Bitter Is The New Black Part 6

We wander around the store for a few minutes until I spot something that takes my breath away.

"Oh, Fletch, look, isn't it dreamy?" I ask, caressing the side of the loveliest couch in the entire world. This magnificent piece of craftsmans.h.i.+p is covered in creamy taupe leather and shaped like a twin mattress standing on glossy cherrywood legs. Dotted with tufted b.u.t.tons, the ends swirl up into delicate rolled espresso-colored suede armrests. I'm not sure if I want to lie on it or lick it.

"You certainly have the eye," says a salesman, appearing out of nowhere. "The MOMA featured this couch in a minimalist design exhibit."

"Fletch! Did you hear that? The MOMA! A MOMA couch would definitely suit my, er, I mean, our needs," I gush.

"Do you even know what the MOMA is?" he asks.

"Shut up! Of course, I do," I snap.37 "Don't you love it? Don't you want to have it right this minute?"

"This is the finest piece in our collection. Each one is handcrafted by a master carpenter in Italy," notes the salesman.

"Fletch! An Italian master carpenter!" I am practically swooning.

"Do you notice what it's missing?" he asks.

"Nothing! It's perfect!" I exclaim.

"Jen, there's no back. This is a backless couch. How do you get comfortable on a backless couch?"

"Oh. I think you lie flat on it." I sit down with a thud for a trial run. Ow! For such a pretty piece, it's surprisingly uncomfortable. When I lie down, each tufted b.u.t.ton digs into my back. I sit up, and that's not so nice either.... It kind of feels like I'm straddling a bucket of golf b.a.l.l.s. But so what? It's still exquisite and I must make it mine. "Or, um, we can put it against the wall and not really sit on it. We could just admire it and use it for company. Maybe once in a while I'd pose on it and eat a peeled grape or something? You really wouldn't want to sit on a couch this beautiful every day."

"Let me get this straight.... You advocate we trade our like-new and incredibly comfortable down sofa for one we can't use to impress people we don't know?"

"Handcrafted!" I bleat, mesmerized by the thought of me supine, sipping a dirty martini and entertaining my haute couture minions.

The salesman chortles at us. "You married couples are all alike. She wants style, he wants substance."

"We're not married," I reply.

"And we never will be if we spend"-Fletch pauses to pick up the price tag-"almost seven thousand dollars!" He clutches his heart in what I think is mock terror. Turning to the salesman he says, "Please excuse us for a moment." He waits while the salesman sails away in a really yummy pair of buckskin Kenneth Cole loafers.

"Jen, seriously, no. Listen to me, N-O. No, no, no, no, no. There is no way in h.e.l.l I'm paying for a couch I'm not allowed to sit on. Absolutely not. I'm putting my foot down. Completely out of the question. Get it out of your mind."

"But why not?" I whine.

"Because we could buy a used car for the same price."

I'll admit he's got me there. But what of my minions? No self-respecting minion is going to kneel at the foot of a khaki canvas chain store divan.

"Fine! Then...then...then...I'll buy it myself! I don't need YOUR money!" I say, a bit louder than intended.

"How? You have no room left on your Visa, you destroyed your credit rating with your 'They don't really expect me to pay in full each month' American Express experiment, and you spend all your cash shopping during your lunch break."

"I'll economize. I'll stop taking cabs to work," I pledge.

"Ha! You were the one who said, 'The thing about ma.s.s transportation is it transports the ma.s.ses.' You won't last five seconds on the el, Your Majesty."

"Then I'll ride the bus. It'll be fine. You'll see." As we retreat from the store, I call over my shoulder to the salesman, "Remember us-we WILL be back."

Public transportation doesn't quite work out as planned. To save a thirty-cent transfer, I walk up Michigan Avenue to catch the express bus to Bucktown just past Neiman Marcus. Inevitably I need change, so I end up stepping inside to buy something little. Like a pair of trouser socks.

Or a wee handbag.

Or a five-carat white topaz ring.

Riding the bus has been a bit of a false economy.

I guess it's time for Plan B: Make More Money.

Courtney sashays up to my desk with a giant smile on her face, waving what looks like an MNOW contract. MNOW is the abbreviation for one of the products I manage. Once I tried to list all the acronyms we use here and I gave up around seventy-six. Alphabet soup has nothing on us.

"Guess what, guess what, guess what!!" she shrieks, doing a small victory dance.

"You sold an MNOW?" I correctly surmise. "Congratulations, Court! Well done." Woo-hoo! That commission is going straight into the couch kitty.

Courtney is the only account executive who moves my line without major hand-holding. In theory, my AEs should sell to clients, and I support the effort by creating marketing tools, training, strategy, and giving the occasional presentation, but it never shakes out that way. The last time r.e.t.a.r.d-y Arty sold an MNOW, I uncovered the lead, scheduled the appointment, conducted the meeting, did the follow-up, drafted the contract, and closed the deal. Yet he still paraded around the office exclaiming, "I made a sale!"38 Courtney hands me the signed agreement with a flourish and says, "Check it out."

