If the Earth was an orange and people were a type of mold then New York City is where it turns from a black sticky dust into a protruding white fuzz. The fungal hairs would be growing the highest in the center of Time Square which is preciescely where I stood. I didn't plan on standing at the epicenter of man made industry to ponder my existence when I woke up this morning. I didn't come here to see a Broadway show or get my picture taken with a Muppet. I travelled here for a doctor's appointment concerning my over sensitive right ear. As it turns out, not only does Manhattan boast the biggest and best in entertainment and economics but also is where one goes to visit the smartest man in America concerning the inner ear. My problem is frustrating and unique so regular ear doctors have had trouble figuring out what my issue is and have yet to assign a name to my condition.
I'm staying with my cousin Michael who lives in the city. He told me to meet him when he gets off work in Time Square. So here I am, alone in the center of it all contemplating my ear problem with two hours to kill and I hear a strange yet familiar sound. It's coming from below me and sounds unmistakably like a didgeridoo. A few people I know play the instrument well so I am certain that is what I'm hearing. The buzzy drone echos through the underground maze of subways and utility shafts and from where I'm standing provides an odd juxtaposition to the hundreds of theater sized screens silently vying for my attention. To the left, there is a stunning time lapse video of the skyline of New York rushing from sunrise to sunset in a few seconds. To the right there is an image of a teenage girl buckling her bra behind her back while giving the camera "the eye" in the mirror she stands in front of. This scene is actually depicted across three large screens that stand about sixty feet high.
Countless other screens can be seen for blocks in all directions, some on the very tops of the buildings around me and from where I stood, they all seemed to be pointing at me. It's as if all the screens in the world from cell phones to stadium scoreboards are fruits of the constantly growing technology tree. Here amongst the densest part where the skyscraper leaves are the most voluptuous they grow to county fair proportions. These fruits aren't meant to be bought, sold, and consumed. These ones are the ones the farmer sets aside to compete with and win.
The synchronicity with the didgeridoo soundtrack is odd and appropriate simultaneously. It puts me into a primal state of mind where I can see things for what they really are. Suddenly, I break my gaze from the perimeter of glowing technology, refocus my eyes, and realize that I'm not alone on the droning grate.
A masked person, who I'm assuming is a man based on his height and build is dressed as the statue of liberty and is patiently waiting for a tourist to come get their picture taken with him. His mute demeanor and hidden identity only adds to the mysteriousness of the moment scored by a tribal hum.
As I studied the details of his costume another metaphoric epiphany hits me. If the actual statue of liberty was the geographic north pole of American ideology, this man who stands before me disguised as liberty so he can get you to give him money is like the magnetic north. The one that is close but not quite the axis of which all rotates around but nonetheless is where you will end up if you follow your compass alone. The real statue stands by herself on an island nearby with her solemn vow to never put down her torch while the country's citizens are drawn to the glitz and glamour of showbiz and are thrilled to get their image preserved in digital film with a poor imitator of the famous lady.
I found out later that I was right about the sound being a didgeridoo but there wasn't anyone below me playing one. It was an art installment of a few speakers temporarily placed underground with a didgeridoo playing on loop to be heard from exactly where I stood. I can only imagine this blog post is precisely the reaction the artist was hoping for. When I found out that it was art I wanted to declare it pretentious and stupid but it only took me a few seconds to reconsider and realize that all my thoughts about life in metaphors were prompted by the ominous and unexpected sound. Maybe Mr. Liberty standing silently on his grate in the middle of the screen forest in his cheap costume was the inspiration for the installment. Who knows, does it matter? I think I'm going to move to a small town on a tropical island now.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Friday, September 6, 2013
Hooters, Tequila, Poop, and Deception.
I once worked as one of those annoying street canvassers standing on both sides of the Starbucks enterance who "just wanted a minute of your time". It was a tough job getting total strangers to give me their credit card info and social security numbers to help save starving children in Africa but I was fairly good at it and the commissions were high. It was an interesting gig to say the least however it's not this job that I want to write about today. It was only because of the non profit job that I even dared consider the job offer I got about a year later. It was at this next gig that I was exposed to how seriously corrupt the telecommunications industry was.
