Well, maybe the title is too pedantic. Nevertheless, what I mean by "Ideal" is the way of happiness. Most of the people I dealt with while selling loans at HFC/Beneficial were just like the rest of Americans: they were Consumers. Now, they were a different class of Americans, for the most part; they were working class, primarily of low educational background, particularly unhealthy and overweight, and just plain dirty a lot of the time. This is due to the fact that most of them were laborers and workers in factories and shops dedicated to the automotive industry.
In these people, there is no desire to read, and if they do read, it's dime store rubbish. Some of them go to church, but not many. But it's fair to say they all pretty much were of lower, working class background, highly steeped in ignorance, Marlboro Reds, huntin', fishin', and bike ridin'.
I'm an elitist, you say. Perhaps. But these people are simply following the pattern set for them by the automotive corporations who long ago influenced schools like the University of Chicago, Stanford and others to rewrite public school curriculum so that students followed one simple rule: memorize data, regurgitate data. This produces consumers, which the big corporations wanted. See and take. Observe and hold. Perceive and receive. Get stuff.
That's the customer base at HFC/Beneficial. Of course, they didn't buy all of our products (thank goodness). But I mention all of this to point out just one of the reasons why we are in this housing market fiasco: because too many Americans consume, consume consume. The spend, spend, spend, and they have no concept of saving money.
I have seen countless credit reports where a family makes anywhere from 50 to well-over 100k between husband and wife (or whatver combination manifests itself in our culture--"I've seen it all, man!").
And these people have:
1) mortgage payment
2) car payment
3) 2nd car payment
4) multiple personal loans
5) consumer loans (catch the title there: "consumer" loan. That's right, folks).
6) Multiple credit card bills.
7) and then there are just basic staples of insurances, taxes, food, utilities, phone, cable, internet, cell phone...
8) Sometimes they have a 2nd mortgage payment. And even a 3rd! If this is the case, you are a likely customer of HFC/Beneficial. :) Don't forget our consumer loans at 22.98% We can give you up to $20,000 at this glorious rate! Unsecured, too! And the Home and Auto Plan. Make sure that loan has plenty of credit insurance on it: unemployment, disability and life. Only an extra hundred bucks on average. Don't foget we can refinance your car payment. Average rate is 15%. Sign up.
Each of 1-6 listed above on a credit report is called a "trade line." You owe Citibank 5K on your credit card? That's a trade line. Now imagine these people with 17 different trade lines. Or 25, or more. I have seen this. I have seen this! Now, my job was to refinance their mortgage, pay off all their bills, and give them extra cash (for that dream vacation, or that new, desirable car). And at times, I offered people a great deal. I reduced their total monthly debt obligation by $500. How would you like to have no bills, except one and have $500 back in your pocket every month? And it worked.
Until the credit cards ran back up again. It happened quite frequently. These people refinance, I give them money, I save them money, and they run their credit cards back up again. Now they have one huge mortgage payment, and a bunch of credit cards, and they hand the keys of their house to us. Nice.
These are stupid people. They are bent on consumerism. They have to have things now. They fail to get their act together. They take no thought for the future, for saving money, for investing, for setting up retirement, for leaving a financial legacy for their children and their children's children. This is a terrible shame!
It boils down to covetousness, greed and idolatry. I worked for greedy people who wanted me to sell loans to ignorant people. These ignorant people were also greedy--for material. I was actually forbidden to take the role of financial counselor with these people. I was forbidden to recommend another place of business or counseling center. I could tell people, "Now won't your life be easier without all these bills?" But that was about it. I may recommend cutting up the credit cards, but I'm just a salesman. I sell.
D.A. Carson laments our culture's consumerism in his book, The Gagging of God:
In a former age, insatiable desire was understood to be a principal source of frustration, something to be opposed. Now it is to be cultivated as the engine that drives economic development. The endemic consumerism of the age feeds our greed, and even defines our humanity: we are not primarily worshipers, or thinkers, or God's image-bearers, or lovers, but consumers. "Consumerism itself has become a kind of addiction. The more toys we acquire the more frequent and expensive they need to be to produce the old high. the shift from finding identity in what we produce to what we possess, from a work ethic to a consumption ethic, at once exalts the pursuit of happiness and guarantees its ultimate futility."
Carson quotes John Ortberg, "Happy Meal Spirituality," Christianity Today 37/6 (May 17,1993): 40.
Showing posts with label Life and Times at HFC/Beneficial. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life and Times at HFC/Beneficial. Show all posts
Monday, August 11, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
In the Beginning
Picture a fine, undulating front desk with a bronzesque, oval sign in the back with the company logo. Standing up front is a neatly clad businesswoman dressed to the 9's. Her hair is long, brown, and cascading with with fine, little curls. She wears a dark blazer and smiles kindly. The customer stands, looking at her, ready to give his financial all to her. He does so with joy, because the service provided him sends bells of freedom and financial security. He gets the money he needs at a payment he can afford. He even likes the payment.
She gives the money, she makes the money. She brings it home and celebrates with a glass of white Merlot, sitting in her easy chair at night, feeling a cool breeze coming through the deck doors. The crickets send her off to a comfortable sleep. She'll be ready for tomorrow. She's a loan officer; it's a noble profession, and the conduit for transactions of which we are all proud: the interest is just right, the customer is happy, the company makes money, and more white Merlot will pour after another fine day at the quiet, professional office....
"How do you handle stress?" she asks. "Well," I say, shifting my leg to the basketball coach position and leaning back, with my head gazing upward, eyes focused, as I'm ready to pontificate upon something profound and candid. "I'd like to tell you I pray, or meditate, but really, what I do is usually lift weights or go for a hike, or sometimes I just scream," I say politely. She smiles. "Good," she says. She tells me the job can be stressful. Okay. No problem, and I wave my hand.
Not. I walk in the 1st day and Lenora, the manager who interviewed me sticks me in a cold, freezing office to watch videos and click on the computer for "training" for nearly 8 hours a day. It is the end of the month, and she had no time for me. End of the month means something that I will have to explain later--but it's not good. So I "trained." I came in at 11am and left at 8pm every day for three weeks. 11 to 8. And we have a new baby. With these hours, I never see her. My white collar job seems to be a slight shade of brown.