I scan the contract for the project details. "Let's see, client is Wake-Hammond...nicely done! Once your other clients hear W-H uses the MNOW, they'll want it, too. OK...MNOW needs to be live by August first...uh-huh, I'll get the technicians on this immediately.... They expect to have around one thousand users...a little bigger audience than usual, but certainly within our parameters...and we'll bill out at $70,000."

I hold the contract up to my eyes and it still looks like it says "$70,000." Whoa, I'm seeing extra zeroes. Aren't I too young to be going farsighted? Am I going to have to get those ugly half-gla.s.ses that hang on a gold chain? And start doing needlepoint? And complaining about my bunions and no-account grandchildren who never call their nana? I hold the paper out at arm's length, and although it's blurry, the number doesn't change. Yes, I definitely see "$70,000," which is totally wrong, but thank G.o.d, I don't need bifocals.

"Hey, Courtney? You have a typo here. These cost $7,000."

"No, that's right. They have one thousand users, so I took one thousand times the selling price," she explains.

"Does no one listen to me when I do product training? We went over pricing two days ago. MNOWs don't have a per-user cost, remember? We charge a flat $7,000."

"Yes, but if they weren't willing to pay $70,000, then they wouldn't have signed the contract," she argues.

It takes me a moment to process what she's saying. "You knew you overcharged them?"

"You said in our training session there's no margin on this product. W-H said they always paid a per-user fee so that's how I billed them. Now at least we're making a reasonable profit."

I quickly multiply my commission. Holy cats, I could buy my couch TOMORROW with a sale like this! Let's see, it would take a couple of months to build it and maybe a few weeks to s.h.i.+p the piece, so I estimate I could be eating peeled grapes from the comfort and elegance of my prize possession by late August! That would give me enough time to make stylish new friends and buy cool new martini gla.s.ses and take tango lessons and-oh, wait. Hold the phone.

I can't do this.

I can't willingly bilk a 900 percent profit from a client. It's wrong. G.o.d knows I want the commission, but I just can't do it. All of a sudden, I'm a kid again, and my dad is taking bids to build his company's new warehouse in Indiana. He's back from his business trip, disgusted a shady developer offered him a 10 percent kickback on all construction costs. Although he stands to gain about $400K, he won't even consider it. Dreaming of ponies with braided manes and Barbie dream homes with built-in swimming pools, I tell my father he's crazy for not taking the offer. Big Daddy replies, "Jennifer, at the end of the day, all I have is my integrity."

At ten, I didn't understand what he meant.

But now I do. Dammit.

I have to do the right thing even though I REALLY, REALLY don't want to. I sigh deeply and shake my head. "Courtney, we can't."

"Of course, we can-we'll be heroes!"

"Read my lips: No. We. Can't. We're redoing the contract with the correct price."

"But, but," Courtney begins to protest.

"Believe me, W-H is going to be thrilled to spend so much less. If you need to save face to maintain the relations.h.i.+p, tell them we've done away with a per-user cost. Yes, it's a lie, but it's a $63,000 lie in their favor, so it's OK."

"They already said yes! They agreed to the price-they think it's a fair deal!"

"We both know it isn't."

"But..."

I blame Courtney's newly amorphous ethics on her relations.h.i.+p with Chad. Back in the Brad-days,39 she would have never pulled something like this. "Enough with the buts. This is my decision, it's the right thing to do, and I don't care if you don't like it."

"Kathleen already signed off on the deal. She was really pleased about it and congratulated me for thinking outside the box." Courtney is clearly conflicted.

Ugh, Kathleen again. Kathleen took over the Chicago office a few months ago when Will was fired. (The dumb a.s.s left his resume in the copy machine, and someone put it on the conference table the day all the VPs were here.40) Although she was from the Chicago office, I didn't know her very well. She worked for a different division of Corp. Com. and went on an extended maternity leave shortly after I joined the company. A few times last fall I noticed her napping in her office, but I a.s.sumed it was a side effect of a difficult pregnancy.

When she came on board a few months back, I was not disappointed. She was smart, creative, and unlike Will, not allergic to success. Finally, the AEs had a proven leader!

Right out of the gate, she was fantastic...totally strategic and motivated. Every Monday in our staff meeting, she had the most revolutionary thoughts about driving sales. She was so sharp I regretted privately questioning the company's decision to hire a new mother; she blew every unflattering stereotype out of the water.

Naturally the salad days never last.

Not long into her tenure, she started going out with some of the account executives after work, getting sloppy drunk and pouring her heart out about the intimate details of her marital problems.

And then she started grad school.