The five or so major companies that vie to be the one that sends you a bill for your phone, internet, and television service are always at all out war. There's nothing they won't pull if they think they can get away with it. The first rule in the phone wars playbook is to get someone else to do your dirty work. They all contract smaller companies to cover their door to door sales so they can wipe their hands easily if anything goes a foul on someone's front lawn. I'm not going to name the parent company or the contracted one because I have reason to be genuinely afraid of the latter. Let's call it "Phonco", a contractor for "Varbizon".
I was recruited the standard way, it was someone I barely knew from my childhood acting like he was the buddy that would have been my bestie if things were just a little different. I saw through his act and figured he would get some sort of level up or commission if I joined the team (he did), but the numbers caught my attention. It sounded to me like I could make about four times there for doing the same thing I did for the nonprofit a year earlier. He invited me and two other recruits to meet him and his field manager at a restaurant to go over what the job was all about. I talked to the other two guys for about 30 seconds before I had correctly determined that they were going to fail at this job. It takes a certain personality type to be a successful door to door salesman and unfortunately I was blessed with this specific strand of DNA so here I was....again.
As instructed, I met them in the parking lot of a nice looking but slightly sleazy place called Joey's in downtown Seattle. Upon entering, my friend's manager was asked to take his hat off by the host. He got mad so we left. He took us next door to Hooters instead. I couldn't decide if he was treating us or not but I was starving so I ordered a Barbecue burger without probing. As I chewed the layers of beef and onion rings, I listened to the exciting spiel that was told to us as if we were all spys getting our assignment while bond girls got us more ranch sauce. It ended with promises of swimming pools full of cash, shaped in the likeness of our own profiles (well at least enough money to frivolously buy one). I knew it was all hype while watching the other recruits slack jawed and starry eyed. I also still thought I could make a decent amount at this gig anyhow so I signed on, even though I had to pay for my burger.
The first week was actually kind of nice, it was a lot like my old job -just selling people internet instead of rescuing children in Africa from a life as a diamond mine slave. The commissions were great as promised so I did some recruiting myself and brought on two of my friends, Jesse and Justin, whom I had met at the nonprofit job. I knew these guys would be able to sell like I did so I didn't feel bad.
When they got there our field manager's boss had just arrived from Texas. We had been warned vaguely that this guy could be described as unique at best. Tom Coopers stood about 6 and a half feet tall and looked like a fat Apple with tree trunks for legs who just got back from basic training. He squeezed himself out of a tiny Dodge Neon every morning to join us in the office for a pep talk before we hit the streets. The first highly questionable thing happened right away. He placed my two friends in a different zone selling a different communications brand, in fact it was a direct competitor to Varbizon and they were selling it in an area Phonco had previously sold Varbizon packages to. It was clear how the company worked, They would just push which ever company had the best promotion for temporarily cheaper service in that area. After about six months they send out the same people to convert everyone back to the other company for more commissions. I later found out that this is how the whole industry functions and that there are thousands of smaller companies that do this all over the country with varying business ethics.
Jesse and Justin made several sales right away as I knew they would but it was weird when we would go out for beers at night knowing we were rivals by day. The first round of paychecks came in, which were 100% commission based by the way, and we all got one except for Jesse and Justin. It was explained that the system was a little backed up and they would be coming shorty. About a month and a half went by and Jesse and Justin were about to quit because they still hadn't received a single paycheck. Thousands were now owed to them. Instead of letting them go, Tom Coopers switched them to our campaign and they began receiving paychecks weekly. They never saw a single dime from the other company they sold for. Pressing charges for the missing money was decided unanimously to be dangerous and not worth the risk. The reason for our fear was because Phonco was run like a mafia. Every week we were sent a newsletter from the corporate office that featured a picture of two thugs covered in bling with expensive sports cars parked behind them. On the surface it was supposed to inspire us with all the money we could possibly make but the secondary message was "You fuck with us, we will find you and break your legs". Jesse, Justin, and I were all making good money now and actually getting our paychecks so we put it all behind us for the time being and kept working.