Lenora seems frustrated. The picture I thought of with the nice girl behind the counter is now gone--a faded dream. No soft, classical music in here. It's loud. And the 1st song I hear is Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train," a classic, yes, but I'm thinking I'm working in a "professional atmosphere." I have a master's degree. I'm in a field that requires a college education--preferably in finance. False. In fact, I learn that I replaced a woman named Karyl (pronounced, "Carol") who had left the company on "medical leave" due to depression. The truth is she showed up to work hung over and smelling like alcohol and was a mean, dirty cheat--especially with customers. Very argumentative. "She could sell anything," Lenora says. "She sold a LOT of insurance," she adds.
I didn't know I'd be selling insurance. Or credit cards. Or the Home and Auto Plan, which I refer to as AAA on steroids. Or EZpay. Or unemployment insurance, or disability insurance or life insurance. All extra insurances added to the loans you get. It's called Credit Insurance.
And it was loud in the office. Heavy metal abounded from the radio and this guy Marcel spoke with a booming voice on the phones with customers so loudly that I wondered if I'd be able to concentrate on learning all this new material about the company. What is it that I am doing here? I mean that not in some existentially-driven angst, but I mean it for real: what is it that I am actually doing here?
I'm going to learn how to be a loan officer, right? False. I'm involved in something quite different from the kindly bank or credit union in the prim, proper, downtown centers--with quite a different lot of people as well. But it moved in on me, and I stepped into it slowly and without peripheral vision so that I soon walked in molasses and sunk deep up to my neck in a thick clod of profit-driven (not customer driven), blinding greed--and all with a smile. Smiles, however, are often the result of a bypass mechanism that are external only, and deceitful. They reveal a not-that-which. They cover. As a forced response, they dull the truth that is dying for exposure. I'd be doing a lot of dying here.
She gives the money, she makes the money. She brings it home and celebrates with a glass of white Merlot, sitting in her easy chair at night, feeling a cool breeze coming through the deck doors. The crickets send her off to a comfortable sleep. She'll be ready for tomorrow. She's a loan officer; it's a noble profession, and the conduit for transactions of which we are all proud: the interest is just right, the customer is happy, the company makes money, and more white Merlot will pour after another fine day at the quiet, professional office....
"How do you handle stress?" she asks. "Well," I say, shifting my leg to the basketball coach position and leaning back, with my head gazing upward, eyes focused, as I'm ready to pontificate upon something profound and candid. "I'd like to tell you I pray, or meditate, but really, what I do is usually lift weights or go for a hike, or sometimes I just scream," I say politely. She smiles. "Good," she says. She tells me the job can be stressful. Okay. No problem, and I wave my hand.
Not. I walk in the 1st day and Lenora, the manager who interviewed me sticks me in a cold, freezing office to watch videos and click on the computer for "training" for nearly 8 hours a day. It is the end of the month, and she had no time for me. End of the month means something that I will have to explain later--but it's not good. So I "trained." I came in at 11am and left at 8pm every day for three weeks. 11 to 8. And we have a new baby. With these hours, I never see her. My white collar job seems to be a slight shade of brown.
Lenora seems frustrated. The picture I thought of with the nice girl behind the counter is now gone--a faded dream. No soft, classical music in here. It's loud. And the 1st song I hear is Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train," a classic, yes, but I'm thinking I'm working in a "professional atmosphere." I have a master's degree. I'm in a field that requires a college education--preferably in finance. False. In fact, I learn that I replaced a woman named Karyl (pronounced, "Carol") who had left the company on "medical leave" due to depression. The truth is she showed up to work hung over and smelling like alcohol and was a mean, dirty cheat--especially with customers. Very argumentative. "She could sell anything," Lenora says. "She sold a LOT of insurance," she adds.
I didn't know I'd be selling insurance. Or credit cards. Or the Home and Auto Plan, which I refer to as AAA on steroids. Or EZpay. Or unemployment insurance, or disability insurance or life insurance. All extra insurances added to the loans you get. It's called Credit Insurance.
And it was loud in the office. Heavy metal abounded from the radio and this guy Marcel spoke with a booming voice on the phones with customers so loudly that I wondered if I'd be able to concentrate on learning all this new material about the company. What is it that I am doing here? I mean that not in some existentially-driven angst, but I mean it for real: what is it that I am actually doing here?
I'm going to learn how to be a loan officer, right? False. I'm involved in something quite different from the kindly bank or credit union in the prim, proper, downtown centers--with quite a different lot of people as well. But it moved in on me, and I stepped into it slowly and without peripheral vision so that I soon walked in molasses and sunk deep up to my neck in a thick clod of profit-driven (not customer driven), blinding greed--and all with a smile. Smiles, however, are often the result of a bypass mechanism that are external only, and deceitful. They reveal a not-that-which. They cover. As a forced response, they dull the truth that is dying for exposure. I'd be doing a lot of dying here.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Obtuse
In The Shawshank Redemption, the main character, Andy, rails against the prison Warden for showing no concern over the tale of Tommy, a fellow inmate, which could free Andy and prove his innocence. However, the Warden sees Tommy's tale as a threat. Andy is too valuable in prison: he fraudulently runs the prison's accounting system to the personal benefit of the Warden.
As cold as a predator's eye, the Warden refuses to help set Andy free. Repulsed, Andy asks, "How can you be so obtuse?" The Warden is supposed to be a God-fearing man! Upon his wall hangs a plaque with a stitched "verse" (not found in the Bible) that says, "His judgment cometh; and that right soon." The Warden is a businessman, and keeping Andy in prison is good for the continued accounting fraud, and good for the Warden's pocketbook. As a result of Andy's piercing question, the Warden throws him into solitary confinement. He also has Tommy killed. With him dies his freeing story, and hope of redemption is put to death.
"Obtuse" is a word I had not heard used without reference to triangles before seeing this film. However, I did have use for this word while working at HFC/Beneficial.
On May 3, my 2nd daughter Nylah Renee is born. We have a terrible scare after her birth. The doctors at the hospital detect a bacteria in the blood cord called Strep B. Strep B is a serious infection that kills babies. We are on edge while a blood sample is taken from Nylah and submitted to a culture for 36 long hours. The doctors even call the Center for Disease Control. We are very, very worried. I take an extra day off work because I need to help bring food and clothing to the hospital for my wife. Taking extra days off of work is not vouchsafed with graciousness and open blessing at HFC/Beneficial. Time away from work is time away from the phones. The phones are the sine qua non (without which, there is nothing) at HFC/Beneficial.
