The Pinnacle (Part 2)

Let's be clear about one thing here, everyone has the same reason for looking forward to this event.  The free food, drinks, resort and activities are nice, but people are there to "network".   Read: people are there to kiss up.  There is so much deep, nose-in-crack, butt-kissing going down at The Pinnacle, it should be sponsored by Listerine.

We get to the outdoor welcome dinner early and manage to grab a couple of glasses of wine before finding an empty table.  A frozen coconut concoction sounds great in 58 degree weather, but we manage to resist the urge.  We sit on the outskirts of the event and watch as the gravitational pull of VP and P create clusters of rubbing shoulders around them.

Above me, hierarchically speaking, are Assistant Managers, Managers, Area Managers, Directors, Vice Presidents and finally El Presidente himself, The Bulldog.  The Bulldog's cluster is the biggest.  He is actively smiling as his asshole is diligently cleaned and he meets "my wife" and "my husband" as if that were to improve anyone's stock in his eyes.  I like to picture him taking off his shoes at the end of a night like this and wondering aloud, "where the fuck do we find these people?"  These people who always start their script the same way:
"Hey, Bulldog, it's [name] from [department] in [city and/or state].  I'd like you to meet my [insignificant other]."
WHY??  Why the hell does this guy, who clearly doesn't know you, want to meet another stranger who  is wearing:
a) an ill-fitting suit
b) a helmet of hairspray
c) a little bit of Pinnacle-ada on her sweater?

Sorry, that was a trick question.  He doesn't.

Just as I'm thinking that they might let any ass-hat into this party, I see Cock Bombay and my suspicions are confirmed.  He's pulling his wife behind him like a rag doll as they make their way through the crowd toward The Bulldog.  I think, if this doesn't go well, he will blame it on her.  He will find something outside himself--her dress or hairstyle or lack of stimulating conversation.

It's over quickly.  It's a lot of jostling and what I imagine is the generic response from The Bulldog: "I hear great things about what you're doing down/up/over/out there in [city and/or state].  Keep up the good work.  We've got our eye on you."

Cock Bombay's entire face is beaming.  He is so happy that I almost forget that such a smile usually has a canary behind its teeth.  But I find myself happy for him in that moment.  Perhaps because, when things are going well, those around him are spared.

We drink our wine as our table finally fills with the latecomers who could not get seats closer to more important people.  We meet them.  I feign excitement about what [name] is doing down/up/over/out there in [city and/or state], because I know they're doing the same thing to me.  I want to apologize for being the very bottom of the totem pole.  Maybe tomorrow they'll fly a little closer to the flame.

The Pinnacle (Part 1)

The Pinnacle Weekend was once reserved for those achieving and exceeding in sales metrics: New Activations, Accessory Sales and Features.  The incentivized path was that which added the most pre-decimal numbers to a customer's monthly bill.  Recently though, to prove the doubters wrong and get the numbers up, The Company finally started incorporating Customer Satisfaction scores into the required metrics.  That elusive JD Powers Piece of Acrylic would find shelf space, dammit! 
Sales alone would no longer get you to the best weekend of work you ever had!  The cherry-pickers, the hustlers and those "sales" guys were all ousted.  The 1% was overturned and yours truly has been given access in a customer service coup.

The Pinnacle is to reward the top reps in the West (14 states) and sometimes takes place in such exciting destinations as Park City, UT and Honolulu, HI.  This year, when my ticket to ride comes in, Wifey and I pack up the bags, load up the car and drive the hour it takes to get to to Dana Point, CA--five minutes from my parents' house.  It's not that I'm ungrateful, but this is the second time I've been rewarded with a trip home.  The first time followed a stellar 3rd Place finish on Jeopardy! which I would later forfeit so as to not have to pay the taxes on a $4000 trip.  'Put it to you this way':  Dana Point is a beach in Southern California's Orange County.  That means March is mid-60 degrees at best, cloudy and damp.  So all those other reps heading to "Sunny SoCal" were in for a real surprise.  At least everyone knows how to pack for Park City in March.

