Bitter Is The New Black Part 7

Anyway, I knew if I were going to Make More Money, I'd have to find a way to convince these ninnies to use my products. But since my audience was always more concerned with my accessories, they hadn't learned how to use them and, hence, didn't buy them.

I came up with a concept to educate them in a less formal setting. I created an after-hours seminar that not only gave a hands-on demonstration but also included an open bar, thus allowing the girls to booze it up while they learned. I figured this situation would neatly simulate their college careers.

I don't know if it was the show-and-tell or the chardonnay, but the seminar worked. Drunken PR monkeys lurched up to me after the program, wobbly on their stilettos, slurring, "Heeeey! Call me Mondayyyy! My client can TOTALLY ussshe thiss sshhtuff! Let'ssh do businesss.h.!.+" To make a long story short, sales rose 35 percent in my product lines in two weeks. The vice president of sales was so impressed she sent me to roll out the program at our offices across the country. (Somehow Kathleen has been less enthusiastic about my success, but WHATEVER. She's just jealous.) And that's why I've spent the summer sweating my a.s.s off in the back of cabs.

"Gosh, I can't decide," I tell Sylvie the Dior girl, while we both scrutinize her summer line of lip glosses scattered all over the counter. Ooh, I just LOVE being at the real Saks on Fifth Avenue. New York is the best! We're going to move here the minute I convince Fletch it's a good idea.

Earlier I went to the adorable epicurean shop by Lincoln Center so I could stock up on Big Daddy's favorite lime marmalade. While I was juggling my bags and hailing a cab, a group of tourists asked me for directions. They thought I was a New Yorker! The best part is I actually knew how to get them to their destination.

But right this second, I'm in a major quandary. I've been working on a project with a big-time magazine and there's a chance I'm going to be on Good Morning America. OK, technically they want to interview the magazine's editor, but that's only because the producers haven't met ME yet.46 That's why I'm having such a tough time choosing the proper lip gloss. Which one would look best on camera? The s.h.i.+mmery peach one is deliciously summery, but the iridescent petal pink one showcases my tan. I'd simply take the clear and be done with it, but it's really thick and my hair sticks to it every time I move my head. I don't want to have to pick my coif out of my mouth in front of Charlie Gibson and the rest of America.

I glance down at my watch and realize I'm twenty minutes late for my lunch date with the magazine woman. Oh, no! I hate when I lose track of time like this; it's a grievous wrong. Being late for a business meeting is practically criminal in my book. I feel awful for making such an important person wait, and I've got to wrap this up right this second. I make an executive decision.

"You know what, Sylvie? I'll take them all."

I'm not back in the office from New York for two minutes when I get a call.

"Jen Lancaster speaking," I answer, lunging over my striped luggage to get to my phone.

"Jen!ItsRyanandLaurelandwe'reonaconferencecallandohmyG.o.d youwon'tbelievewhathappened!!!" Ryan shrieks into the phone.

"Ryan, you're in full-on drama queen mode. What's the matter? Did the cute clerk at Barneys take you up on your lascivious offer?" I ask. OK, did we not just spend the evening drinking appletinis in the Village together last night? Why is he calling me with his panties in a bunch? What could have happened in the last twelve hours? "Or did MAC discontinue your favorite eyeliner?"

"Noooo!" he howls. "It's nothing like that!"

"Then slow down and say that whole sentence again, please," I request.

Laurel breaks in, "Jeeeen, this heah is a seeeerious cawl. Y'all, we ahh 'bout to undahgo a cohprae-muhger." When she's upset, her accent gets superthick. Whatever's happening must be bad, because I can't understand a word she's said.

"A what?"

"A COHPRAE-MUHGER," she repeats.

Now I'm aggravated and ready to kill both messengers. "What the f.u.c.k are you two babbling about?" I demand.

"A merger! We're about to be merged with our biggest compet.i.tor!" Ryan cries.

"My G.o.d, you're kidding me. Are you sure?" Please, please, please let them be wrong. Because if they're right, this is AWFUL news. I feel weak in the knees.

"I wish I weren't. The story just crossed the newswires and they're already talking about it on MSNBC. It's official," Ryan sadly confirms.

"s.h.i.+t, what are you guys going to do?" I ask.

