The Job (15 page)
My
phone beeps and the message reads, “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m
going to start management training,” I write. “It’s terrifying, but I think
it’s time I realize that I’m not the only one who can do it.”
Despite
my cheerleading disappointment, over the years, I built quite the collection of
first place ribbons, trophies and certificates declaring me champion at this or
first place with that.
Every
time, I would come through that door and I’d walk right past my dad and show my
mom what I’d won.
Every
time, she said the same thing, “That’s okay, honey, you’ll do better next
time.”
When
I was younger, I tried to explain that I had, in fact, done better than anyone
else, but she’d just pat me on the head and say, “It’s not nice to take
advantage of people’s kindness.”
It
took me years before I realized what she meant. She was saying that I only got
the awards because the judges felt sorry for me.
After
that, I stopped tacking up my certificates and stopped polishing my trophies.
Now, they all sit in the bottom of the closet in this room.
My
phone beeps.
The
message says, “You’ll do great. Have you ever done employee training before?”
I’d
been trying to ignore the fact that I’ve never in my life trained a person to
any level higher than salesperson or cashier.
“No,”
I write, “not to that level. It can’t be that much different than normal job
training, though, can it?”
When
I got to be a teenager, I’d still try out for everything and I’d still come
home with awards and certificates, but by the time I walked through the door
and saw my mom sitting in her chair, I’d be overcome with a sense of dread at
the response I knew was coming, and I’d just walk in my room, open up the
closet door and toss whatever I’d gotten in one of the boxes I’d placed in
there.
It’s
been so long since I opened that closet door that I don’t even remember how
many boxes I put in there.
I’m
pretty sure my high school diploma’s in there somewhere.
The
phone beeps and I read the message.
“That’s
all right,” he writes. “Do you know anyone who has trained other people to
higher positions?”
“Not
really,” I start, then as the thought comes to me, I groan. “There was a guy
who was doing some work for me. He’s done that sort of thing, but I’d feel
weird asking him.”
I
lie back on the bed.
Eric
probably wouldn’t help if I asked him anyway. Besides, they’re totally
different kinds of training.
The
phone beeps and the message reads, “Are we still avoiding the finer points of
our lives, or can you give me a little more to go on? What kind of work do you
do?”
There’s
really no reason for me not to tell him what I do. I mean, I’m nowhere near
ready to actually meet him, so it’s probably best to keep the store name out of
it, but maybe it might actually help to give him a little more to go on.
“I
own a clothing store,” I write. “The guy’s a contractor.”
I
just close my eyes and wait.
My
mom’s still got the TV blaring like she used to and my dad’s already in bed,
though how he can sleep with that racket, I’ve never known.
A
new message comes in, saying, “They’re different kinds of work, but I bet the
basic principles are close enough that he could help you. Why don’t you ask
him?”
“Maybe
I will,” I write, “but have kind of a weird relationship. Things are starting
to even out, but he doesn’t work for me anymore.”
I
sit up and look back toward the closet and decide that tonight’s the night I
open that door again and pack whatever I find in the car.
This
is something I’ve done every time I’ve come home and stayed in this room, but I
already know that the shot of courage is not going to last.
I
lie back down and wait for the beep.
“Do
you have his number?” he writes after a few minutes.
“Yeah,”
I write, “well, his work number anyway, but he’s never answered it. I don’t
even know if it’s a working number to tell you the truth.”
After
a minute, another message comes in, “Well, now that he’s not working for you
anymore, he might be more willing to answer that phone. Try giving him a call.”
He
has a point.
Stupid
as it is that Eric didn’t answer his work number—granted, I only ever called it
while he was working on the other side of the store—he’s got to be hoping for
someone to call, so I find the number and press send.
“Hello?”
“Hey
Eric, this is Jessica from Lady Bits,” I start.
“Oh,
hey there,” he says. “What’s up?”
“Hey,
I know you’re probably really busy and everything, but I was wondering if you
might be able to point me in the right direction on something.”
“What’s
that?” he asks.
“I’ve
decided to take your advice and move up some of my people. The problem is—”
“You’ve
never trained a manager before and you’re worried that if you screw it up, all
of your worst fears will come true?” he asks.
“Something
like that,” I answer.
“Well,
I
am
very busy,” he says over the
unmistakable sound of an aluminum can hissing as it’s cracked open, “but I
might be able to help. When did you want to get together?”
“Oh,
no,” I laugh. “I was thinking more of a phone mentorship or something like
that.”
“A
phone mentorship?” he asks.
“Yeah,”
I answer. “You know, if I get into a training situation where I don’t know what
to do, I give you a call.”
“The
problem with that is that you’re assuming you already know the proper way to
train a manager in the first place. Did you take any business courses?”
“Yeah,”
I answer, “but they only went over general theory.”
“All
right,” he says. “I’ll meet you at the shop when you open tomorrow.”
He
hangs up before I can tell him that tomorrow, we’re closed.
I
try calling him back, but the number just goes straight to voicemail.
I
can’t believe this is the guy that I’m really going to for advice on higher
training for my employees.
This
is going to be a disaster.
