Saturday, January 22, 2011

My worst job ever: Part 2

(See “My worst job ever: Part 1” to get caught up.)

The bright side to the sales slump was that I didn’t have to hear that terrible song quite as often. Every time we made a placement, D.B. would play a celebration song at full volume and everyone in the office would smile and dance and sing along like it was the greatest thing ever.

It was “Bling, Bling” by B.G. I’m not kidding.

Every time I come around yo city, bling, bling.
Pinky ring worth about fifty, bling, bling.
Every time I buy a new ride, bling, bling.

I hate that song. Even though some of us were on sales calls at the time, D.B. played it at full blast. Jill was the only other sane person in Hellhole and my only saving grace. She and I would share a good eye roll and plaster on our fake smiles to humor the dancing morons.

Life lesson #2: If your office has a stupid theme song, RUN.

It was hard not to get your hopes up when one of our candidates had a job interview. We would cross our fingers and pray that the poor schmuck would get hired, even if it did mean having to hear that stupid song. But D.B. had a way of smashing your hopes with a pair of actual rose-colored glasses. They were old lady glasses with pink-ish lenses and a long pearl chain attached, and he would make you wear the rose-colored glasses if you started to get your hopes up too soon.

Of course when D.B. had a candidate in the interview process, he would run around the office saying, “Yeah, baby! This one’s gonna pay for my new kitchen!” I couldn’t blame the guy for getting so excited because he only recruited candidates for his accounts, which meant he got double commission every time one of his accounts hired one of his candidates. Bastard.

D.B. was a ridiculous man who made up for his insecurities by making everyone else around him feel small. We had a pool table in the office, and D.B. loved nothing more than challenging the guys to a game, Chris being his favorite target. Chris was known for his mad pool playing skills, and his nickname was Eight Ball. Chris also knew that it was in his best interest to let D.B. win. So D.B. thought he was the shiz-nit because he could beat the best billiards player he knew at his own game.

One day, I was working through lunch, and D.B. asked Chris to stay for a game. Everyone else knew this was a sign to take their lunches outside, but I had been there three months without making a placement yet. So stupidly, I stayed and made sales calls while those two played pool.

It started innocently enough. Chris was letting D.B. win as usual, and D.B. started heckling Chris as usual. “What’s the matter, you p**sy? You play like my grandmother.” But this day was different. Chris had finally had enough. Without saying a word, Chris proceeded to kick D.B.’s ass. One shot after another right in the pocket. D.B. joked that everyone has lucky days after the first couple, but as Chris sunk more and more, D.B. got irate. “What the f**k, dude? You cheating, sand bagging little bitch!”

During all this, I was on the phone with a potential account. With the loud profanities being screamed in the background, I helplessly watched yet another account slip through my fingers. The guy was nice about it, but he told me to call him back when I worked for a real company.

Chris walked out that day and never came back. And he had the biggest smile on his face. It’s still the best “I quit” moment I’ve ever seen. D.B. never mentioned the pool game, and I was smart enough never to tell anyone in the office what really went down.

Life lesson #3: If your boss screams profanities and throws temper tantrums like a three-year-old, RUN.

The other Hellhole-ites were no better than D.B. My co-workers would eavesdrop on each other’s conversations with hiring managers and then call the manager later to steal the account. If you left a hot resume on the printer, someone would take it, call the candidate and convince him that they could find them a job faster.

Given my young age and the fact that I sucked at this job, I was easy prey. Several people told me I had to keep my records updated in the central database because it was the only way to “claim” your candidate or account. If it wasn’t listed in the database, it was fair game no matter much work I had put into it. I didn’t realize that no one else took the time away from making sales to put their information into the database, and it just made it easier for them to search and steal my candidates and accounts anyway.

My team manager, Angie, was the worst. She pretended to be my friend, invited me out after work and made me feel guilty for not hanging out with her. After three months of working twelve-hour days, she informed me that there had been some thefts in the office so we had a new policy. Non-managers weren’t allowed to be in the office alone after hours anymore. So I had to leave when she left. It was nice only working eight-hour days for a change, but it left me with less time to make sales. After a couple weeks of this, D.B. hauled me into the conference room and started yelling at me for slacking off. He said someone who hadn’t made a placement yet had no business leaving the office at 5:30. I told him what Angie said about the new policy, and he said no such policy existed. When he asked Angie about it, she denied everything and said I was making it up to cover for my laziness. Guess who D.B. believed. Not me.

Life lesson #4: In an office full of wolves, the one who looks like a sheep is probably a wolf, too.

Okay, so I didn’t get to everything in this installment that I said I would. There was just too much douchbaggery (Thanks, Rick, for the spelling correction) to tell you about. So I promise in the next, final chapter of “My worst job ever” I’ll tell you why I hate the c-word and Chingy, besides the obvious reasons. I’ll also tell you how Jill and I saved each other, the disaster of my one and only sale, and how you never really leave your past behind you.

Until then, commiserate with me and tell me about your shitty job experiences below. 

See "My worst job ever: Part 3"