Black Buck(22)

“Every time someone tells you no, hangs up on you, or says ‘maybe next month,’ I want you to dig deep and do everything not to be discouraged. I want you to pick up the phone again and make the next call no matter how much rejection you face and how many nos you hear. Remember, if you are saving them money and time, there should be no reason they don’t sign.”

Reader: I hope you’re taking notes. Clyde was a maniac, but this is Sales 101. Repeat: if you are saving them money and time, there should be no reason they don’t sign.



“And if you see someone getting down, pick them up. Hitting this month will mean we’ve hit our number for a full year, which is unheard of. So I want you to open your eyes, scream as loud as you can, clap your hands, and slam your foot so fucking hard that people on the ground floor think there’s an earthquake.”

Everyone opened their eyes, bodies tense like sprinters awaiting the starting gun’s blast.

“Every day is deals day on three,” Clyde shouted. “One.”

There was something on their faces.

“Two.”

It took me a second to realize what it was.

“Three.”

Rage.

“EVERY DAY IS DEALS DAY!” they shouted, clapping their hands and slamming their sneakers, heels, boots, and clogs onto the ground so hard that the floor really did shake.

“Get some food and let’s get to work!” Clyde ordered.

They descended on the trays of food like vultures. And then I felt a hand on my shoulder. Clyde.

“Let’s go. You and the other two are training with me today. But I’ll show you to your seat first.”

“Okay.”

We arrived at the sales floor, a long rectangular room containing ten rows of desks.

He pointed to two desks facing each other. “The Duchess and Frodo, you’ll sit there and there.”

“You,” he said, gripping my shoulder, “will sit here.” He slapped the desk closest to the frosted doors, in the same row as the Duchess’s and Frodo’s.

Moments later, everyone poured onto the floor balancing plates and bowls overflowing with food from the breakfast buffet. Most of them hurried to their desks. But a few of them, the ones whose desks were closest to mine, seemed to be taking their sweet time.

“Take a seat,” Clyde said. “And get settled in. Then we’ll begin training.”

When I pulled out my chair, a downpour of paint pummeled me, covering my desk, chair, and body in a white blur. When I looked up, I saw a dripping bucket hanging from the ceiling, apologetically swaying from left to right.

WHAT THE FUCK?

The entire floor burst into laughter. Some people snapped photos; others, whose desks were closer to mine, smirked as they wiped off flecks of white paint before sitting down.

With paint on my clothes, in my hair, and even in my nose, I turned to Clyde. He was smiling.

“Got you, Buck! Ha-ha! I thought the white would help you fit in better,” he said, smacking my back. “Don’t look so shocked. It’s just a little welcome joke. You’re not mad, right?”

Not mad? I couldn’t speak. I wanted to ram my fist through his face, shattering his abnormally straight LEGO castle–looking teeth.

“Well,” he said, waving his hand around the mess. “Clean this up and meet us in Bhagavad Gita. Training starts in ten.”

I should’ve known from the Middle Passage to never trust a white man who says, “Take a seat.” It could be your last.





7





In addition to being an ancient Hindu text, the Bhagavad Gita was a nondescript meeting room on the thirty-sixth floor of 3 Park Avenue. It featured a brown wooden table with brown chairs, floor-to-ceiling windows, and walls made of dry-erase material. It had the same corporate vibe as the conference room, but stuffier.

The receptionist, Porschia, procured a white T-shirt and sweatpants for me, but I still had white paint stuck in my hair, eyes, eyebrows, fingernails, and other places I couldn’t see but felt. If this, a little white-boy fraternity hazing, would be the worst of my time at the company, I figured I could manage.

“Sit,” Clyde ordered us three new hires, as he wrote something on one of the walls.

He capped his dry-erase marker and moved to the side, exposing what looked like a family tree. Rhett’s name was at the top; dotted and solid lines poked out of it, leading to other names and boxes.

“What is this?” Clyde asked.

“An org chart,” I said.

“One point for Buck. We have Rhett at the top, since he’s the CEO and founder, Chris to the right of him, as cofounder and CTO, and beneath each of them are the teams they own. As you can see,” he said, pointing to his name, “I’m the director of sales.”

Frodo looked left and right, like he was about to cross a street, and raised his hand.

“You don’t have to raise your hand, Frodo,” Clyde said. “You’re an adult now.”

“Oh, right,” Frodo said, slicking his hair back. “I just noticed everyone below Rhett was a VP or C-something except you. Why’s that?”

Clyde went beet red and balled his writing hand into a fist. “Well, we had a VP of sales, Frodo, but he sucked and got the boot. And as you so astutely pointed out, there’s now a vacancy, which I plan to fill.”