Tom Coopers was one of the most annoying men I've ever had the displeasure of meeting and lied about everything. Whenever he opened his mouth, it was a pep talk. It didn't matter what it was he was saying. I'll admit that I've always been annoyed by the Texas accent but it was listening to Tom yack on and on about nothing that has left me wincing now every time I hear that familiar drawl in a sarcastic condescending tone.
The worst thing about Tom wasn't how he talked, but how he got his sales. If you were new or not producing high numbers Tom would join you for a shift so you could watch how it's done. He was open and unashamed about his tactic of preying on the elderly and people who could barely speak English. When someone from either of those categories would open the door he would pretend he was a technician rather than a sales rep and act like he needed their signature to keep their phone and television from going off. Fast talking and deception was the strategy and it worked. Jesse, Justin, and I did the opposite. We applied our non profit skills and were able to effectively communicate with people on their door step. We would even walk away if we discovered that they had a better situation going on than the one we were offering. Overall we sold more than Tom Coopers and the rest of the office this way and made a decent amount of money without ripping anyone off. It wasn't enough for Phonco. In fact, it was never enough. You should always strive for more. More recruits, more hours, get your recruits to recruit, build an empire of door to door sales with you sitting on the golden throne. Sacrifice your time, health, and morals to get there. These were the ideas being hammered into our heads every morning while we rolled our eyes.
Despite the drawbacks there were little things here and there I appreciated about the line of work. One thing that made the job slightly interesting was every day was different. Each neighborhood had different types of people in them and I talked to them all. What I found most interesting were my encounters with the reclusive types. The types that no one ever sees because they never leave their house. The nature of my job had put me in the very small category of people who ever have conversational contact with these folks. I discovered that there are so many more of them out there than I ever would have thought before doing door to door work. I also ran into very friendly highly social people quite often. Occasionally I would get invited in for a beer or a shot of tequila which I always gladly accepted. Whoever offered it would always act shocked that I accepted as if I was breaking my vow of sobriety after four tough years before their very eyes. It must have been the Varbizon embroidered windbreaker that made me look too official to drink on the job.
I once was invited in to what looked like a small frat house on the inside complete with five slightly underage morons in oversized mesh shorts shooting tequila in the kitchen at 11:00 am. "The Varbizon dude is gonna take a shot with us!" announced the bro who answered the door. Cheers ensued and a shot was poured. I kindly rejected the salt lick and the lemon wedge which caused them to quiet down and watch a little more seriously. It was Patron so I knew it was going to go down easily. I threw it back without a wince which caused a stir among the group. "This is the coolest door sales guy ever," proclaimed one of the bros as if I were a new keg tap they just got in the mail. I tried one more time unsuccessfully to sell them internet before heading out again.
One sunny day, I was walking through sprawling suburban hell when my burrito lunch decided it was time for a bowel movement and gave me a short timeline to find an adequate place to shit my brains out. I realized I was about a mile and a half from my truck and there were cookie cutter grey houses with darker grey trim for as far as the eye could see in all directions. I was already having a tough time that day getting people to open their doors and talk to me, I wasn't about to start asking if I could destroy their toilet. I began to sweat profusely as time was running out fast. I found a bush about five feet high between fences where the power lines ran. I decided that crawling into the bush and squatting was not a great option however was also my best one -so I went for it. The second I got my pants down and assumed the position I exploded. It was gross but I successfully avoided getting any on me. Like a scene out of a bad Seth Rogan movie, as soon as it happened I heard voices coming my way. They sounded very close so I just held my breath and froze. I was still inside the bush with my pants around my ankles when the two women walked by getting about about two feet from me at the closest. I had no choice but to not move and hope that I would evade discovery. It worked, but just barely. While they stopped and stood next to my bush I heard one of them say to the other, "Oh my God do you smell that?!" to which the other replied, "That's awful, it smells like it's from a human not an animal, it must be a broken sewer line." Although I was petrified with the fear of getting caught I also simultaneously was biting my lip to hold back my laughter as I already couldn't help but think about how funny this story would be later. They moved on and I wiped with the paper in my binder that had of all the names and addresses of the people who lived on the block who were Varbizon customers. I left it next to the bush on the sidewalk to severely confuse the next person walking their dog.
