The Worst Job I Never Had
[another one-story week, but this one’s really epic]
At the time of the following episode (1992) I was stuck in the midst of the most depressing and financially insecure period of joblessness I have ever experienced, so bad that I threw money away playing the state lottery every chance I could. I spent my mornings sulking, my afternoons waiting anxiously for the mail to arrive (not that I was expecting anything), and my evenings eating crap and watching Jeopardy.
Occasionally I escaped outside to roam the streets of Berkeley which somehow seemed productive, especially after the one time I found a $20 bill on the sidewalk. During these excursions I collected all the free weeklies I could carry. These usually ended up barely read and scattered on the floor of the den.
Once in a while I accumulated enough will to sift through the classifieds, knowing full well this wouldn't lead me toward meaningful employment. I have a hard time lying to people, and an even harder time trying to act excited about work I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole if there wasn't a paycheck attached to it. So whatever few job interviews I snagged via my clumsy responses to these classified ads, I'd usually blow when I'd show up babbling like an idiot, obviously apathetic about the company's success, and always, always underdressed.
However, my hopes perked up one day when I spotted one special classified which read something like: "Comedy! Do you like to laugh? Come join our advertising team in a creative atmosphere.." It then went on to mention a lot of money could be earned. Well, I liked comedy, I'm somewhat creative, and I sure as hell enjoyed money, so I gave the number at the bottom of the ad a ring.
I found myself promptly in touch with The Events and Promotion Corporation. The guy on the other end of the line spoke like a disk jockey, and told me to come on by the office on Monday to meet and greet and talk about the job. The office happened to be situated in Oyster Point down in South San Francisco. That's a long drive to go discuss a job which seemed pretty vague but hey, I was bored and unemployed.
Monday rolled around and I put on my best (read: only) button down shirt and took a nice, long drive over the bridge and down to the office. The receptionist handed me the standard issue clipboard with the standard issue forms to fill out about my name, address, favorite sportscar, etc. Another potential hiree arrived wearing a total power suit. He sat down and scribbled on his forms as I watched him and wondered how much practice it took before he could make that perfect knot in his tie.
Eventually the manager called us in to her office. Her name was Shawnee, and she seemed like a normal person. A really friendly chat ensued about all our backgrounds, and she eventually launched into what the company did. Actually, despite her memorized speech about Events and Promotion, I found myself as uninformed as when I arrived. I did get an earful about comedy shows and managing, but the exact tasks I'd have to perform remained a mystery. Whatever. The meeting ended quickly, and she said she'd give us a call later about when we could come in for training. I repeat: Whatever.
By the time I got home I already had a message on the machine from the kind folks at E&P, asking if I could come in on Thursday for a full-day training session, and if so I should wear a nice suit. It wasn't at all clear if I was to get paid for this, and I didn't really have any nice clothes, but I called back anyway and said I'd be there. Hey, I was bored and unemployed.
I woke up way too early on Thursday morning and dressed up in a "mutt suit." That is to say I put on my sole white button down shirt still unwashed from Monday's "interview," a pair of blue dress pants which my father wore 25 years ago, some dilapidated black pseudo-loafers I bought for my old inventory job, black dress socks with white paisleys I got for a lame semi-formal back in college, a skinny black tie, and a grey sports coat borrowed from my housemate, Bob. God, I must have looked like a fucking idiot.
I avoided the Bay Bridge traffic by leaving at 7:30am. The upshot of this was I had about a half-hour to kill once I got there. So I aimlessly drove around Oyster Point, which happens to be one of the most uninteresting of locales in the San Francisco Bay Area.
When I entered the E&P office, the receptionist led me to the conference room, where two other "trainees" were already waiting. She left, and I got to talking to those guys, and they happened to be equally confused and wary about this job, but here they were because hey, they were bored and unemployed. One of them just moved to the Bay Area from SoCal, and the other just wrapped up a long stint as a soundman for a cruise ship cover band.
Our pleasant conversation abruptly ended when the business day started at 8:30am. A sudden and frightening blast of cheezy 80's-style heavy metal pop consumed the entire office, escaping from behind the closed door of the adjacent room. The walls shook as the guitars went chug chug chug chug chug chug chug chug. In time with the heinous music came various shouts from the E&P employees, "SELL! SELL! SELL! SELL!" We three trainees became very silent and afraid.
The music ended and in its place came a call and response reminiscent of bad high school pep rallies: "What are we going to do? SELL! How much are we going to sell? A LOT!!" The energy needed to generate these shouts so early on a weekday morning went far beyond what simple caffeine could provide. Were they all on coke? Or speed? All of the above?
Remember, I still had no clue what this company did exactly, and by merely overhearing this unorthodox morning wake-up ritual I knew it couldn't possibly be up my alley. The SoCal Dude agreed. We were both like fuck this shit and went as far as to get up and start heading out when the conference room door flew open, crashing into the jamb with a resounding "Whoomp!"
I fell back into my chair as the sea of chanting speed freaks from next door paraded inward and around the conference table. "I'm STEVE!!! Nice to meet YOU! I'm STACY! How's it GOING?!" They spouted these greetings in full chest voice as they circled us, forcibly shaking our hands or creepily grasping our shoulders. I was too stunned to respond. Even if I wanted to I couldn't get a word in edgewise as every second a new face with wide open eyes appeared and screamed, "I'm DAVE!! Pleasure to MEET YOU!!"
And then they were gone, the last one slamming the door behind them. Whoomp! Still calm enveloped the room, and we newbies entered a mode of serious private contemplation about the world and what draws people to do the things they do. During this brief moment of silence I checked to see if I wet myself. The three of us finally met each other's gazes and whispered in agreement: "whoa."