"God really wants you to go to Dana Point."  Wifey assures me with a Field of Dreams destiny.
"Meh."
"And the drinks are all free."
"We'll go."

We arrive.  I instantly begin calculating the salary costs of people checking us in.  15? 20 staffers?   Just to read the names of a couple hundred?  A photographer???  I've begun doing this, this critically suspicious accounting of "How much did these brochures cost?" and "What's the best possible price for buying Hi-Liters in bulk?"
As I stare at the extravagance around me, Wifey implores me to "let it happen."  I do.

"Here are your badges.  Make sure you wear them at all times while on the resort.  And which two of these day-time activities would you like to participate in?"  The cheery voice makes me feel guilty for not being more impressed.  I attitude-adjust and look at the list.
"Well, let's see.  I guess Whale-Watching and...um the Art Walk?"
The golf reservations had all been taken, we'd both already taken surfing lessons, SCUBA freaks Wifey out and the rest were all Arts and Crafts.  I saw a couple of names scribbled under "Basket-weaving" and I shivered.  As it would turn out, since neither suffering the colder conditions of whale-watching nor the amateur water colors of local artists sounded appealing, we would ultimately bail on the two events for which we signed up anyway.
"And we'll see you at the welcome reception tonight!  Get ready for those Pinnacle-adas!!?
"Our what?
"Pinnacle-adas!  It's the official drink of the weekend! It's a Piña Colada but with the name..." my ears spare my brain and seal themselves instinctually.

We go to our room.

She reads the next name from the list.

Trim Job

When I started working here, the Cell Phone Industry was enjoying Roaring '20s style opulence.  Sales reps were comparing Rolex watches and hifalutin car payments while "hey, drinks are on me!" was happening all over.  The marketing department was less the image of fiscal responsibility and more that of a glow stick all-night rave.  The Company spent on things that either didn't have proper names or names that had been repurposed.  Lanyard?  Ooh, I'd love a lanyard.  Coozie? I'll use it everyday!  Carabeener clip bottle-opened combo?? I was just THINKING about drunk mountain-climbing!!  
You need tchotchkes?  We got tchotchkes.
 Alas, the once spendthrift days of The Company are far behind us now.  Whereas Lakers' Tickets were once a common reward and free phones practically opened themselves before us, we are now reminded that our paycheck is our reward and that we are lucky to be employed.  As cell phone companies transitioned from regional providers to national carriers, expenses multiplied.  Why would you choose between raising prices and trimming costs when you can do both?  I can't say I wouldn't do the same thing.  But as margins increased, so did the distance between The Company and The Customer.
At one point in history, we were allowed to credit customer accounts $100 per day to satisfy Activation Fee refunds and billing discrepancies.  The Company thought, not entirely inaccurately, that we could employ our sounder judgement and reduce the number of expensive phone calls that go into Customer Service.  Now, we have zero authority.

The customer has never had any patience for "Policy" as an excuse.  To be fair, "Policy" is a shitty excuse, but sometimes it's the only one we have.  The only Policy that is consistent seems to be the one that further pinches the customer every year.  They tell us to disclose these as they come up, but they don't really want us to.  If they did, they would tell us how.  They would tell us what surcharge A and B are on your bill, and where that money goes.  We would warn you that 411 costs $1.99 per call.  Well, some of us do.  But it's a lot to remember.
Test:  You are signing up a new customer.  You make sure to tell them about:
a) Activation fees
b) City taxes
c) surcharges A, B and/or C
d) 911 fee
e) bill proration
f) $40 restocking fee if they return the phone
g) the inability to get another phone for almost 2 years
h) $1.99 calls to 411
i) International calling rates to Canada, China, Japan, Argentina, et al
j) All of the above
k) None of the above

Officially?  J
The other 99.9% of the time?  Yeah, I'm trying to sell a phone here.