After about six months of working the mandatory six days a week, the reasons to quit were adding up rapidly but I was still making more money there than my last job so I kept at it. Living in Seattle was becoming a drag for me as most of my friends had moved away and the traffic was only getting worse. My sister Anna was living in Portland and every time I visited her I was more envious of her life and the city she lived in. My wife and I had been living separately for about six months. She was in and out of a few rehab centers and we almost called it quits but after a few great reconciling talks, we decided to give it another go which ultimately did not pan out but not for a few more years to come. Moving to Portland seemed to be a great plan for a fresh new start so we did. I reluctantly asked Tom Coopers about transferring to the Portland office. My logic was it would be nice to have a job lined up down there, even if I didn't like it. Tom called me up a few days later and told me his final lie. He said that he had arranged for me to be general manager down there and that a team of salesmen were waiting for my arrival. When I got there and asked where my team was, they all laughed hard and long at me. The new equivalent to Tom Coopers was even worse in Portland. He began his first pep talk by pointing to his watch and asking if anyone could guess what it was worth.
I stayed for two weeks and quit when the new uniforms came in. I arrived one morning to see all the obnoxious salesmen laughing and opening up several large boxes in the middle of the office. They were pulling out orange construction vests and these stupid white full brimmed hard hats that said "Varbizon" on them. Our new tactic was to approach the doors with the same paperwork but act like we were service men and that the switch was mandatory. "Forced Migration" was what it was called. The corruption had long ago eclipsed my morals so with the uniform overhaul I quit. I didn't give any advance notice and swore never to do door to door sales again. The unfortunate reality is I found myself selling satellite dishes door to door a month later. It wasn't as bad as the Phonco gig but still sucked hardcore. Although I was a couple years shy of getting rid of all my possessions, the perpetual string of shitty jobs was turning the Van life into something larger than a glimmer in my eye.
The five or so major companies that vie to be the one that sends you a bill for your phone, internet, and television service are always at all out war. There's nothing they won't pull if they think they can get away with it. The first rule in the phone wars playbook is to get someone else to do your dirty work. They all contract smaller companies to cover their door to door sales so they can wipe their hands easily if anything goes a foul on someone's front lawn. I'm not going to name the parent company or the contracted one because I have reason to be genuinely afraid of the latter. Let's call it "Phonco", a contractor for "Varbizon".
I was recruited the standard way, it was someone I barely knew from my childhood acting like he was the buddy that would have been my bestie if things were just a little different. I saw through his act and figured he would get some sort of level up or commission if I joined the team (he did), but the numbers caught my attention. It sounded to me like I could make about four times there for doing the same thing I did for the nonprofit a year earlier. He invited me and two other recruits to meet him and his field manager at a restaurant to go over what the job was all about. I talked to the other two guys for about 30 seconds before I had correctly determined that they were going to fail at this job. It takes a certain personality type to be a successful door to door salesman and unfortunately I was blessed with this specific strand of DNA so here I was....again.
As instructed, I met them in the parking lot of a nice looking but slightly sleazy place called Joey's in downtown Seattle. Upon entering, my friend's manager was asked to take his hat off by the host. He got mad so we left. He took us next door to Hooters instead. I couldn't decide if he was treating us or not but I was starving so I ordered a Barbecue burger without probing. As I chewed the layers of beef and onion rings, I listened to the exciting spiel that was told to us as if we were all spys getting our assignment while bond girls got us more ranch sauce. It ended with promises of swimming pools full of cash, shaped in the likeness of our own profiles (well at least enough money to frivolously buy one). I knew it was all hype while watching the other recruits slack jawed and starry eyed. I also still thought I could make a decent amount at this gig anyhow so I signed on, even though I had to pay for my burger.