Threading
the Needle
Eric
I’m
still not sure if Jessica would slap me or hug me if she found out I’m the one
she’s been texting back and forth, but I really don’t think that now is the
time to find that out. I’m totally in to her after these messages and don’t
want to fuck it up so soon.
First,
I’ve got to charm her into the realization that I’m not nearly as despicable a
person as she thinks I am.
This
is not going to be easy.
“Hey,”
I say with a smile as she pulls up in front of the store. “Ready to get to
work?”
“We’re
closed today,” she tells me.
“Oh,
right
,” I answer, putting my palm
against my forehead. “I totally forgot about that.”
“Yeah,”
she says.
“Why
didn’t you call?” I ask.
Okay,
that one was just because I am a
bit
of a despicable person.
“I
tried to, but—”
She’s
already flustered, but I interrupt her anyway. “It’s all right,” I tell her.
“You and I can discuss the Eric Dawson approach to making great employees into
great employees who can carry a little bit more of the burden so I, or in this
case, you, don’t have to work quite so hard—trademark pending.”
“That’s
quite a title,” she says, shaking her head.
She’s
still guarded with the smile, but she’s already loosened up dramatically over
where she was only a couple of days ago.
“All
right,” I start again, “how did you tell your employee or employees that you
were giving them a promotion?”
She
hesitates.
“You
did tell someone that they’re getting a promotion, right?” I ask.
“I
just decided on it last night,” she says. “I haven’t really had the time to
talk to anyone about it.”
“All
right,” I say. “I can understand that. Since the store’s not opening today, are
you hungry?”
“I
ate before I came,” she answers.
“Can
we talk in your office?” I ask.
She
pulls the keys from her pocket and opens the door, quickly running over to the
security system’s keypad on the wall. Her sexy ass bounces the entire way and I
can only imagine how fantastic it would be to bend her over and give her the D.
“Who’s
not open on a Saturday?” I ask.
“We’re
not,” she answers as she puts in her code. “I thought you would have noticed
that by now.”
“I
just thought you didn’t want
us
working during your busiest day of the week,” I laugh. “Is that something
you’re going to be looking to change when you’ve got a manager or two to take
some of the heat off of you?”
“I
don’t know,” she says. “I’ll think about it.”
This
is going to be harder than I thought.
I
catch up with her and we go to her office.
“You
can leave the door open,” she says as I instinctually go to close it.
“Right,”
I chuckle. “I’m just so used to you calling me in here to yell at me that I—”
“You’re
usually the one who wants to come in here and yell at
me
!” she protests.
I
hold up my hands and, smiling, I say, “Calm down. It was just a joke.” I rub my
hands together and ask, “So, where would you like to start?”
“Well,
I guess I’d just like to know where I
should
start,” she says. “I’ve trained cashiers and salespeople, but never anyone with
the kind of responsibility I’m looking for.”
“You
know, I’m sorry, but would you like to go get some coffee?” I ask. “I’ve gotten
into the habit of sleeping in on Saturdays, and I’m having a hell of a time
keeping my eyes open.”
“There’s
coffee in the break room,” she says.
“You
have a break room?”
“It’s
for employees only,” she quips, the hint of a smile creeping up one side of her
face.
I
get coffee and the morning goes on. As capable as she is and as willing as she
keeps saying she’s become to start handing off some of her day-to-day duties,
she’s really fighting me on just about everything.
Finally,
it gets to the point that we’re not going to make any progress whatsoever until
she learns that she
can
trust people
that she employs. As I’m technically an employee right now, although we never
really got around to discussing whether there would or wouldn’t be payment, I’m
ready to do my part to help.
“Do
you know what a trust fall is?” I ask.
“Kind
of,” she answers. “I mean, I do,
I’ve
just never done
one. I didn’t get that far in the cheer auditions.”
“You
were a cheerleader?” I ask.
“No,”
she says, “I just told you that I didn’t get that far. You really don’t listen
very well, do you?”
“What?”
She
clenches her jaw.
She
doesn’t think I’m being anywhere near as charming as I so obviously am.
“All
right,” I tell her, “the process is simple. You stand with your back to me and
on the count of three, simply fall backward.”
“You’re
going to catch me, though, right?” she asks.
“Of
course I’m going to catch you,” I tell her. “It’s not a breaking trust fall.”
“Okay,”
she says, obviously trying to gear herself up for the difficult task of
believing that I’m not just trying to get her to fall on her ass. “Where should
we do this?”
“We
can do it here,” I tell her. “It really doesn’t matter so long as we both have
room to stand and you have room to fall.”
“Let’s
not do it in here,” she says. “The floor’s slippery and I can just see you
losing your balance and breaking a hip or something, and I’m really not sure if
my insurance covers trust falls.”
“Whatever,”
I tell her. “Let’s go to a carpeted area then, and we can do it there. It’s
really not that big a deal. I’m not going to let you fall too far before I
catch you. It’s just about going just past that point where you could catch
yourself and trusting that I’m behind you and that I don’t want to see you get
hurt.”
We
walk out onto the sales floor and she spends five minutes trying to find the
perfect spot despite my assurances that it really doesn’t matter where we do
it.
“Okay,”
she says. “We can do it here. You’re going to catch me, right?”
“I
don’t know what kind of friends you have, but yes, I’m really going to catch
you,” I tell her.