One of the unfortunate things about not writing GF for a period of time is that during my writing vacation a young man snuck up on the CEO of United Healthcare and shot him dead. Considering how often I talk about how most CEOs are the lowest form of life on the planet, I'm sure you were clamoring to know my feelings on the subject. I was chomping at the bit to possibly write a Goodnight, Fuckers: Special Report.
#FreeLuigi. 'Nuff said.
I'm sure I'll get more into it at a future date, but it made me think about the time I tried to get a job with United Healthcare. It turned out to be the worst job interview I've ever been involved with. So yeah, fuck them and their executives. Not just for that, obviously, but you know what I mean. Funny thing: one of their executives led the interview. I had to check the dead guy's face to see if it was him. It was not.
A few years ago I was desperate for a job. I applied for just about everything. There was a confidential listing on Indeed. It was a customer service position. The pay was really good. Ordinarily when that happens, I have my doubts, but the confidentiality of the listing made me wonder if maybe they were telling the truth.
I applied and got an immediate email back saying they wanted to interview me. It wasn't the blink of an eye, but not very much longer than that. Something in the back of my head said to forget it, but I plunged ahead. Got in my suit. Headed out to the address. When I arrived I saw the office belonged to United Healthcare. All things considered, they really needed customer service help. Maybe that was why they were paying so much.
I talked to the receptionist, who signed me in and told me to wait in the conference room. The one where a bunch of other people are sitting? Yes, that one.
Red flag. If you've been invited to a job interview, and it turns out to be a *group* interview, you should leave immediately. I was desperate and a little curious, so I took a seat with the rest of the applicants. They were dressed nicely, but I was the only suit in the room. No one else seemed to be feeling dread. They were all rather cheerful. But my hopes were pretty low at that point. I started writing a story in my notebook--which I swiped from a previous job, as it looked like leather (it's not) and was very professional--hoping no one would want to drag me into one of their cheerful conversations. I looked busy. I'm good at that.
The executive comes in, and I suddenly know what this is before he even opens his fucking mouth. I have been lured in with a customer service position, but the trap is that it's a sales position. Hence the high salary ($1000 biweekly! If you're good at selling stuff, and that is TBD). Also, this guy is here to pump us up like Leonardo DiCaprio in The Wolf of Wall Street. Oh my God, is this a fucking boiler room? I make a silent bet with myself. Before this presentation is done, he will say something along the lines of, "Did you see that Mercedes out there? One of my reps just bought it. Only been working here for two years."
He goes into his spiel, and it sucks just as bad as I thought it would. He's going on and on about how much money we'll be making at his company, and if we sell a client, every time they spend money with the company, we would get a piece. Your pay can only go up! The sky is the limit! No commission caps!
He pointed out the window. "Did you see that Mercedes out there? Parked out front? That belongs to a *new hire* who has only been here half a year."
Ah fuck.
I wondered if I should just tell this guy to go fuck himself in front of all these potential employees. It would feel good. It might even save a few of these people from wasting their time at a bullshit job. But I stayed quiet. A lot of them looked desperate, and their eyes kept getting bigger and bigger the more this asshole talked about the Mercedes. They needed the money. I kept my silence.
Finally the presentation ended, and he handed out fucking job applications for us to fill out. Dude, I already gave you my fucking resume. I'm *not* going to write the whole thing out for you on this fill-in-the-blank sheet. (And it was only one sheet long. Apparently I should have had only two jobs before this one. Higher education seemed unnecessary, but they left a line for it just in case.)
At that point I gathered my things, put on my coat and got the fuck out of there. The executive was hanging out at the reception desk talking, and he looked up when I walked out of the conference room like he expected me to ask questions.
I said, "No thanks. I've worked enough shitty sales jobs."
He looked flabbergasted. He might have said "uh," but I walked past him and left. Once in the parking lot, I looked for the Mercedes. There wasn't one.
I can only think that the dead CEO was this guy's boss.
I get it. Some people watch movies like The Wolf of Wall Street or Glengarry Glen Ross or Boiler Room, and they want to do that job. Sex in the office and fearmongering your possible customers sounds like a lot of fun. But if you think about the reality, you don't want to work at those places. If you're ever in a situation like the one I was in, get as far away from it as possible. You don't need the money that bad. There won't be much of it, anyway.
And yes, I did honor the bet. I removed a dollar from my wallet, as it was just a token wager, and I put it right back in. I seem like an okay guy, sometimes.
I do, no matter how painful, pay off any bets I lose. I don't bet often, only when I'm dead certain of something, so betting against me is usually a losing proposition. But I did lose a painful bet at my previous job. I was working with a guy I'd worked with at the job before that one (telecom is an intensely incestuous business). We sat in the same pod at the time, his desk next to mine. There was an intern that summer who kept finding excuses to hang out at my friend's desk. She was very flirty with him, much to his horror. He was in his fifties at the time, and she couldn't buy a legal drink of alcohol. He wanted nothing to do with her, but he used to be a very good salesman (he might still be, but I hope he's retired by now), so it was against his nature to tell her off.
The summer ended, and she came by to say she was going back home. She added, "I'll see you next summer!"
As soon as she was gone he said, "That's not happening."
I smiled. "Oh? She's smitten with you. How do you plan to avoid her?"
I forget what he said next, but it was something along the lines of, "Not happening, dude."
I pressed on. He said, "I'll bet you a bottle of whiskey that it doesn't happen."
We worked it out so that if I won, he'd get me a bottle of Wild Turkey 101. If he won, I'd get him a bottle of Jack. If you've been around me a long time, you'll know that I despise Jack Daniel's. I'd go into it, but I've done it a thousand and one times. I'm sure I've written extensively of the reason in GF somewhere. So if I lost, it would be exceptionally painful for me.
I was dead certain that she would be back, and there was no way he was going to escape her clutches. My mistake was assuming that my friend was just as much of a loser as me, possibly worse because he thought he could get away from someone who bordered on being a stalker.
Near the end of the year (I think? I drank a lot back then, so I'm fuzzy on that as well as most of my thirties) he announced that he was moving on to a better job, that he'd put in his two weeks' notice. I felt the icy stab of betrayal in my back. That son of a bitch had to have known this was going to happen.
He claimed that he was just looking back then, but I have this nagging feeling in the back of my neck that he's lying to me, that he knew he was getting out of this place. He knew for a fact I would lose when he made the bet.
Fast forward to his last day. He's getting ready to pack up his things and leave. It's now the last half-hour, and he comes by my desk. We had these shelves at the end of our desks, about chest high, so he perched both arms on top of that, shaking his head down at me.
"I never figured you for a welsher, Bruni," he said.
And that stung even worse than his betrayal. But I'd played it like I was welshing, just to see his reaction, so I have no one to blame but myself.
"How dare you?" I said. I reached into the giant drawer that was on the other side of my desk. I revealed the fifth of Jack and held it just outside of his reach. "I shouldn't give this to you. I think you cheated."
He gave his explanation, as stated above. I sighed and let him have it.
He grinned, and in that moment I knew for sure he'd played me. Goddammit, that hurt. The guy at the liquor store knew of my JD psychosis and looked askance upon me. "Just ring it up," I said.
And now my friend had that bottle. No matter how painful, it must be done. And . . .
At least he shared the bottle with us. It was Friday near 5, so we could drink in the office if we wanted to. And we did. That bottle was empty by the time we left.
Looking back now, that's actually a pleasant memory, all treachery aside. I lost track of him when I went crazy in 2020. I wonder what he's up to these days. I hope she found him, that rat bastard.
I miss him.
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