If I were in sales elsewhere:
Enterprise:  "Your family will look ridiculous in this Ford Fiesta."
Starbucks:  "I'm selling drugs!!  HAHAHAH!!"
Disneyland: "Hope you're ready for long lines and screaming kids while encountering occasional wafts of peppermint and...vomit?"
Nordstrom: "Your man tits are going to look amazing in that sweater."

Every time a fee is added to your phone bill, we are supposed to tell you.  We are supposed to remind you of the Upgrade Fee.  We are supposed to be able to explain that, while you were offered a "free upgrade", all that means is that you are free to come in and do it.  Seriously, that's how it has been explained to me.  So of course 'nobody told you about the upgrade fee'; we can't explain it, let alone defend it. 

Someone is benefitting from these profits and growing margins, though.  Rewards are given to the Executives who find money and they'll keep going until the last customer leaves. As each VP gets promoted, the replacement must one-up their predecessor.  That's what progress looks like, right?   One year, a new VP decided that The Company would write letters to 2000 customers advising them that we would no longer be able to offer them cell phone service.  The reason?  They were calling in to Customer Service every month and getting credits.  They were costing The Company.  So The Company fired a couple thousand customers.

So yeah, rewards?  Benefits? Perks?  Not for the rest of us.  We have to buy our own A-Phone at full price($600+).  Or we can open up our own $100/month service for the privilege of using it on the same 2-year contract that any customer can get.  It's no wonder that, for the first three years we offered the phone, we didn't know how to help people with it.  None of us could afford to use it.

Over the past 10 years, The Company has been boiling the frog, trimming the fat and tightening the screw.  In fact, there is only one weekend out of the year that is dedicated to celebrating the top 1% of sales reps.

(For those keeping score at home: that's 1% congratulated .82% of the year(assuming 3 day weekend) for a total of .00821% of YAY!)

But it is one weekend of all-(and I do mean ALL)expenses paid.  One weekend in a great resort with good food, free alcohol, skydiving and golf.  The 1% get this weekend and I can tell you, honestly, it is awesome.  So it's no wonder that we find ourselves distracted, behaving like rats climbing to the top of the barrel, to get to this summit of accomplishment, this weekend The Company has called The Pinnacle.

(cont'd Tuesday)

The cost of not doing business

I read the next name from the list.

“Becky?”

“Yeah, what the hell is going on with you guys?!?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What the hell is up with the service?  I tried calling you five times on the way over here and the phone call dropped every single time.  I didn’t have any service yesterday at my apartment.  I didn’t get my VOICE MAILS UNTIL TODAY!  I MISSED OUT ON THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS IN BUSINESS!  I MISSED A $6000.00 BUSINESS CALL.”

“Jeez.”

She’s attractive, but she’s not so attractive that she’d be worth a $6000.00 business call of any kind.  I size her up to help her, but she’s barking up the wrong tree.  Unfortunately, “Shoo, Go Away!” doesn’t fly here.  So here we go.

“I’m terribly sorry, what can I do to help?”

“Well, can you fix the service?”

“Alas, I cannot.”

“Well then, I would expect some kind of compensation for all the business I missed out on yesterday.  I really could have used that job and now I’ll probably never get the chance again.”

“So you’re looking for some kind of compensation?”

“Yeah, maybe a credit for the thousands of dollars I spend with you every year and for the thousands more I just missed.”

“So, you want thousands of dollars worth of credit?”

“Well, I doubt you are authorized to do that, but something might be nice.”

I swallow my pride, notice her yoga pants, bleeding-heart-cause-bracelet and blue eyeshadow.

“Let’s see if you qualify for any discounts on your bill.  Are you in a union or guild, by chance?”

“I’m in SAG,” she lowers her voice to a level that still reaches the entire room but also tells the entire room that it’s a secret.

No shit.

“Well, there’s a 15% discount for that!”

“Great!  Why wasn’t I told about this months ago??”

I want to slap you.

“I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

“Is there any way to make it retroactive to get a little credit?”

“Oh, well, they just announced it last month,” I half-lie.  The discount was always available, they just changed it to 15% recently.

“Okay, well I guess that will have to do, if that’s all you can do.”