My dad's girlfriend is peppering me with questions about whether Monica has fed Nylah today? and whether or not Monica has eaten and has fresh clothes? and don't forget Brynne needs a bath tonight--her hair's a mess, and make sure the bassinet is ready. Do you have it down from storage yet? Brynne's bath should be at 8pm no later. We're taking her to church tomorrow and she needs to look good. How's the baby?
I just finish praying with my pastor for the Lord to have mercy on our baby. I'm tired. I just finish driving from my house to the hospital, then to my dad's to check on Brynne. Then it's back to my house, prep food, get clothes and go back to the hospital.
I answered her questions with "Yeah" staring off into the bright afternoon sky. More peppering. Flustered and tired, I put up my hand via a stiffarm right in her face. "Cathy, stop. Thank-you but no. I know you just want to help, but I don't need this right now!" The next day--my birthday, my dad visits me and says he needs to talk to me about something. "No one pushes my girlfriend," he says. "Ever." "What do you mean, 'pushed'?" I ask. "You mean I physically pushed her, or I was too forceful with my words?" "She says you pushed her." Push a person? Push a woman? Push a woman in her golden years? Push someone dating my dad? A fever flows over my head. My brain swims in a frenetic confusion. I feel dizzy. I stammer, put my hands to my head and try to maintain balance. I search for the right words to vindicate myself. Happy birthday.
Finally I show up to work after a few days off. I no longer have to run errands to and fro; my wife and baby are home--both healthy. No strep B in the baby. So I'm at work and don't have to worry about my family or run errands all day. My dad believes me. But, here I am at work....
Lots of calling people: current customers, cold calls, credit card affiliates, on-line applications. Anyone who can benefit from a refinance of their mortgage. This is the business we're in: refinance with cash out. It's not a bank. People don't call us--we call them. As my fellow co-worker Marcel says, "People don't knock down our doors for our rates and fees!"
Get on the phones. Make some dials. Get some apps. Stop talking and get on the phones. If you need a break, go to the back room and don't disturb your fellow coworkers who are getting on the phones and getting apps. No talking. Just make some dials. Eh! I said no talking!
Not long after a brief, morning meeting revealing lists of corporate rule changes, rate, fee and qualification adjustments for potential customers and cleaning off the birthday confetti on my desk, it's time to make some dials. I had explained my full situation to my manager to appease any misgivings about taking an extra (precious) day off. My baby's life had suspended in mid-air, just as Monica and I floated in nervous, agnostic limbo. With his back to me, peering at our monthly numbers on the board, Manager Justin addresses me flatly, "Chris. Happy Birthday. Congratulations on having a kid. Let's get on the phones and get some apps."
That's obtuse.
As cold as a predator's eye, the Warden refuses to help set Andy free. Repulsed, Andy asks, "How can you be so obtuse?" The Warden is supposed to be a God-fearing man! Upon his wall hangs a plaque with a stitched "verse" (not found in the Bible) that says, "His judgment cometh; and that right soon." The Warden is a businessman, and keeping Andy in prison is good for the continued accounting fraud, and good for the Warden's pocketbook. As a result of Andy's piercing question, the Warden throws him into solitary confinement. He also has Tommy killed. With him dies his freeing story, and hope of redemption is put to death.
"Obtuse" is a word I had not heard used without reference to triangles before seeing this film. However, I did have use for this word while working at HFC/Beneficial.
On May 3, my 2nd daughter Nylah Renee is born. We have a terrible scare after her birth. The doctors at the hospital detect a bacteria in the blood cord called Strep B. Strep B is a serious infection that kills babies. We are on edge while a blood sample is taken from Nylah and submitted to a culture for 36 long hours. The doctors even call the Center for Disease Control. We are very, very worried. I take an extra day off work because I need to help bring food and clothing to the hospital for my wife. Taking extra days off of work is not vouchsafed with graciousness and open blessing at HFC/Beneficial. Time away from work is time away from the phones. The phones are the sine qua non (without which, there is nothing) at HFC/Beneficial.
My dad's girlfriend is peppering me with questions about whether Monica has fed Nylah today? and whether or not Monica has eaten and has fresh clothes? and don't forget Brynne needs a bath tonight--her hair's a mess, and make sure the bassinet is ready. Do you have it down from storage yet? Brynne's bath should be at 8pm no later. We're taking her to church tomorrow and she needs to look good. How's the baby?
I just finish praying with my pastor for the Lord to have mercy on our baby. I'm tired. I just finish driving from my house to the hospital, then to my dad's to check on Brynne. Then it's back to my house, prep food, get clothes and go back to the hospital.
I answered her questions with "Yeah" staring off into the bright afternoon sky. More peppering. Flustered and tired, I put up my hand via a stiffarm right in her face. "Cathy, stop. Thank-you but no. I know you just want to help, but I don't need this right now!" The next day--my birthday, my dad visits me and says he needs to talk to me about something. "No one pushes my girlfriend," he says. "Ever." "What do you mean, 'pushed'?" I ask. "You mean I physically pushed her, or I was too forceful with my words?" "She says you pushed her." Push a person? Push a woman? Push a woman in her golden years? Push someone dating my dad? A fever flows over my head. My brain swims in a frenetic confusion. I feel dizzy. I stammer, put my hands to my head and try to maintain balance. I search for the right words to vindicate myself. Happy birthday.
Finally I show up to work after a few days off. I no longer have to run errands to and fro; my wife and baby are home--both healthy. No strep B in the baby. So I'm at work and don't have to worry about my family or run errands all day. My dad believes me. But, here I am at work....
Lots of calling people: current customers, cold calls, credit card affiliates, on-line applications. Anyone who can benefit from a refinance of their mortgage. This is the business we're in: refinance with cash out. It's not a bank. People don't call us--we call them. As my fellow co-worker Marcel says, "People don't knock down our doors for our rates and fees!"
Get on the phones. Make some dials. Get some apps. Stop talking and get on the phones. If you need a break, go to the back room and don't disturb your fellow coworkers who are getting on the phones and getting apps. No talking. Just make some dials. Eh! I said no talking!
Not long after a brief, morning meeting revealing lists of corporate rule changes, rate, fee and qualification adjustments for potential customers and cleaning off the birthday confetti on my desk, it's time to make some dials. I had explained my full situation to my manager to appease any misgivings about taking an extra (precious) day off. My baby's life had suspended in mid-air, just as Monica and I floated in nervous, agnostic limbo. With his back to me, peering at our monthly numbers on the board, Manager Justin addresses me flatly, "Chris. Happy Birthday. Congratulations on having a kid. Let's get on the phones and get some apps."