"Ahm goin' to mah husban's haidhuntah latah," Laurel says.

"I'm headed straight to Monster.com to post my resume," says Ryan as I mentally revise my own CV.

"Laurel, Ryan, thanks for calling me. I've got to go. I need to start working on a contingency plan right now. I say we hope for the best but prepare for the worst."

"Lahkwise," sighs Laurel.

"Take care of yourselves, guys."

"Ditto. Bye, Laurel. Catch you on the flip side, Jen."

My hands are shaking as I hang up the phone. I went through four mergers when I worked for the insurance company, and each resulted in ma.s.s layoffs. Fortunately I was never affected, but I won't be so lucky this time. See, our compet.i.tors are much better at what my group does because we're new to the marketplace. If we merge with them, there's no way Corp. Com. will keep my team on, no matter how much past success we've had. The bottom line is they are the established brand. And ever since the dot-com crash, it's been harder and harder to get hired anywhere in my industry. Too many good people, not enough good jobs. This is bad. This is really bad.

I've been working the phone like a telemarketer for the past few weeks trying to miracle up some interest. This is a lot tougher than last time I looked for a job. When I posted my resume in June of 2000, I got ten calls a day. Now it's like I have the plague.

However, I've managed to score an interview next Tuesday at a big investor relations firm called Birchton & Co. Birchton is one of Courtney's clients and she's been talking me up to them. Yay! Although she doesn't want me to leave the company, she knows I have an expensive apartment to support. Besides, if I get in there, Courtney will count on me to throw a lot of business her way. And since it's a consulting job, the base salary is really high, so I predict I'll be parked on my new couch in no time flat.

Why was I so worried? Everything's going to be fine.

The people at Birchton & Co. will hire me on the spot when they meet me because my interview outfit is just WAY TOO CUTE. After much deliberation, I decide to wear my stunning black-on-black Jones New York suit jacket with the matching tank dress underneath. I plan to wrap my citrus green leopard-print scarf around my neck for that added touch of pizzazz. And my piece de resistance, new Kate Spade kicks! They're trimmed with a tiny bit of citrus piping and the whole look says, "Competent, Professional, and Worthy of a Six-Figure Salary."

And, yes, I remembered to shave under my arms this time. Last time I wore this outfit, it was a DISASTER. First of all, it was un-seasonably hot. r.e.t.a.r.d-y Arty wrote down the wrong address and didn't realize it until we were already late and we had to RUN to the Prudential building. Between the dress, coat, each item's silk lining, panty hose, my Nancy Ganz strangulation-city slip,47 and the client's faulty air conditioner, I baked like a meat loaf. Since I skipped the shave, I couldn't even take the jacket off. I channeled the Albert Brooks scene in Broadcast News with perspiration pouring rivers off my head and onto the conference table. I tried to sop it up with my notebook, but no dice. It was humiliating and I've yet to forgive Arthur.

My interview isn't until noon, but I'm so excited I was awake at five thirty this morning. I had coffee on my roof deck and watched the sun rise over the city. As I surveyed the buildings from north to south, I thought about how much I love my skyline: the Hanc.o.c.k Center, the AT&T building, the Merchandise Mart, Aon corporate headquarters, 311 South Wacker, and the city's crown jewel, the Sears Tower. I must know someone on every floor of the Sears Tower. Every time I'm there, I b.u.mp into friends, clients, old cla.s.smates, etc. It's like Chicago's town square.

Today has been particularly bewitching. We had one of those glorious Indian summer dawns you never forget. Warm but not humid and the light was beautifully muted. Fat bees buzzed around my wave petunias, and the smell of rosemary and basil from my herb garden was intoxicating. I sipped and gazed and it was totally Zen.

I decide to brush up on financial news before my interview, so I head to my home office and switch on CNBC's Squawk Box. I love Squawk Box! Every morning I learn something useful from their colorful array of a.n.a.lysts. There's Bald Guy, Handlebar-Mustache Guy, Faboo Power Suit Gal, and Silly Accent Guy, plus a bunch of other funny, smart people who make the world of high finance interesting and accessible.