Again, my powers are questioned.  Again, nothing encourages me to hold my ground nearly as much.  She leaves, oddly satisfied.  I get paid nothing for the therapy session.  I might add the discount.

Cock Bombay appears out of nowhere.  “Did you ask if the customer was Likely To Refer the Company based on your service?” 

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the question on the survey doesn’t ask if the customer would refer the company to their friends based on my service.  There’s a totally different question about my service.  We’ve gone over this.”

“It doesn’t matter how you see it.  The customer cannot be willing to recommend you but not the company.  Make sense?”

Make sense.

A-no

Every other phone call was like that for a month.  Bosses saying “Get me the A-phone!” and assistants scrambling to do so.  Some were understanding, others, obviously less so.  Typically the shit would flow downhill and you could tell how awful the boss was by the behavior of those they had employed.  I suppose the logic being that if you’re hiring someone to do your barking for you, you’d better be sure their bark is at least as loud as yours.  I’ve never met Nicolas Cage, I probably never will.  But if I do, he owes me two apologies.  One for the inexcusable behavior of Francine Jones, the other for every performance he’s given since Raising Arizona.

Finally, it was launch day.  The line had begun the night before and consisted of two 15 year-old kids intent on spending the night and being first in the nerd queue.  The overnight security guard would later inform me that these two became frightened of the local transients, went home and came back at daybreak.  They hadn’t lost much ground.  They ended up 20th and our line was 150 strong at opening.  I was sure that our store, being the flagship of the region, would clearly be given the lion’s share of Southern California’s supply.  We had assured every caller that, even though we could not hold an A-phone for them, we were positive there would be plenty of them in stock.  Our store was, and still is, the sales leader of all of Southern California.  How could we not be amply supplied?

We sold through the 110 A-phones that we received in 2 hours.  That was it.  Done.  The line was still there, the people were still willing.  We blew through our supply before 10am even hit. Then we practiced our pitch for the disappointed who would be frantically running through the door all day.  We didn’t know when we’d be getting more but we remained optimistic.  “Hopefully (surely) tomorrow.”  How could we not?  We’re the phone store, after all.  Check back again tomorrow.  We’ll have more then. Wrong.

  The biggest sales day of the year was a bust.  We sold maybe 6-10 A-phones per sales rep; then we became greeters.  I was supposed to be consoled by the idea that “some stores didn’t get any!”  What a joke.  That enraged me even more.  Why would I feel better that other reps got shafted even worse than we did? This company was the laughing stock before this debacle.  It looked like the phone guys were dancing to the tune the computer guys wrote.  The computer guys kept selling. Were we all hanging from the strings held by the turtle-necked puppeteer?  

What followed was an embarrassing five weeks without the A-phone.  Five weeks of phones ringing, ringing, ringing.  I can still hear them ringing.

“Thank you for choosing The Phone Company.  This is Jason.  How may I assist you?”

“You guys got A-phones?”

“No, sir.  I’m sorry we are still sold out. Maybe next week?”

“So, you guys are the phone company and you don’t sell phones?”

“That’s right, sir.  Pretty ironic, huh?”

“It’s fucking stupid is what it is.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Then comes a sigh, followed by the most annoying version of the two most common syllables in the English language.  A breathy, raised pitch of incredulity betraying the actual word.

“Ohhh-kayyyy.”

Dick.

Our appetites had been whetted.  Our hopes had been built up.  Our importance in the grand scheme of things was severely overestimated.  Meanwhile, the computer company’s stores were selling thousands.  

A more cynical version of myself would make the argument that this was diabolically intentional.  Maybe someday, someone will file a class-action lawsuit.  It won’t be me.  But it does seem suspicious.  Sales reps at The Phone Company were paid commission.  Employees at The Computer Store were not. Why would the cell phone company want to sell the A-phone in their stores when they were not making any money on the equipment anyway?  They were guaranteed the service contracts.  No other carrier’s service would work in the phone.  Selling them at the computer company’s stores was equally profitable from the contract point of view and that way you wouldn’t have to pay your employees any commission.  They made out like bandits for over a month.  We answered phones; they raked in the money.  Finally, after a long, dry July in the first week of August, we started selling the phone in our stores.  We also started getting all the complaints that would go along with doing so.