That's obtuse.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Constant State of Fear
My buddy Steve (who just quit HFC) put it this way. I couldn't have stated it any better in trying to describe what life was like working at HFC/Beneficial. "A constant state of fear," was his response to my lament of the brain chemistry in me that must have changed over the years, and now I am trying to "get it back."
Fear of the customer saying no; fear of the actual customer; fear of my manager yelling at me for not selling enough, fear of my manager's boss doing the same for the same reason--or for not kissing up. Fear of breaking the law; fear of breaking the company's numerous, uncountable bylaws. Fear of my coworkers stealing my leads, fear of them for telling me I am stupid for not knowing how to solve a "problem" or fear of being attacked for my religious beliefs. Fear of my sales assistant for telling me I am hopeless for forgetting some minor detail; fear of my manager cornering me for doing the same (such as making a mistake on my time sheet, or forgetting to take a lunch at the appropriate time). Fear of not being able to pay bills or get a better job because of being fired. Fear of being fired. Fear of not having an established career.
Anxiety attacks, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (the pure obsessive kind) were the result of a "constant state of fear." I recently read a doctor's account of what actually happens to brain chemistry when a person lives in a prolonged state of anxiety: the neurotransmitters in the brain--which serve as the brain's natural tranquillizer--are destroyed by hormones called to the brain because of a constant use of adrenaline. The ubiquitous presence of the adrenaline in the brain occurs because a person is in a constant state of fear--anxiety. When neurotransmitters are destroyed, the brain feeds itself negative thoughts. Negativity breeds upon itself, and now the person has to stop the source of anxiety and heal.
That is what I am doing.
Fear of the customer saying no; fear of the actual customer; fear of my manager yelling at me for not selling enough, fear of my manager's boss doing the same for the same reason--or for not kissing up. Fear of breaking the law; fear of breaking the company's numerous, uncountable bylaws. Fear of my coworkers stealing my leads, fear of them for telling me I am stupid for not knowing how to solve a "problem" or fear of being attacked for my religious beliefs. Fear of my sales assistant for telling me I am hopeless for forgetting some minor detail; fear of my manager cornering me for doing the same (such as making a mistake on my time sheet, or forgetting to take a lunch at the appropriate time). Fear of not being able to pay bills or get a better job because of being fired. Fear of being fired. Fear of not having an established career.
Anxiety attacks, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (the pure obsessive kind) were the result of a "constant state of fear." I recently read a doctor's account of what actually happens to brain chemistry when a person lives in a prolonged state of anxiety: the neurotransmitters in the brain--which serve as the brain's natural tranquillizer--are destroyed by hormones called to the brain because of a constant use of adrenaline. The ubiquitous presence of the adrenaline in the brain occurs because a person is in a constant state of fear--anxiety. When neurotransmitters are destroyed, the brain feeds itself negative thoughts. Negativity breeds upon itself, and now the person has to stop the source of anxiety and heal.
That is what I am doing.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
My Life and Times at Uncle Bennie
part one of many, concerning my resignation from the Holland Rescue Mission and subsequent employment at HFC/Beneficial, and the three stressful years I survived there, having been part of the sub-prime fallout as it were...
"Where're you headed?" my neighbor asks. I roll down the window on purpose so she'll do so. I'm so proud of myself, having landed a job in the finance industry: I'm toting the first pieces of a fine new wardrobe my wife and dad helped me pick out and buy. My dad insisted on buying me some clothes, but I objected at first--not until we got to the store, of course--because he had made an ethical, lifestyle decision with which I disagreed and thought went against the principles he espoused from week to week. Nevertheless, I gave in a few weeks later and took the money. Brother needed some clothes, and father is dishing out the cash, so why not take a favor from a good man (despite his sin)? I had bemused myself into thinking I was more righteous, but then the money was too good, so I gave in. Or, if you don't like ending a sentence with a preposition, "in I gave to the money which he hath given."
Back in the driveway (actually, it's an alley). "I'm going to my new job," I say with pride and excitement. "Oh, really?" the standard reply, but she's happy for me. "What kind of work?" I'm going to be a loan officer," I say. If my hand weren't on the wheel, I'd stick my manly thumb in my chest and butt out my freshly shaven chin. Part of the reason for my pride was that it was a sales job, which I had never thought of doing, save 10 years prior when I was selling cell phones (the big blocky ones) and doing well at it. I also sold (sort of) books door-to-door in college. That's an encyclopedia of stories which you will entreat yourselves to in a little bit.
People told me that because of my bold, extroverted personality, I would do great at sales. Having majored in English, writing and journalism, I boned out on luck getting a job at a paper, and I wasn't state certified to teach, so I went to seminary. I figgered the Rapture'd happen before I gradjiated, so why not study somethin' ah lock? Four years later, I had a Greek New Testament, and a Hebrew Old Testament that I owed the government $22,000 for, which I didn't know how to read anymore. The saying holds therefore true: if you don't use it, you lose it.
After seminary, I took the first job available at a factory called Johnson Controls in Holland Michigan. I took the job so I could marry my girlfriend, Monica. She worked 2nd shift at a hospital, so I figured the 2nd shift offer at this place was abso-perfect. Plus, this was a world-wide company, not some shop-rat, backwoods, metal shop full of harley riders who were 100 pounds overweight, had mullets, beards and bad teeth. People dressed nicely, and it was a corporation full of laborers, office workers, nurses, engineers, MBA's and anon. "Chris, with a Master's degree, you have nowhere to move but up with our company!" That sounded perfect to me. I could marry my girl, get a place in west Michigan, and start building a career. And paying off debt. Six months on the floor putting parts in boxes, and then an office job somewhere. What with the training the company provided, I could even study some kindof lightweight engineering, or business management, or whatever. The future is good!
This was exactly one year after 9/11. After 3 months of the job, I started to get frustrated. I had gone to seminary. I had studied theological topics like divine soveriegnty and human responsibility, the covenants, the problem of suffering and evil, creation/evolution, systematic theology, apologetics & arguments for the existence of God. Deep stuff that edifies the life of the mind. Now I am putting plastic parts in boxes and sweating my ass off while wearing ear plugs because of the loud, moaning machines; I've strapped on rubber shock absorbers to prevent the stinging, static electricity from the parts (they didn't even work). My back hurt. My feet hurt. I had no life working 2nd shift. I couldn't play softball, or even go to church stuff. I couldn't get involved with my community or my culture. My 2nd shift was now my culture. I went to work in the middle of the day, and returned when it was pitch black. My wife switched to 1st shift at the hospital, and I hardly ever saw her. We had an apartment, but we had about $30,000 in debt, with old cars and the decade of our 30's already in full swing with plans for a family. How could we possibly achieve our dreams of a family with all this debt and no prospects for a good-paying career?