My goal someday is to be the foremost expert in my field and have big-time cutie David Faber interview me. But since I'm cool and totally a show insider from watching religiously, I'll call him by his nickname, the Brain. (Hey, maybe I could become one of their regular industry a.n.a.lysts and they'd come up with a clever moniker for me! The Wall Street Diva, perhaps?) From the CNBC studio, it appears to be a glorious morning in New York, too. Mark Haines, the show's straight man, delivers his broadcast flawlessly, his soothing tones comforting me while I read my e-mail. r.e.t.a.r.d-y Arty has an asinine question about product features, and instead of looking them up on the shared drive, where I keep them for just such an occasion, he wants ME to find the information. Yeah, pal. I'll get right on it. What else? A couple of the Texan AEs want me to join them for lunch meetings next week. Let's see...YES to lunch at NoMi, and an adamant I DON'T THINK SO to lunch at Chili's. Ick...who takes a client to Chili's? Ryan's e-mail wishes me big, screaming bunches of luck today-oh, isn't he sweet? One of the stupid PR girls needs- Wait a minute. What just happened?

It's been a week and I've barely eaten or slept. All I can do is watch the horrifying images again and again on my television. Even when I close my eyes, I see buildings crumbling and streets filled with debris. I'm devastated. I can't stop thinking about the victims. How many other girls put on their new shoes that morning, excited to go to work in the World Trade Center on such a beautiful fall day? How many moms and dads placed hand-packed lunches they would never eat in Pentagon refrigerators? How many of my favorite Squawk Box a.n.a.lysts didn't make it out of their tower offices in time? How many children boarded planes bound for Disneyland, not knowing they'd never see Mickey's parade?

Like most Americans, I'm back at work,48 but I'm a total zombie. I can't concentrate. Today's my first day in the office, and each time I hear a noise, I'm sure it's a plane headed for my window. I took a Xanax and I'm still shaking like a Chihuahua.

I am NOT here by choice. Kathleen's upset with our recent level of activity, so she called everyone in for a phone blitz. Yes, because NOTHING SIGNIFICANT happened last week on 9/11, and our meeting numbers fell because we were all goofing off. I am beyond outraged. People aren't even buried yet, and we're supposed to smile and dial, begging for business while pretending everything is just super! And maybe this initiative would have been more effective a month ago when we were busy doing her homework?

That woman is the devil.

It's been two weeks and life feels a tad more normal. Planes are flying again, prime-time television started broadcasting its fall season, and this morning I kind of yelled at a homeless guy for touching my skirt. People are beginning to b.i.t.c.h about how long it takes to get through the building's increased security. However, I didn't complain when armed guards spent five minutes examining the under-side of my SUV for bombs. Do whatever it takes, guys. I finally went on a sales call, and it was actually fine. Of course, we spent the first fifteen minutes discussing how trite we felt talking about business, so that made it easier.49 I'm at my desk going over '02 business projections when my phone rings. I jump at the sound because my nerves are still on edge. The number on caller ID is unidentifiable. Ugh, these are never happy calls. They're either angry clients or clueless technicians, and I don't care to deal with either right now. I hesitate before retrieving the handset.

"Jen Lancaster speaking."

"Jen, how are you?" a voice lightly tinged with a Southern accent asks.

"I'm doing well, thanks." The voice is familiar but I can't place it.

"Listen, Jen, it's John O'Donnell, and I need to talk to you about something important."

Hmm...John O'Donnell is the vice president of the whole Southern sales region. Being part of the Midwest, I'm in no way under his chain of command, so I have no clue why he's calling me and sounding so cagey.

"Sure, what's up?" I ask cautiously.

"Jen, we had to make a very difficult decision today. There's no easy way to say this, so I'm going to tell you flat out: We've eliminated Laurel's position."

You dirty rat f.u.c.ks!! Laurel rocked, and you all know it! It's all I can do not to tell him off. But somehow, I manage to stay professional. Through gritted teeth, I say, "I'm really sorry to hear that. Laurel was an integral part of our group and I'll miss her. But I appreciate your telling me this yourself." No, really, why are you telling me this? Does this mean I'm fired, too, you fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d?

"You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this." Bingo. "Well, we can't leave the South without a product manager, so we're promoting you. As of today, you're in charge of the South and the Midwest. You've proved yourself to be a valuable a.s.set to this organization, and we want to do whatever it takes to keep you."