Launching the world’s most exclusive, innovative and advanced mobile phone device can present “challenges.”  “Challenges,” I have learned, is the corporate terminology for “cluster fucks.”

The Nicolas Cage Family

As I mentioned, 2007 brought many other things beyond new cat genitalia.  In the second week of the year, the computer guys and the phone guys held hands on stage and promised to revolutionize the way we saw cell phones.  They took a shot across the bow of every other smart phone manufacturer and promised the nerds, “you will levitate!” They announced the A-phone.  

Almost six months before it was scheduled to be released, the word was out.  People began plotting a way to get their A-phones without waiting in line, without co-mingling with the masses, without following the rules.  

“Can you hold one for me?”  No.  “But it’s me!”  Sorry.

One week before the actually launch, I get a phone call at the store:

“Hi, Jason, this is Francine Jones, assistant to Nicolas Cage.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I just wanted to make sure the four A-phones I ordered are still on hold for the Nicolas Cage Family to get on launch day.  Actually, dear, if we could get them before launch day, that would be even better, but if we have to wait until launch day, I totally understand.”

“Excuse me, ma’am.  With whom had you spoken about this?”

“With Alex.” 

Alex.  Of course.  Alex was the reason I had to look up the word ‘smarmy’ one time; a customer had pulled me aside and described him as such.  If ever there was an individual who lacked actual emotion, but felt they needed to project it, it was Alex.  Alex was also quick to over-promise and under-deliver.  The prospect of helping out the Nicolas Cage Family was probably too enticing for him to pass up.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you were misinformed.  We can’t hold the phones for anybody.”

“WHAT?!?  Ooooh Noooo, that’s NOT what we had discussed.  Let me talk to Alex.”

“Alex is not here right now.”

“Then let me talk to a manager.” 

Morbid curiosity wanted to see where this would go.  I felt like fielding this one.  Besides, had I put Cock Bombay on the phone, Francine would have burst.  That’s not to say she wasn’t about to with me, but I was feeling safe on the other side of the phone line.

“I am the manager, ma’am.”

“Okay, fine.  Well, I spoke with Alex and he ASSURED me that you would be able to put four phones aside for the Nicolas Cage Family.”

“Ma’am,” I grow more quiet as she gets increasingly loud--a trick I learned from an ex-marine of all people,  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but even the executives for both companies releasing the A-phone have to wait in line.  We’re only selling one per person, per visit.  First come, first served.”

“You don’t understand,” her volume now matching her condescension as she deliberately articulates, “This.  Is.  For.  The.  Nicolas.  Cage.  Family.  You don’t really expect them to wait in line, do you?”

Practically whispering, “I assure you, ma’am, I do understand, but you need to know that we are not able to make exceptions for anybody.  Those are the rules.”

“What!?! I can hardly hear you, SPEAK UP! Can you help me or not?!?”

“The answer is no, ma’am.  No one can help you with this.”

“Unbelievable.  Un-be-liev-a-ble!”  And then the exchange that I will never forget as long as I live.  “Do you really want to leave a sour taste in Nicolas Cage’s mouth?!?”

“Ma’am, I’m not interested in leaving any kind of taste in Nicolas Cage’s mouth.”

Click.

Kitty needs a new penis

Doctor Behnoodzadeh is a young doctor. I like him because he’s relaxed.  He doesn’t scare his patients into unnecessary procedures or medicines.  He has a great bedside manner and is very efficient as well as competent.  Oh who am I kidding, I just wanted some Ambien.  So that’s enough about him.