The promise of "moving up in the company" didn't take a halt; it went in reverse. People were being laid off by the hundreds. Plants were shutting down. Entire plants! Yet profits continued to increase year after year by the billions. That's Billions with a "B." Do you know how much a billion dollars is? That's 1,000 million dollars. Imagine a millionare next door. Now imagine 1,000 of them all together in their sailboats, filling up the shoreline so that you can't see the horizon on Lake Michigan, drinking the best beer, the finest wine and eating thick, juicy steaks that make your mouth water (oh, just a twinch of salt!), entertaining all their guests and friends, dancing and having a good time. And you're sitting on shore watching, while sitting on a ten year old towel with holes in it cuz you don't want to buy a new one. That's a Billion dollars. That's just One Billion dollars. Now imagine 5 or 6 or 20 billion. That's the kidnof profit the company was making. Billions and billions and billions.
I made about $14.00 an hour. I'm not complaining--it's fair for putting parts in boxes. But the shut-downs so soon after my hire-in was depressing. I had no intellectual stimulation. I struggled with the meaning of life. What am I doing here? Is there any purpose in this? According to my theological convictions, indeed there was: "So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God," (1 Corinthians 10:31). There is a theology of work for the Christian, and it says whether you teach literature at Oxford or clean toilets there, there is purpose and meaning to it, because the person doing can do it as an act of worship.
But I was having a hard time worshiping while sweating like a cool glass on a hot summer day amidst loud, angry machines and among people who weren't interested in intellectual stimuli. It was the dog chasing his/her tail. Finally, I quit.
"Where're you headed?" my neighbor asks. I roll down the window on purpose so she'll do so. I'm so proud of myself, having landed a job in the finance industry: I'm toting the first pieces of a fine new wardrobe my wife and dad helped me pick out and buy. My dad insisted on buying me some clothes, but I objected at first--not until we got to the store, of course--because he had made an ethical, lifestyle decision with which I disagreed and thought went against the principles he espoused from week to week. Nevertheless, I gave in a few weeks later and took the money. Brother needed some clothes, and father is dishing out the cash, so why not take a favor from a good man (despite his sin)? I had bemused myself into thinking I was more righteous, but then the money was too good, so I gave in. Or, if you don't like ending a sentence with a preposition, "in I gave to the money which he hath given."
Back in the driveway (actually, it's an alley). "I'm going to my new job," I say with pride and excitement. "Oh, really?" the standard reply, but she's happy for me. "What kind of work?" I'm going to be a loan officer," I say. If my hand weren't on the wheel, I'd stick my manly thumb in my chest and butt out my freshly shaven chin. Part of the reason for my pride was that it was a sales job, which I had never thought of doing, save 10 years prior when I was selling cell phones (the big blocky ones) and doing well at it. I also sold (sort of) books door-to-door in college. That's an encyclopedia of stories which you will entreat yourselves to in a little bit.
People told me that because of my bold, extroverted personality, I would do great at sales. Having majored in English, writing and journalism, I boned out on luck getting a job at a paper, and I wasn't state certified to teach, so I went to seminary. I figgered the Rapture'd happen before I gradjiated, so why not study somethin' ah lock? Four years later, I had a Greek New Testament, and a Hebrew Old Testament that I owed the government $22,000 for, which I didn't know how to read anymore. The saying holds therefore true: if you don't use it, you lose it.
After seminary, I took the first job available at a factory called Johnson Controls in Holland Michigan. I took the job so I could marry my girlfriend, Monica. She worked 2nd shift at a hospital, so I figured the 2nd shift offer at this place was abso-perfect. Plus, this was a world-wide company, not some shop-rat, backwoods, metal shop full of harley riders who were 100 pounds overweight, had mullets, beards and bad teeth. People dressed nicely, and it was a corporation full of laborers, office workers, nurses, engineers, MBA's and anon. "Chris, with a Master's degree, you have nowhere to move but up with our company!" That sounded perfect to me. I could marry my girl, get a place in west Michigan, and start building a career. And paying off debt. Six months on the floor putting parts in boxes, and then an office job somewhere. What with the training the company provided, I could even study some kindof lightweight engineering, or business management, or whatever. The future is good!
This was exactly one year after 9/11. After 3 months of the job, I started to get frustrated. I had gone to seminary. I had studied theological topics like divine soveriegnty and human responsibility, the covenants, the problem of suffering and evil, creation/evolution, systematic theology, apologetics & arguments for the existence of God. Deep stuff that edifies the life of the mind. Now I am putting plastic parts in boxes and sweating my ass off while wearing ear plugs because of the loud, moaning machines; I've strapped on rubber shock absorbers to prevent the stinging, static electricity from the parts (they didn't even work). My back hurt. My feet hurt. I had no life working 2nd shift. I couldn't play softball, or even go to church stuff. I couldn't get involved with my community or my culture. My 2nd shift was now my culture. I went to work in the middle of the day, and returned when it was pitch black. My wife switched to 1st shift at the hospital, and I hardly ever saw her. We had an apartment, but we had about $30,000 in debt, with old cars and the decade of our 30's already in full swing with plans for a family. How could we possibly achieve our dreams of a family with all this debt and no prospects for a good-paying career?
The promise of "moving up in the company" didn't take a halt; it went in reverse. People were being laid off by the hundreds. Plants were shutting down. Entire plants! Yet profits continued to increase year after year by the billions. That's Billions with a "B." Do you know how much a billion dollars is? That's 1,000 million dollars. Imagine a millionare next door. Now imagine 1,000 of them all together in their sailboats, filling up the shoreline so that you can't see the horizon on Lake Michigan, drinking the best beer, the finest wine and eating thick, juicy steaks that make your mouth water (oh, just a twinch of salt!), entertaining all their guests and friends, dancing and having a good time. And you're sitting on shore watching, while sitting on a ten year old towel with holes in it cuz you don't want to buy a new one. That's a Billion dollars. That's just One Billion dollars. Now imagine 5 or 6 or 20 billion. That's the kidnof profit the company was making. Billions and billions and billions.