"Well, John, it's gratifying to have my work recognized. Also, I spoke with Ryan yesterday, and I hear he's volunteered to take on some AE's duties where needed. If you need me to do this in Chicago, please let me know. I'll do my part to make sure we stay compet.i.tive and successful."

"Jen, I do believe you're the future of this company."

Just as I'm about to say thanks, I sneeze loudly into the phone. "Ahhchoo!"

"You're welcome. Let's touch base next week to discuss your travel schedule. Bye, Jen," he says and hangs up.

"G.o.d bless me," I reply, replacing the phone in its cradle.

And even though the speculation makes me feel like a terrible, awful, shallow person at a time like this, I wonder if I'll get a raise.

Because I kind of want that couch again.

I took my first sick day ever at Corp. Com. yesterday. After I got off the phone with John, I felt congested and achy and decided I needed a day for myself. I'm not superimmune or anything, and I get sick all the time. But I've never had the opportunity to call in and not actually still work.50 I rested in the morning and went to see the new John Cusack movie in the afternoon. I mixed Nestle Crunch minis with popcorn and enjoyed my salty-sweet downtime thoroughly until I saw a shot of the New York skyline. They must have reedited the movie before release last week because the towers were gone. So much for the escapist nature of movies.

I tried to get back into Birchton & Co. for another interview just in case, but they're mad at me for canceling on 9/11. Gosh, I'm sorry. How rude of me to be more concerned with the potential Armageddon than talking about the best cover art for your clients' annual reports. Oh, well. They're probably jerks, and I'm better off not working there. Besides, from what John said on Monday, my job is totally safe.

It's seven a.m., and as usual, I'm the only one here. After flicking on the lights, I sort through the pile of yesterday's acc.u.mulated mail on my chair. I work uninterrupted for the next hour and a half before the next employee arrives. Kathleen flounces in around nine thirty-way to set the example, BOSS. Her face darkens when she sees me and she doesn't return my greeting. Hey, thanks for asking. I am feeling much better this morning!

I'm knee-deep in a cost-benefit a.n.a.lysis spreadsheet when Kathleen approaches. "Jen, I need to talk to you."

"Sure, just a sec. I've got all this data I'm crunching, so if you don't mind, I'll finish off this column and-"

"That wasn't a request."

b.i.t.c.h. Someone's off her meds again.

I follow her to her office and watch as she closes the door behind us. I haven't been able to see in here since she installed blinds. She said it was so she could use her breast pump during the day, but I suspect napping. What a mess! There are stacks and stacks of paper piled two feet high around empty filing cabinets, their drawers thrown open. Her desk is littered with textbooks, covered with discarded Starbucks cups, and smeared with nasty coffee rings. And is that a dirty ashtray I spy? For G.o.d's sake, she's still breast-feeding. When her kid can't do math because she smoked, she'd better not come crying to me.

Without blinking an eye, Kathleen says, "We're letting you go."

"Excuse me?" This is a joke or a prank of some sort. I surrept.i.tiously glance around for a camera.

"We've eliminated your position."

"You're kidding, right? I spoke with O'Donnell two days ago, and he told me I was promoted. He said I was the future of this company."

"We've had a change of plans."

"What do you mean 'a change of plans'? How do I go from getting promoted to fired in forty-eight hours?!?" I am astounded. She's actually serious.

"You aren't fired. You're laid off."

"Thank you. That's a really comforting distinction."

"There's no reason to be snotty, especially since we're being so generous with your severance package. Now, if you'll just look here-"

"Whoa, wait a minute. Don't talk to me about my package. I want to hear the thought process behind this decision. And I think I have every reason to be snotty, as you so succinctly put it. I work at least sixty hours a week for you with no overtime, and I spend half my weekends in this office. I'm the first one here in the morning and the last to leave."

"Jen, you don't understand the bigger-"

"Excuse me. I'm not finished. Yesterday was my first sick day in the year I've been employed here. Sales in my lines are up one hundred sixty percent and I won the national market leaders.h.i.+p award. I created our entire marketing platform. My business plan was sent out as required reading to every single sales manager in the company. In light of my accomplishments, I would really appreciate knowing exactly what went awry."