The flight to South Africa was broken up into two 11+ hour stints.  One from Los Angeles to Paris, then next from Paris to Mauritius--an island off the cost of Africa in the Indian Ocean.  The plan was to stay awake for the first flight and sleep through the second.  Since neither my would-be-bride nor myself excel at sleeping near strangers in cramped quarters, we were advised that a sleeping pill would help.  Ambien being the drug of choice, I asked the good doctor what his thoughts were.

“You want some Ambien, sure.”

Easy.

“Any shots I should take?”

“Check with the CDC.  I think you’ll be fine.”  I shoved the Ambien prescription into my back pocket and started walking home.  

I had found, over the years that two healthier-than-drinking-at-lunch tricks helped me stay sane at my job.  The first was playing music in the evenings and the second was walking to and from work.  The 3 miles usually takes 45-55 minutes depending on how adventurous I get with the route.  That’s enough time to fully digest an album and some bonus tracks.  At the time, I was deep into Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs and Englishmen.  A magical live recording at the energetic peak of the white Ray Charles’ career, it was the raw live answer to the digital bullshit I’d been surrounded with.  I was walking in LA.  I had nowhere else to be.  I had just stopped by the pharmacy in the Grocery store, picked up my Ambien ‘friends’ and was on the way home when I got the call.  Frantic fiance on the phone:

“Hey love?”

“Yes?”

“Kobe’s sick.”  That’s the cat.

“What?  What’s wrong?”

“I took him to the vet because he was doing this weird crouching thing and he was dripping urine in weird spots around the house.  They thought he was blocked and they tried a catheter but they can’t get the catheter in.”

“How’s that possible?”

“He needs surgery.”

Of course he does, I think to myself.  I’m coming off sick leave pay and 10 days of unpaid suspension.  We’ve got wedding expenses and a scheduled honeymoon.  We have plenty of money for Operation Cat Operation.

“Come pick me up.”

The green Beetle swooped by and grabbed me in front of LACMA and I held the crying Kobe on my lap all the way to the west side.  I told him, not really knowing, that everything was going to be fine.  I swear he looked at me and questioned my credentials.

Once inside the Veterinary Hospital, they quickly took Kobe into the examination room and we tried to make light of the situation by joking around.  It’s what we do.  We joke, mostly.  I sometimes think I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.  Even so, it’s hard to be merry when there are sick animals all around you.  Any and all attempts at humor come to an abrupt halt when they ask you what level of resuscitation you want to go with.  

“Huh?”

“Well basically there are three levels of resuscitation, and three associated costs.  The first level is your basic CPR where we try and resuscitate using the traditional cardiopulmonary methods.  In the most extreme level we open up the rib cage and attempt to hand-massage the heart back to it’s blood-pumping self.”

Oddly enough, I don’t remember what Combo plate number 2 was, but that’s the one we chose.  Fortunately, we wouldn't need it.

The doctor came back into the waiting room and delivered a line neither of us will ever forget.  “Well. He’s special.”  Read: expensive.

“How so?”  

“Basically, his penis is scabbed over.”  I feel my own testicles recoil up into my stomach a little. Yikes. “That’s why he’s having trouble urinating.”

“What could have caused that?” The fiancé probes.

“Well, we don’t usually see it in adult cats.  It usually only occurs in a litter of confused kittens and it is usually the result of excessive suckling.”

“Whoa, what?”  I instantly try to figure out in my mind if this scabbing is the result of self-imposed suckling or if the other cat, Tyson, had anything to do with this.

“Yeah, it is a bit strange.  But you know how a cat’s tongue is coarse like sand paper?”

Testicles contract again.

“Yes...”

“Well, with enough suckling, that could cause the penis to scab over and close up.”

“Okay!” I jump up to shake my balls out from wherever it feels like they’re hiding and pace around the room a little.  The doctor continues.

“I can build him a...kind of...vagina.” 

“What?!?” Are you kidding me?

“I mean, it’s not that different.  I would just slice open the penis and fold the two sides back and sew it that way.  The urethra will be open and he’ll be able to urinate.”

It baffles me that doctor’s can talk this way.  I once thought I could be a doctor.  I really don’t think I have it in me though. I remember in this moment why I abandoned Pre-med Psychobiology--I can’t pretend, in moments like this, that I don’t have a dick of my own.