I made about $14.00 an hour. I'm not complaining--it's fair for putting parts in boxes. But the shut-downs so soon after my hire-in was depressing. I had no intellectual stimulation. I struggled with the meaning of life. What am I doing here? Is there any purpose in this? According to my theological convictions, indeed there was: "So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God," (1 Corinthians 10:31). There is a theology of work for the Christian, and it says whether you teach literature at Oxford or clean toilets there, there is purpose and meaning to it, because the person doing can do it as an act of worship.
But I was having a hard time worshiping while sweating like a cool glass on a hot summer day amidst loud, angry machines and among people who weren't interested in intellectual stimuli. It was the dog chasing his/her tail. Finally, I quit.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Freeeeedoooooom!!!!!!
"Chris, come on in the office." No big deal. I'd been used to it. Going into the "office." Sign here. Any questions? Nope. Alright then. Get back to work. This time I have no idea, but I'm not worried, really. "Pete, are you there?" Justin says to the phone. The phone responds.... I'm on a conference call with my boss and my boss's boss! A wave of red fear flushes my face and washes down my whole being from head to toe.
With Pete on the phone, that can only mean one thing...(insert image of drawing line across neck with index finger). Deep breath. Okay. Oh, I bet I'm getting canned. It's probably because of those two arguments I got into with him last month. Two in a week's time! Pete's an authortarian. That means don't ask questions, don't play devil's advocate; just do. Just do as I say and don't do anything else. He doesn't like dissenters. That's insubordination!
I had merely asked a question of his secretary (er--uh--district sales assistant: eh-hem) via email concerning the appropriateness of competition in charity. She had stated that she didn't want her district to be in last place in the giving event. I wrote to her asking if giving is "all about competition now?" And, guess who was offended and forwarded the interchange to the world's greatest boss?
"Chris! What is your problem, bringing down my staff?" Nervous tension. Heart pounding. Flushed face. Adrenaline. Stress. Deep breath. I can do this. I hate this job and I don't need it and I can handle this man. I've always been obsequious--kissing up. Not this time. Deep breath.
"No problem Pete, really. I just uh, asked her a question, that's all. She was offended and I apologized. No big deal."
"Well, Chris it is a big deal. This is a second time in a week that I've had to talk to you about your negative behavior and insubordination!"
"Insubordination?"
"Yes, insubordination! Now, we're trying to do something good by giving clothes to needy people. Are you telling me that giving isn't good?"
"No, Pete, of course giving is good."
"Well, if there's nothing wrong with that, then what is your problem?"
"Pete, my problem is that giving shouldn't be boiled down to a competition."
"What! Are you saying competition is bad?"
Sigh. "No, Pete. Competition is good. I just think giving should be done from the heart and not in order to win a contest. It cheapens it."
"Chris, your job is to get in the boat and row. It's not to ask questions about how we do things. You either row or get out of the boat. Now, this is the second time in a week that I have had to talk to you about your negativity. You said you hate this job, so why don't you quit? Chris why are you here?"
"Well, I want to sell some loans and make some money."
"I don't have to tell you that your numbers are low, do I?"
"Well, who's aren't? I mean, look at the market. And we're offering over 11% to people."
"We don't sell rate." An expected rebuttal. But wait....
"No Pete, we don't. But what do we sell? We sell debt consolidation and monthly savings. To do that, people have to have equity in their homes. But people don't have that anymore, do they?"
"Chris, I'm not having this conversation with you." He knows I'm right. No one's selling a thing. The company already shut down 260 branches 2 months ago. 10 bucks says this office is next!
"Chris. If you don't like it here, then," with emphasis, "there's the door." You must know that if I quit, I don't get severence or unemployment. Why ruin a good thing? I had been planning on going down with the ship.
Twenty minutes of this on the phone. Lots of defining of words. Lots of semantics. Pete's conviction: I'm a downer, negative and insubordinate for asking questions and not "jumping on board." My proverb of the day to Pete: we must agree to disagree.
Back in the office now, with Pete on speaker. Fear. Nervous tension. This can only mean one thing. This is it! The chickens are coming home to roost! Just on Friday at a sales meeting I didn't even greet him. Just walked right by. Well, what would you do if all you got after an hour and 45 minute dangerous trek through the snow to a useless meeting in the middle of nowhere off a back road was, "You're late!"? (We didn't even stop to help a poor sap and his little daughter as their car was slammed off the icy road high up onto an embankment. Can't be late for business!).
But then, sitting there with him on the phone, I stared at the motionless, plastic conglomeration of hi-tech pieces all gathered into one union as if it were a person. It stared back. Nothing. And then something fine, like white sugar, poured on my head. Sweet.
Sweet, or "Restrained jubulation." (You've heard that before perhaps. The doctor in the courtroom with pointed finger. Pointing at George. His fallen fiance Susan and the poisonous envelopes. Yes, Restrained jubulation. Even glee. I'm getting fired!
I had been longing for this for quite some time. Business had gotten so bad that we were calling the same people three times a day to try to "get them in" for a face-to-face meeting. The goal: get the potential customer to refinance their mortgage with cash out. Cash in hand. Do some home improvements! Pay off those pesky credit cards! Let me reduce your mortgage term by 12 months or more! (isn't that a good one?). Sounds pretty good, right? Yep, until you offer them over 11% (but hey--it's fixed!) with a 5% fee (uh, that means that if the loan is 100k the customer is paying over 5k in fees--not sure how, but my company added fees on top of the 5% fee--good trick!).
It'd been like this for about a year. Prior to that, I actually did some loans for people that were pretty good. But lately, uh--no. "Dude, put me out of my misery. Just shoot me right now. I mean, just end it right here in my cubicle," says a buddy in Another City's office. Not two minutes after this lament with my compatriot en suffering, here I am. Ah, sweet relief.
"Chris, you are being terminated for low production. This is effective immediately. You'll be getting one's month severence," the phone said. His tone is matter-of-fact. It's just another meeting. Vindictive lies beneath the waters of calm, cool, "this is just business." I'm being terminated. Last month, it was called, "optimization." But that was downsizing due to low numbers. Now, I'm being terminated due to low numbers and for aggravating an authortarian, egomaniac with my incorruptable candor and refusal to kowtow as a yes-man and lick boots. But, that's just my conjecture.
"Wow! Thank-you!" I say with glad tidings. One months severence. Just what I expected on this day I knew would eventually come to pass. I'm leaning back now. My legs are crossed. My hands are folded on my stomach. Justin smiles, puts his head down. This is supposed to be where I cry and beg. If I had just "quit" when things got tough, that means no severence, and no unemployment benefits. I decided to suffer and milk it. The suffering's over, and I'd like a bottle (of milk).