She starts, "Well, since 9/11, we don't really know what's going to happen and-"

I interrupt. "Do NOT blame this decision on terrorists, OK? If anything, the attack will INCREASE demand for my Web-based products because people will travel less. I'm sorry, but that line of reasoning simply does not compute. I demand you level with me. I'm owed that much."

"It was a business decision." She shrugs and fumbles a cigarette out of one of her piles.

"Do you know how many friends I've lost since I started working here because I didn't have time for them? Do you understand what I've given up in my personal life in order to come this far? I've gone above and beyond the line of duty in this job every single day, so I think I'm ent.i.tled to more than 'It was a business decision.'"

"Jen, what can I say? It was a business decision, and I'm sorry."

"Don't tell me you're sorry when you're not. Your patent lack of sincerity makes me sick," I snarl. "But I don't want to leave here without an answer. Please explain where things went sideways for me. Was it because my child care issues kept me from putting in a full forty hours? Or is it that I squandered company resources doing my MBA homework? Or that I had wholly inappropriate conversations about the dissolution of my marriage to my underlings? Oh, no, wait, that was YOU. So, frankly, I don't have a f.u.c.king clue why I no longer have a job with Corp. Com. and you still do." I am livid.

Kathleen tries to stare me down, but I see the slight quiver in her chin. With a trembling hand and wavering voice, she gives me a piece of paper. "Now if you'll just sign this form saying you'll make no further claims against the company, I can release your severance check to you."

I read the doc.u.ment. In addition to holding the company harmless, I have to pledge never to speak ill of the organization or else they can take back my check. Fine, whatever. I sign the doc.u.ment because, really? I have no other choice. I push the form back with so much force a cold cup of coffee spills onto one of Kathleen's textbooks. She ignores it and hands me a thin envelope.

I tear it open and examine the enclosed check.

It's made out for one week's salary.

ONE WEEK'S SALARY?

A full year of pus.h.i.+ng myself to the limit is worth one week's pay? I missed my niece's birth for one week's pay? I gave up my best friend's wedding for one week's pay? I skipped every major holiday with my family last year for one week's pay? I have to cough up $300 a month to cover up all the gray hair I've gotten from job stress for one week's pay??51 I imagine I'll be violating the "not speak ill" clause very soon.

"This is bulls.h.i.+t and we both know it," I state in a matter-of-fact voice. "And at some point, Corp. Com. will discover exactly how worthless you are."

Her eyes damp, Kathleen barks, "We're done here. I'll give you a few minutes to clear out your desk, and then I have to escort you off the premises."

Silently, I stalk out of her office and return to my cubicle, where I promptly purge every single doc.u.ment I ever wrote from my computer. I created them on my time, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if someone else is going to benefit from my intellectual property. Zing! There go all my spreadsheets. Zap! See ya in h.e.l.l, cross-referenced customer database! Bing! Good-bye, case studies! Poof! Au revoir, award-winning marketing material! And just for good measure, I wipe out my entire hard drive with a trick Fletch taught me. They're going to need computer forensics to retrieve any of my information. For a minute, I consider bringing down the entire network, but I restrain myself.52 I toss my cell phone, PDA, and office keys on the desk, and take a last look around. Grabbing my purse, I decide to abandon all my desk tchotchkes. It's not like I care about some stupid Dr. Evil action figure, and I refuse to I be one of those a.s.sholes you see all over the streets these days, boo-hooing and carrying a box full of shoes, plants, and kids' pictures.

Right before I'm escorted out, Courtney returns from her morning appointment. She quickly figures out what's happening and a single fat tear rolls down her cheek, cutting a path through her foundation. "How am I going to do my job without you?" she asks.

"You'll have to talk to Kathleen about that," I say. "Call me later."

In the cab on the way home I remind myself things aren't so bad. I'm smart, healthy, and talented, right? I mean, look at all I accomplished in a year with virtually no local management support. I kicked a.s.s! I won the national market leaders.h.i.+p award! Any company would be lucky to have someone as driven as me. I should be able to land another job in a minute.

You know what? Maybe I'll get an even better position, one where I don't have to work with r.e.t.a.r.d-y Artys and soulless sales managers and stupid PR hacks. I'll have a nice salary and my own private office with a door and girls to get my coffee again. Everything is going to be just fine.

As the cab pulls up to my building, it hits me that I won't be able to buy my couch anytime soon.

And then I start to cry.