The operation goes off without a hitch and we return the next day to receive the good news.  Instead of paying for a sex change, Kobe got a new three-thousand dollar penis.  The doctor was able to perform some blah blah blah and well, I’d heard enough.  We grabbed the antibiotics, the new-dicked, cone-headed wondercat and headed home.  We needed a drink.

Funny thing about spending that kind of money on a cat, you feel much better about spending $60 bucks on Mexican food and margaritas.  So after we got the cat home and sequestered him in our walk-in closet by blocking it off with a folding table, we carefully administered a pill of antibiotics and told the cat to chill.  We then drove to El Compadre.  You have to laugh at these things.  So we did.  A couple of Flaming Margaritas and marginally good mexican food later, we were ready to relax.  We get back home and I reach for the second round of cat medicine.  Hmmmm....where did I put those cats pills?

Funny thing I learned about cat antibiotics and Ambien: They look exactly the same. 

FUCK!

I race upstairs to find that Cone-head has managed to leap, probably fly, over the folded table, make his way onto the bed and was writhing around between the pillows purring like an Apache helicopter.  

“Oh shit!” 

I look at his eyes.  I don’t know what I’m looking for.  I don’t gaze into his eyes that often.  Should they be mostly black?  I need a comparison.  Where’s the other cocksucker?

“Get Tyson!” I yell.

“Why?” Katie asks, handing me the black and white one.

I pick up both cats and take turns listening to their heartbeats.  Since one was scared shitless and the other higher than James Brown, it was pretty hard to tell.  I hold both cats to my ears at the same time, like some crazy homeless DJ.  I pause.  I listen.  The second starts purring now and I think, “hmm, he might be fine.”

Knowing that most humans we know, averaging 150 pounds, take only half of an Ambien to fall asleep and that this cat, tipping the scales at 11 lbs., took a whole one, we decide, somewhat reluctantly, to head back to the Veterinary Hospital.  To figuratively die of our own embarrassment is one thing, for the cat to literally do so as a result would have been something else.

Fortunately, the keepers of the kennel took mercy.  “Oh, that’s nothing.  Usually it’s intentional.  Owners are like ‘one for me, and one for you!’  You guys are fine.  He’s just high as a kite, so we’d like to observe him overnight, if that’s possible.  We’re positive he’ll mellow out and finally get some sleep.”  

Overnight.  Right.  Just....put it on our tab.

Those were some expensive margaritas.

Following ten days of emails, resumes, and hiking Runyon Canyon while listening to new music--I had come to a sobering conclusion.  I had already been off work enough this year.  I had collected more than my share of unearned income while rehabbing my shoulder.  At this point, I wouldn’t be able to start a new job until after my return from Africa in June--over 6 more weeks.  Too much time not working.  I can’t do it.  I wrote an impassioned e-mail and sent it to The Lady.  I wrote my own obituary.  I cited how much I would be missed, that I was a valuable employee and that I would be a safe bet going forward because I wouldn’t be taking any chances.  She knew it was all true.  She knew I was more of an asset then I was a liability.  Lazarus had risen.

Cock Bombay feigned friendship in his legitimate astonishment.  “I’ve talked to all other managers, none of them ever has seen anyone come back from the suspension.  You’re like legend.”

I was back, yes, but under a final written warning.  For one year I had to watch my every move and tell customers “no” more often then I liked to.  But I kicked ass that year.  So much so that I had earned, at the end of 2007, the honored distinction of going to the company’s Pinnacle Awards Weekend.  The Pinnacle was reserved for the top 1% of sales people.  This is an all-expenses-paid trip to a five star resort.  I mean ALL EXPENSES.  Drinks, food, skydiving, golf.  I had earned it even in spite of shoulder surgery, suspension and the resultant missed three months of work.  Then, The Lady told Cock Bombay and Cock Bombay told me:  I couldn’t go because I was still on a final written warning.

Aw jeez.