get down to business.

“Hi, Jen Lancaster, pleasure to see you again,” I said, extending my hand.

“Yeah, um, hey, Jenny, I, uh,” he started.

“It’s
Jen
,” I interrupt.
²⁸

“What? Oh, yeah. Sorry. Um, yeah. So, um, welcome. Yeah. You want a soda or something? They’re free!” he reminded me.

“Thanks, no. I’d just like to get started. I’ve got a lot of ideas to flesh out, so if you’ll be so kind to show me the way to my office, I can do just that.”

Will nervously looked around, pulling his collar open with one finger. “Um, yeah. There’s a slight problem. I, um, kind of turned your office into a storage room.”

“What?” No. No, no, no! Part of the reason I agreed to join the organization was because they promised me my own office. I was NOT about to rejoin the land of the cubicle dwellers.

“Yeah, I accidentally ordered too much marketing material and I needed a place to keep it and corporate won’t let me send it back. So, um, yeah, sorry ’bout that.”

“OK.” I wasn’t thrilled, but they were still paying me an outrageous sum, so I guessed I could make do. “Where will I be sitting?”

“Um, we don’t have a receptionist anymore, so her desk is open. Would that be cool? It’s, like, a really big work space.”

I glanced at the desk. “Don’t people enter through these doors, and won’t they naturally come to me—the person sitting at the reception desk—for assistance?”

“Um, well, not that much, and you could page people if they had a visitor and delivering stuff won’t take you too long and—”

I interrupted again. “Will, would distributing UPS packages really be what you consider the best use of my time and salary?”

“Um, um…” he stammered.

“No? Then get me a different work space.”

“OK, follow me.” He took off down a long hallway as I trailed behind him a few paces.

“And, seriously? Consider Ritalin. They’re doing amazing things with adult ADD lately.”

“What’d you say?” Will turned with an accusatory look on his face.

“I said I was seriously G-L-A-D to be on board. Now let’s find me that desk.”

So I’m back in a cube again. It’s not as bad as I thought since it’s relatively private and I’ve got a great lake view. Still, there’s nothing more satisfying than righteously slamming your office door when the hoi polloi gets too loud. Speaking of loud, the salesmen at Midwest IR were incredibly noisy. Someone thought our team would produce more if we had a creative outlet. Were we supplied with piped-in music or theater tickets or thought-provoking team-building exercises? No. We got an air hockey table. I can’t tell you how annoyed I was by the testosterone-charged cheers that ricocheted off the walls all day. Most days I’d swear I worked in a sports bar.

My old coworkers used to bitch when I’d scoot out of the office after eight hours. They didn’t understand how I managed to meet my goals, especially since
they
claimed to work twelve-hour days. Yeah, you know what, guys? I actually
have
worked twelve-hour days. Those four hours you played air hockey? Don’t count.

I suspected my old job would be a challenge because it was an investor relations firm and I knew
nothing
about the financial world. I thought PE ratios had to do with gym class statistics and mutual funds were the bills in Fletch’s wallet.

Stan, Midwest IR’s chief operating officer, promised to teach me everything I needed to know about the business. I jumped at the chance to learn from him. He may have been clad in a $1200 suit and Ferragamo loafers, but he was still “straight outta Jersey.” I was enamored by his Newark-tinged plain talk. Such a refreshing change from the mild-mannered, mealymouthed Midwesterners at the HMO! Sure, my old bosses were pleasant and polite, but they tried to steal credit for my deals and ideas more times than I care to mention.

The last thing Stan said in my final interview was “This is a male-dominated company in a male-dominated industry. I’m talking total boys’ club heah. I never hired a woman to do sales befoah because I don’t wanna deal with complaints. Ya wanna run with the boys, ya gotta let ’em be boys. I need to know, Jen, what would ya do when ya heah the guy sitting next to ya say, ‘I banged my girlfriend in the ayse last night’?”
²⁹

Momentarily stunned, I answered truthfully, “I’d probably laugh.”

“Good ansah. ’Cause I don’ like bein’ sued. Ya hired.”

What’s funny is that I was usually responsible for the embarrassing. The other salesmen had graduated from various Ivy League universities and many had been brokers. Although competitive air hockey players, they were as dull as dry toast and spoke endlessly about their portfolios. I’d have welcomed a sodomy story just to break up the monotone ejaculations about market capitalization. Even after I’d been there a few months, I called them all Josh because I couldn’t tell them apart. Franco, everyone’s favorite Lincoln Park barber, gave them all the same haircut, and every day they showed up to work in tan pants and French blue dress shirts. I’m not sure Stan could ever differentiate between them, either.