"You'll also be getting three month's insurance premiums paid."
"That's great, thanks! Hey, Pete. Uh, do you think you could do me a big favor? I'd really like to work until Thursday if I could, then I'd be able to get my full 3 years in seeing as how my hire date was the 21st. How's that sound?" My request is jovial and carefree. And unexpected.
"No, Chris, I cannot do that. You are being terminated for low production." He wants this to be serious. This is serious!
"Bummer. Are you sure?" Justin, eeks out another smile. His head slowy raises up. It's good to see him smile because like Pete, he's not known for his gleeful self--understatedly so. Well, business has been slow, and Justin wants to be Pete's boss's boss's boss someday. Someone real big.
"Does this surprise you?"
Indirect answer. And I'm excited. "Well, Pete, thanks for everything man, I really appreciate it. "You know," as I lean back further and gaze fondly in the distance, "our family has worked real hard over the last 2 1/2 years to achieve our goals of getting Monica into pharmacy school. Man, she deserves so much credit: she's been working part-time, going to school part-time, being a full-time mom and a full-time wife, and we've finally made it. She made it. Monica got accepted last week Monday, and I got a job offer in North Carolina at a classical Christian Academy teaching Literature, Bible and History. And..."
"Chris, the reason for your termination is because of low production and you mention the teaching thing and it makes me feel bad that we hired you and you weren't able to meet production goals. So maybe sales just wasn't the thing for you."
He cut me off. I bet I sound too happy, too relaxed. How would you feel when saying goodbye forever to a profit-only driven, authortarian egomaniac?
"Well, Pete, shoot. You really shouldn't feel bad. I mean, I was the number one salesman in the office in 2006, and I'm a very good salesman, it's just not the right time for me [or anyone] to be selling subprime loans." Really, that's all true! Anyone want an 11% mortgage with 5% fees (don't forget the added fees--there, there mister customer, just a little more castor oil. Big spoon, big gulp! Good boy! Now, go run and play.)?
"Chris, I take it from the tone in your voice and in your responses that this comes as no surprise to you. Was this expected? I mean, does this come as a surprise to you that you're being terminated for low production?" Hey buddy, I can take a hint. (Doesn't anyone say, 'fired' anymore?)
"Well, Pete, yes and no. I mean, no one's really selling anything right now, and I'm certainly not alone. But, that's the way it goes. Like I said, our family has some really good things lined up and we're so thankful..."
"Chris. I'm sure you understand that you have to clean out your desk. And Justin must oversee the process so that you don't take any customer information with you."
"Oh no. For sure."
"And I'm sure you understand that I need you to keep the utmost of professionalism as you leave the office immediately after this conversation. You can say goodbye to any potential friends you may have made in your office, but I'm sure you won't interfere with evening call time, so the other account exectutives can give absolute 100% focus to bringing in business." (That means making a ton of cold calls, getting rejected for our high rates right over the phone with subsequent yellings, mimickings, mockings and other ings from our immediate and their immediate superiors. How I'll miss it!!)
"Sure. Say, Pete--are you sure you can't let me work until Thursday so I can get exactly three years in? I mean, my hire date was the 21st. I'd really like to get that full three years in."
"And I wish you had met your production numbers so this didn't have to happen," he snaps. The conversation is now over. Justin wraps it up, and we both get up to leave. I have reached the door. My back is to the phone, to Pete himself. My arm raised high in the air in a fond farewell, I adios the phone as Pete finishes his thought about my low production numbers and their not being up to par. I'm on a pedestal. I wave victorious.
"All right then. G'bye Pete. Thanks!"
With Pete on the phone, that can only mean one thing...(insert image of drawing line across neck with index finger). Deep breath. Okay. Oh, I bet I'm getting canned. It's probably because of those two arguments I got into with him last month. Two in a week's time! Pete's an authortarian. That means don't ask questions, don't play devil's advocate; just do. Just do as I say and don't do anything else. He doesn't like dissenters. That's insubordination!
I had merely asked a question of his secretary (er--uh--district sales assistant: eh-hem) via email concerning the appropriateness of competition in charity. She had stated that she didn't want her district to be in last place in the giving event. I wrote to her asking if giving is "all about competition now?" And, guess who was offended and forwarded the interchange to the world's greatest boss?
"Chris! What is your problem, bringing down my staff?" Nervous tension. Heart pounding. Flushed face. Adrenaline. Stress. Deep breath. I can do this. I hate this job and I don't need it and I can handle this man. I've always been obsequious--kissing up. Not this time. Deep breath.
"No problem Pete, really. I just uh, asked her a question, that's all. She was offended and I apologized. No big deal."
"Well, Chris it is a big deal. This is a second time in a week that I've had to talk to you about your negative behavior and insubordination!"
"Insubordination?"
"Yes, insubordination! Now, we're trying to do something good by giving clothes to needy people. Are you telling me that giving isn't good?"
"No, Pete, of course giving is good."
"Well, if there's nothing wrong with that, then what is your problem?"
"Pete, my problem is that giving shouldn't be boiled down to a competition."
"What! Are you saying competition is bad?"
Sigh. "No, Pete. Competition is good. I just think giving should be done from the heart and not in order to win a contest. It cheapens it."
"Chris, your job is to get in the boat and row. It's not to ask questions about how we do things. You either row or get out of the boat. Now, this is the second time in a week that I have had to talk to you about your negativity. You said you hate this job, so why don't you quit? Chris why are you here?"
"Well, I want to sell some loans and make some money."
"I don't have to tell you that your numbers are low, do I?"
"Well, who's aren't? I mean, look at the market. And we're offering over 11% to people."
"We don't sell rate." An expected rebuttal. But wait....
"No Pete, we don't. But what do we sell? We sell debt consolidation and monthly savings. To do that, people have to have equity in their homes. But people don't have that anymore, do they?"
"Chris, I'm not having this conversation with you." He knows I'm right. No one's selling a thing. The company already shut down 260 branches 2 months ago. 10 bucks says this office is next!
"Chris. If you don't like it here, then," with emphasis, "there's the door." You must know that if I quit, I don't get severence or unemployment. Why ruin a good thing? I had been planning on going down with the ship.