The first week was actually kind of nice, it was a lot like my old job -just selling people internet instead of rescuing children in Africa from a life as a diamond mine slave. The commissions were great as promised so I did some recruiting myself and brought on two of my friends, Jesse and Justin, whom I had met at the nonprofit job. I knew these guys would be able to sell like I did so I didn't feel bad.
When they got there our field manager's boss had just arrived from Texas. We had been warned vaguely that this guy could be described as unique at best. Tom Coopers stood about 6 and a half feet tall and looked like a fat Apple with tree trunks for legs who just got back from basic training. He squeezed himself out of a tiny Dodge Neon every morning to join us in the office for a pep talk before we hit the streets. The first highly questionable thing happened right away. He placed my two friends in a different zone selling a different communications brand, in fact it was a direct competitor to Varbizon and they were selling it in an area Phonco had previously sold Varbizon packages to. It was clear how the company worked, They would just push which ever company had the best promotion for temporarily cheaper service in that area. After about six months they send out the same people to convert everyone back to the other company for more commissions. I later found out that this is how the whole industry functions and that there are thousands of smaller companies that do this all over the country with varying business ethics.
Jesse and Justin made several sales right away as I knew they would but it was weird when we would go out for beers at night knowing we were rivals by day. The first round of paychecks came in, which were 100% commission based by the way, and we all got one except for Jesse and Justin. It was explained that the system was a little backed up and they would be coming shorty. About a month and a half went by and Jesse and Justin were about to quit because they still hadn't received a single paycheck. Thousands were now owed to them. Instead of letting them go, Tom Coopers switched them to our campaign and they began receiving paychecks weekly. They never saw a single dime from the other company they sold for. Pressing charges for the missing money was decided unanimously to be dangerous and not worth the risk. The reason for our fear was because Phonco was run like a mafia. Every week we were sent a newsletter from the corporate office that featured a picture of two thugs covered in bling with expensive sports cars parked behind them. On the surface it was supposed to inspire us with all the money we could possibly make but the secondary message was "You fuck with us, we will find you and break your legs". Jesse, Justin, and I were all making good money now and actually getting our paychecks so we put it all behind us for the time being and kept working.
Tom Coopers was one of the most annoying men I've ever had the displeasure of meeting and lied about everything. Whenever he opened his mouth, it was a pep talk. It didn't matter what it was he was saying. I'll admit that I've always been annoyed by the Texas accent but it was listening to Tom yack on and on about nothing that has left me wincing now every time I hear that familiar drawl in a sarcastic condescending tone.
The worst thing about Tom wasn't how he talked, but how he got his sales. If you were new or not producing high numbers Tom would join you for a shift so you could watch how it's done. He was open and unashamed about his tactic of preying on the elderly and people who could barely speak English. When someone from either of those categories would open the door he would pretend he was a technician rather than a sales rep and act like he needed their signature to keep their phone and television from going off. Fast talking and deception was the strategy and it worked. Jesse, Justin, and I did the opposite. We applied our non profit skills and were able to effectively communicate with people on their door step. We would even walk away if we discovered that they had a better situation going on than the one we were offering. Overall we sold more than Tom Coopers and the rest of the office this way and made a decent amount of money without ripping anyone off. It wasn't enough for Phonco. In fact, it was never enough. You should always strive for more. More recruits, more hours, get your recruits to recruit, build an empire of door to door sales with you sitting on the golden throne. Sacrifice your time, health, and morals to get there. These were the ideas being hammered into our heads every morning while we rolled our eyes.
Despite the drawbacks there were little things here and there I appreciated about the line of work. One thing that made the job slightly interesting was every day was different. Each neighborhood had different types of people in them and I talked to them all. What I found most interesting were my encounters with the reclusive types. The types that no one ever sees because they never leave their house. The nature of my job had put me in the very small category of people who ever have conversational contact with these folks. I discovered that there are so many more of them out there than I ever would have thought before doing door to door work. I also ran into very friendly highly social people quite often. Occasionally I would get invited in for a beer or a shot of tequila which I always gladly accepted. Whoever offered it would always act shocked that I accepted as if I was breaking my vow of sobriety after four tough years before their very eyes. It must have been the Varbizon embroidered windbreaker that made me look too official to drink on the job.