Fortunately, cohesion was Stan’s goal. As part of his plan, we were required to take business trips en masse. He liked the idea of all his salespeople out together at trendy eateries, sporting our logo shirts for branding purposes. However, being with these guys every day and most evenings began to wear on me. One can only hear about Cornell’s winning football program so many times, you know?

On my first joint venture to New York, I got stuck with one of the Joshes for the day. Josh had
trained
me, and I use that term loosely. His sales pitch entailed boring the customer into submission. The only thing I’d learned from him was how
not
to sell.

“Explain to me again why I have to come with you today,” I said during our mandatory group breakfast. I’d already closed three deals on this trip, and dammit, I’d EARNED an afternoon of shopping by myself. The closest I’d come to Fifth Avenue so far was an airport candy bar.

Josh sighed and paused before answering. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to wipe his glasses. “Jennifer, I’ve been tasked with training you and I take my responsibilities seriously.”

No shit, you giant handkerchief-carrying dork. You take
everything
seriously. You wouldn’t know a good time if it bit you on the ass.

“I’ve retired my sales goal for the entire year and it’s only March,” I replied. “Shouldn’t that prove I’m already trained?”

I should be giving YOU lessons on how to work a customer, pal.

“All it proves is that I’ve done a first-rate job in your sales education. Imagine how much more effective you will be when we reach the conclusion of our sessions together.”

Imagine how effective I could be at removing your pancreas with my grapefruit knife when we reach the conclusion of this conversation.

That afternoon, I sulked all the way from our midtown hotel to lower Manhattan. After passing what seemed like a million cool shoe stores and indie coffee shops that I
could have been patronizing
, we arrived at our destination.

We were to meet with Lawrence. Lawrence was a vice president at, um, let’s call it an
influential
business publication. I was, of course, stoked because there’s nobody more interesting than a financial journalist, especially once he’s become management.

Oh, wait, except
everyone.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

We gave our names at the security desk and were guided to a bank of elevators. I punched the
UP
button and waited. Josh pressed right after me. Apparently I hadn’t pushed it to his satisfaction, but I bit my tongue.

As we entered the elevator, Josh turned to me and said, “Since you’re still learning the sales process, I’d prefer that you not speak in this meeting.”

“Come again?” Did I hear him correctly?

“In the meeting, please don’t say anything unless you’ve been addressed. I don’t want the client to get confused. You are not yet up to speed on the way I pitch, and I want to present a consistent message.”

I had to give up shopping for this?

“Shall I also walk three paces behind you, Josh-
san
?” I asked, bowing slightly.

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” he replied. Apparently Harvard didn’t teach him to detect sarcasm.

We got to reception and a secretary guided us to a lush conference room on the fortieth floor and brought us espresso in beautiful enameled cups. The chairs were elaborately hand-tooled leather jobs and the giant round table had cherrywood inlays. The mahogany paneled walls were covered with Asian-influenced oil paintings, and a variety of interesting vases were scattered artfully about the polished sideboards.
³⁰
I took a deep breath and realized that all I could smell was money. The windows of the room ran floor to ceiling, and there was nothing but glass between us and a sun-dazzled Manhattan skyline. Wow, just wow.

Lawrence joined us momentarily. He was immaculately appointed in Brooks Brothers, and his powerful handshake crushed one of my metacarpals. We exchanged business cards, and I’d barely gotten my name out before Josh gave me the stink eye. Oh, yeah. No noise from the peanut gallery.

Josh launched into his tedious pitch immediately, and I zoned out. He blathered on about our products and services for a while, and I’d occasionally smile and nod. I didn’t care to listen, and I might not be allowed to participate, but at least I could
look
like my presence served a purpose. I pretended to take notes in my leather-bound Filofax but was actually penning flattering assessments about myself.
Jen is smarter than Josh. Jen is a better salesperson than Josh. Jen is more interesting than Josh.

Eventually, their conversation turned to Harvard. This was not surprising. Because he was an alumnus, ALL of Josh’s conversations eventually led to Harvard. Frankly, I was shocked he’d kept quiet about it that long. Usually he introduced himself as Joshua, and would add, “But my friends from Harvard call me Josh.” Luckily, he also wore a Harvard ring and rep tie in case the introduction was too subtle. And what a lucky day! Lawrence had gone to Harvard, too. Yay, or boola, boola, or rah, rah, or what
ever
!