Our once worthwhile staff meetings became a chance for her to trot out textbook management theories and ridiculous buzzwords. Suddenly, I had to rearrange my plans on a moment's notice because Kathleen needed to discuss "paradigm s.h.i.+fts" and "synergistic methodologies" with us as a group. After having to cancel my third appointment in a week, I finally figured out the problem. Kathleen was using our team to do her homework a.s.signments. Her statistics projects took precedence over sales forecasts, and her unpredictable emotional outbursts put everyone on edge. Uncomfortable! Then due to nanny issues, she started arriving late and leaving early.

Now, when I sit down with her, I get the distinct impression she's out to get me. It feels like she's gunning for me. You wouldn't think she'd plot against her top producer; then again, it makes sense because I'm the only one who's figured out how much she's been slacking.

"I'm sure it was an oversight. Kathleen wouldn't want us to rob our clients, right?" That b.i.t.c.h is SO trying to set me up. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it with her. Now give me the old contract so I can shred it while you generate a new one."

I watch as my new couch turns to shards in the shredder, and I want to cry.

Shouldn't doing the right thing feel good?

Operation Make More Money is in full swing! And were it not for my recent Luggage Emergency41 my couch kitty would be fat indeed due to my genius idea earlier this summer.

Right after the MNOW debacle,42 I gave my millionth presentation to one of our public relations agency clients. And for the millionth time the twenty-four-year-old PR girls were too hungover to focus on my pitch. Clad entirely in black and accented by silver jewelry, this pack of anorexic ladies sat blank-faced and empty-headed in my meeting, completely oblivious to attempts to engage them in my investor relations presentation.43 "So, Meagan, Bethany, Kirsten, Sasha, Lynsey, and Monique,44 do you all understand how using product X will satisfy your clients' desire to reach the inst.i.tutional investor?" I asked.

"Oh, Meagan had to dash to the lav," Bethany volunteered cheerfully. "She drank a whole pitcher of frozen sangria by herself at Uncle Julio's last night and she was about to vom." I rolled my eyes in exasperation.

"Ewww, please don't mention sangria or I'll totally get sick, too. Casey and I hit dollar-beer night at Barleycorn's and we totally-" began Lynsey.

"Yes, I'm totally sorry to hear that," I interjected. "Like I was saying, product X will-"

"Um, excuse me?" Sasha with the Cleopatra-cut bangs interrupted.

"Yes, Sasha?"

"I just wanted to tell you I love your bracelets."

Like a pack of magpies, these girls were fascinated by small, s.h.i.+ny objects. They probably would have paid more attention to me if I came in flas.h.i.+ng bits of my Nanny's sterling tea set.

"Thank you. To continue, product X is key when your client needs to get-"

"And your big lapel flower. It's soooo s.e.x in the City!" Kirsten added.

Why did I feel like I was trying to herd a pack of cats?

"Great, thanks. AS I WAS SAYING-"

"I love s.e.x in the City! Carrie Bradshaw is my idol!" squealed Monique, her voice barely overpowering her Eternity perfume.

"Me, too!" chorused the rest of the group, looking at one another under lashes darkened by a variety of Lancme products.

I hated these girls so very much.45 "If we could please get back on topic. PR professionals like you have found-"

"I saw you arrive when I was outside smoking. Was that your husband who dropped you off?" Lynsey asked.

"No, he's my boyfriend. In regard to inst.i.tutional investors-"

Lynsey was undeterred. "He's WAY adorable! He looks just like Ed Norton, only with darker hair!"

"I guess he does a bit." Personally, I always thought he looked more like Ron Livingston in Swingers. Something about his sardonic brows, or maybe the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

Sasha asked, "Did you meet him here?"

"No, we met in college."

It was all I could do to not stab each of them in the neck with the sharp end of my cla.s.sic Chanel camellia brooch. I wasn't there to chat about my personal life. I wanted to talk about investor relations! But if I yelled at them, they'd never buy anything from me.

"How?"

"Pardon?"

"How did you meet him?"

Incredulous, I asked, "Let me get this straight-you'd rather hear how I met my boyfriend than how these tools will make you more effective at your jobs? You're more interested in a silly, embarra.s.sing college story from seven years ago than learning how to best serve your clients?"

"Yes!" "Definitely!" "Please!" Since any chance to educate them washed away after the third round at Barleycorn's last night, I decided to humor them in an effort to build the relations.h.i.+p.

"OK, it's 1994 and we both got jobs at a bar and grille on campus. After the grand opening, a group of us went out together for a new employee bonding session. Everyone ended up at my apartment after the bars closed because I had a deck. Fletch, that's his name, and no, he's NOT named after the Chevy Chase movie," I added, antic.i.p.ating their next question, "made terrible martinis, drank too many of them, threw up in my shower, and finally pa.s.sed out. The next morning he woke up full of regret and wanted to make it up to me. So I had him put up shelves in my apartment. He took me to dinner that night and we've been together ever since. The end."

"Ooh! That's so ro!" shrilled Bethany.

"Yes, Bethany," I replied, "because every romantic fairy tale ends with Prince Charming woofing up blue nacho chips on the princess' floral shower curtain from Target."