It was now 8:45am. The conference room door opened again, this time at a normal velocity. There stood the receptionist, and she spoke with a smug smile. "I hope that wasn't too scary," she said and added, "They're ready for you in the main office." We got our heads together and followed her there.
In the main office the big boss sat at his desk, with the dozen or so from the earlier freak parade forming a semi-circle behind him. The boss then began telling us about how much fun we were about to have today, our first day as "trainees." Great. We were going to go out on the town to spend a day with one of the "trainers" and learn the ropes. Wonderful. And at 5:30, when the day is through, we'd all meet back here for a "fun quiz." Splendid. I really wanted to make a break for it but just couldn't bring myself to do so. I'm such a wuss.
The three of us got paired with our trainers for the day. I was paired with Susan, a short red-head who looked like death and smelled like the floor of a tavern. So this would be my companion for the next 8 hours? It just keeps getting better.
As we left the office Susan got right to the point: She felt like hell because she got totally shitfaced drunk last night, and to add insult to injury, she's terribly allergic to alcohol. So before we could do anything, we had to drive to her house to get her car, since she crashed at a friend's house last night and got dropped off this morning.
After driving another five miles south to her damn house, I waited outside for 20 minutes as she searched for her keys inside. Once ready, I followed her back to the office and got into her car, a crappy, old Toyota which reeked of cigarettes. We headed on up to San Francisco.
On the ride Susan finally explained what E&P were all about. Everybody starts out as trainees, like myself. If you do well, you soon become a trainer. Playing your cards right as a trainer means you can make over $1,000 a week. Shawnee, who I met the other day, was a manager, which is the next step in the hierarchy, followed only by regional manager. The current regional manager was 23 years old and raking in $100,000 a month.
Well, the money sounded great, but what does a trainee do? Susan explained that E&P sold tickets for comedy shows, but these weren't just any old comedy tickets. They were sold in packs of twenty for the mere price of four, and not only that, they could be used at any comedy show in the Bay Area. Anyway, trainees sold the tickets. Trainers also sold tickets, but also trained trainees. Once you sell enough tickets as trainer, you become a manager, and so on.
Now I understood: The Events and Promotion Corporation was a living, breathing pyramid scam. Well, sort of. It definitely had very little to do with advertising and creativity like the classified ad suggested.
After this explanation Susan said that we'd spend all of today selling tickets. At this point she began rummaging fervently in her purse while absent-mindedly swerving the car into other lanes of traffic. Much to her dismay she realized she must have left her stash of tickets at some bar in the Castro where she got plowed last night. So that ended up being our first stop.
Surprise, surprise, the bar was closed. Well, she did find one pack of tickets in her glove compartment, and figured we could kill time selling those. Until now I figured we would go to selected businesses and regular distributors to sell these tickets. Never in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that the common practice was to harass complete strangers in the street! Good Lord!
Susan hit the sidewalk and began showing me how it's done. She approached random people as they walked by. "Do you like comedy?" she'd ask, stinking of bad cocktails. Nobody paid attention to her, but she'd still scream at them as they passed, "Well have a nice day!" I followed ten paces behind her, rubbing my eyes, pretending not to notice her.
This went on for a couple blocks. She practically assaulted one old lady, asking her "Do you like to giggle?" The poor woman looked scared to death, and as she fled Susan cried out to her, "Can you do me a favor? Have a nice day!" I felt completely embarrassed, but this misery ended when Susan stopped and told me she needed to relax for a while.
We went back to her car and just sat inside it. There she revealed to me various war stories about ticket sales in different parts of the city, but suddenly fell into a coma-like trance. "Susan?" I said, tapping her on the shoulder. She snapped out of it with the announcement, "I'm going to be sick." She left the car and bolted to the post office across the way in hope they had a public restroom.
I noticed she left her purse behind. I looked around to see if anybody was watching. One part of me really wanted to just take all the money I could find in her wallet and run. But once again, my good-natured passive side won this battle and I just sat in the car, awaiting her return.
Susan emerged from the post office with another announcement: "I think I'm gonna die." With nary a pause after making such a dire declaration she flung herself around as more people came down the street. "Do you all like to laugh?" she belched in a cloud of vomit breath. Yet again she found herself completely ignored. She told me earlier she sometimes made over $1,000 a week selling tickets in this manner. This became less and less easier to believe.
I told Susan we should just leave because she obviously wasn't up to it today and I could come back some other time (yeah, right). "No way," she insisted, and then limped into a nearby alley, crouched between two cars, and threw up again. When she was through, she came out of the alley and gasped, "okay, let's go."
I told her I should drive, but she wouldn't allow it. During the whole ride down 101 I poised myself to grab the steering wheel in case she happened to pass out. The way she drove with her head tilted all the way back and her eyes barely open made it seem that she was just on the brink of becoming completely unconscious. As we passed Candlestick Park I asked, "Are you sure you don't want me to drive?" "No," she said. That ended up being the entire conversation during the long journey back.
She dropped me off and apologized for this wasted day. I couldn't have been more happy to put an end to this madness since I knew very early this morning I didn't want this job. Bye! I got in my car, tore off the tie from around my neck, and sped home. Soon after that I went back to being an office temp, and I liked it.
About two years later I had a regular office job in downtown Oakland. One afternoon, a workmate and I were enjoying a peaceful noon hour in the company lunchroom when some blonde dude with a shit-eating grin waltzed right on in, waved a pack of tickets, and asked, "Do you guys like to laugh?" We snapped at him, "No!" After he left our office we called security which came right away and escorted him out of the building. Quite satisfying.