Twenty minutes of this on the phone. Lots of defining of words. Lots of semantics. Pete's conviction: I'm a downer, negative and insubordinate for asking questions and not "jumping on board." My proverb of the day to Pete: we must agree to disagree.
Back in the office now, with Pete on speaker. Fear. Nervous tension. This can only mean one thing. This is it! The chickens are coming home to roost! Just on Friday at a sales meeting I didn't even greet him. Just walked right by. Well, what would you do if all you got after an hour and 45 minute dangerous trek through the snow to a useless meeting in the middle of nowhere off a back road was, "You're late!"? (We didn't even stop to help a poor sap and his little daughter as their car was slammed off the icy road high up onto an embankment. Can't be late for business!).
But then, sitting there with him on the phone, I stared at the motionless, plastic conglomeration of hi-tech pieces all gathered into one union as if it were a person. It stared back. Nothing. And then something fine, like white sugar, poured on my head. Sweet.
Sweet, or "Restrained jubulation." (You've heard that before perhaps. The doctor in the courtroom with pointed finger. Pointing at George. His fallen fiance Susan and the poisonous envelopes. Yes, Restrained jubulation. Even glee. I'm getting fired!
I had been longing for this for quite some time. Business had gotten so bad that we were calling the same people three times a day to try to "get them in" for a face-to-face meeting. The goal: get the potential customer to refinance their mortgage with cash out. Cash in hand. Do some home improvements! Pay off those pesky credit cards! Let me reduce your mortgage term by 12 months or more! (isn't that a good one?). Sounds pretty good, right? Yep, until you offer them over 11% (but hey--it's fixed!) with a 5% fee (uh, that means that if the loan is 100k the customer is paying over 5k in fees--not sure how, but my company added fees on top of the 5% fee--good trick!).
It'd been like this for about a year. Prior to that, I actually did some loans for people that were pretty good. But lately, uh--no. "Dude, put me out of my misery. Just shoot me right now. I mean, just end it right here in my cubicle," says a buddy in Another City's office. Not two minutes after this lament with my compatriot en suffering, here I am. Ah, sweet relief.
"Chris, you are being terminated for low production. This is effective immediately. You'll be getting one's month severence," the phone said. His tone is matter-of-fact. It's just another meeting. Vindictive lies beneath the waters of calm, cool, "this is just business." I'm being terminated. Last month, it was called, "optimization." But that was downsizing due to low numbers. Now, I'm being terminated due to low numbers and for aggravating an authortarian, egomaniac with my incorruptable candor and refusal to kowtow as a yes-man and lick boots. But, that's just my conjecture.
"Wow! Thank-you!" I say with glad tidings. One months severence. Just what I expected on this day I knew would eventually come to pass. I'm leaning back now. My legs are crossed. My hands are folded on my stomach. Justin smiles, puts his head down. This is supposed to be where I cry and beg. If I had just "quit" when things got tough, that means no severence, and no unemployment benefits. I decided to suffer and milk it. The suffering's over, and I'd like a bottle (of milk).
"You'll also be getting three month's insurance premiums paid."
"That's great, thanks! Hey, Pete. Uh, do you think you could do me a big favor? I'd really like to work until Thursday if I could, then I'd be able to get my full 3 years in seeing as how my hire date was the 21st. How's that sound?" My request is jovial and carefree. And unexpected.
"No, Chris, I cannot do that. You are being terminated for low production." He wants this to be serious. This is serious!
"Bummer. Are you sure?" Justin, eeks out another smile. His head slowy raises up. It's good to see him smile because like Pete, he's not known for his gleeful self--understatedly so. Well, business has been slow, and Justin wants to be Pete's boss's boss's boss someday. Someone real big.
"Does this surprise you?"
Indirect answer. And I'm excited. "Well, Pete, thanks for everything man, I really appreciate it. "You know," as I lean back further and gaze fondly in the distance, "our family has worked real hard over the last 2 1/2 years to achieve our goals of getting Monica into pharmacy school. Man, she deserves so much credit: she's been working part-time, going to school part-time, being a full-time mom and a full-time wife, and we've finally made it. She made it. Monica got accepted last week Monday, and I got a job offer in North Carolina at a classical Christian Academy teaching Literature, Bible and History. And..."
"Chris, the reason for your termination is because of low production and you mention the teaching thing and it makes me feel bad that we hired you and you weren't able to meet production goals. So maybe sales just wasn't the thing for you."
He cut me off. I bet I sound too happy, too relaxed. How would you feel when saying goodbye forever to a profit-only driven, authortarian egomaniac?
"Well, Pete, shoot. You really shouldn't feel bad. I mean, I was the number one salesman in the office in 2006, and I'm a very good salesman, it's just not the right time for me [or anyone] to be selling subprime loans." Really, that's all true! Anyone want an 11% mortgage with 5% fees (don't forget the added fees--there, there mister customer, just a little more castor oil. Big spoon, big gulp! Good boy! Now, go run and play.)?
"Chris, I take it from the tone in your voice and in your responses that this comes as no surprise to you. Was this expected? I mean, does this come as a surprise to you that you're being terminated for low production?" Hey buddy, I can take a hint. (Doesn't anyone say, 'fired' anymore?)
"Well, Pete, yes and no. I mean, no one's really selling anything right now, and I'm certainly not alone. But, that's the way it goes. Like I said, our family has some really good things lined up and we're so thankful..."
"Chris. I'm sure you understand that you have to clean out your desk. And Justin must oversee the process so that you don't take any customer information with you."
"Oh no. For sure."
"And I'm sure you understand that I need you to keep the utmost of professionalism as you leave the office immediately after this conversation. You can say goodbye to any potential friends you may have made in your office, but I'm sure you won't interfere with evening call time, so the other account exectutives can give absolute 100% focus to bringing in business." (That means making a ton of cold calls, getting rejected for our high rates right over the phone with subsequent yellings, mimickings, mockings and other ings from our immediate and their immediate superiors. How I'll miss it!!)
"Sure. Say, Pete--are you sure you can't let me work until Thursday so I can get exactly three years in? I mean, my hire date was the 21st. I'd really like to get that full three years in."
"And I wish you had met your production numbers so this didn't have to happen," he snaps. The conversation is now over. Justin wraps it up, and we both get up to leave. I have reached the door. My back is to the phone, to Pete himself. My arm raised high in the air in a fond farewell, I adios the phone as Pete finishes his thought about my low production numbers and their not being up to par. I'm on a pedestal. I wave victorious.
"All right then. G'bye Pete. Thanks!"
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