I once was invited in to what looked like a small frat house on the inside complete with five slightly underage morons in oversized mesh shorts shooting tequila in the kitchen at 11:00 am. "The Varbizon dude is gonna take a shot with us!" announced the bro who answered the door. Cheers ensued and a shot was poured. I kindly rejected the salt lick and the lemon wedge which caused them to quiet down and watch a little more seriously. It was Patron so I knew it was going to go down easily. I threw it back without a wince which caused a stir among the group. "This is the coolest door sales guy ever," proclaimed one of the bros as if I were a new keg tap they just got in the mail. I tried one more time unsuccessfully to sell them internet before heading out again.
One sunny day, I was walking through sprawling suburban hell when my burrito lunch decided it was time for a bowel movement and gave me a short timeline to find an adequate place to shit my brains out. I realized I was about a mile and a half from my truck and there were cookie cutter grey houses with darker grey trim for as far as the eye could see in all directions. I was already having a tough time that day getting people to open their doors and talk to me, I wasn't about to start asking if I could destroy their toilet. I began to sweat profusely as time was running out fast. I found a bush about five feet high between fences where the power lines ran. I decided that crawling into the bush and squatting was not a great option however was also my best one -so I went for it. The second I got my pants down and assumed the position I exploded. It was gross but I successfully avoided getting any on me. Like a scene out of a bad Seth Rogan movie, as soon as it happened I heard voices coming my way. They sounded very close so I just held my breath and froze. I was still inside the bush with my pants around my ankles when the two women walked by getting about about two feet from me at the closest. I had no choice but to not move and hope that I would evade discovery. It worked, but just barely. While they stopped and stood next to my bush I heard one of them say to the other, "Oh my God do you smell that?!" to which the other replied, "That's awful, it smells like it's from a human not an animal, it must be a broken sewer line." Although I was petrified with the fear of getting caught I also simultaneously was biting my lip to hold back my laughter as I already couldn't help but think about how funny this story would be later. They moved on and I wiped with the paper in my binder that had of all the names and addresses of the people who lived on the block who were Varbizon customers. I left it next to the bush on the sidewalk to severely confuse the next person walking their dog.
After about six months of working the mandatory six days a week, the reasons to quit were adding up rapidly but I was still making more money there than my last job so I kept at it. Living in Seattle was becoming a drag for me as most of my friends had moved away and the traffic was only getting worse. My sister Anna was living in Portland and every time I visited her I was more envious of her life and the city she lived in. My wife and I had been living separately for about six months. She was in and out of a few rehab centers and we almost called it quits but after a few great reconciling talks, we decided to give it another go which ultimately did not pan out but not for a few more years to come. Moving to Portland seemed to be a great plan for a fresh new start so we did. I reluctantly asked Tom Coopers about transferring to the Portland office. My logic was it would be nice to have a job lined up down there, even if I didn't like it. Tom called me up a few days later and told me his final lie. He said that he had arranged for me to be general manager down there and that a team of salesmen were waiting for my arrival. When I got there and asked where my team was, they all laughed hard and long at me. The new equivalent to Tom Coopers was even worse in Portland. He began his first pep talk by pointing to his watch and asking if anyone could guess what it was worth.
I stayed for two weeks and quit when the new uniforms came in. I arrived one morning to see all the obnoxious salesmen laughing and opening up several large boxes in the middle of the office. They were pulling out orange construction vests and these stupid white full brimmed hard hats that said "Varbizon" on them. Our new tactic was to approach the doors with the same paperwork but act like we were service men and that the switch was mandatory. "Forced Migration" was what it was called. The corruption had long ago eclipsed my morals so with the uniform overhaul I quit. I didn't give any advance notice and swore never to do door to door sales again. The unfortunate reality is I found myself selling satellite dishes door to door a month later. It wasn't as bad as the Phonco gig but still sucked hardcore. Although I was a couple years shy of getting rid of all my possessions, the perpetual string of shitty jobs was turning the Van life into something larger than a glimmer in my eye.
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