A group of seven trainees were lingering in the seating area near the entrance, making small talk, when Joyce walked in. The men, who looked like boys, wore loose polyester suits, their hair parted to the side or fluffed and ruffled like a poodle with a perm. Brian, a tall, gawky blonde with blue eyes, wore short brown trousers that fell above his ankle, a green blazer, and a shiny plaid tie. He looked like he was from the Midwest, or some other part of the U.S. where Joyce imagined cows roamed the streets and cornfields abounded. He stood slightly hunched, as if he was trying to shrink down to fit into a box so that he might ship himself back home. He offered Joyce a shy smile, which she returned, and then continued conversing about his subway ride that morning, for three of the other trainees had also just arrived in New York and were still adjusting to pushy crowds and the pleading homeless who stalked the hot platforms.
The trainees laughed, tilting their heads back in one fell swoop, letting out a cohesive sigh. Looking on, Joyce found the chuckle cheap, a mere formality, which she abhorred. Born and raised in Brooklyn, she knew the subways like she knew every inch of the twenty-three story apartment building where she grew up. Back when she was in college she commuted to Manhattan, waking at 5:45 every morning to apply makeup, eat a boiled egg mashed with butter and salt, and take the Q train to Atlantic Avenue, where she’d transfer to the 4 or 5 trains at Union Square. Now, she lived on her own, a few miles away from her family in a one-bedroom apartment in Bay Ridge. Her apartment, not yet fully furnished, was sparse, with a few trinkets and chipped walls that were painted a soft purple.
Standing before the rows of tables and shouting salesmen, the office looked smaller than she remembered—crammed even. A tan Asian with a mustache desperately shouted, “Of course Mr. Livermore knows I’m phoning him this morning! He should be expecting my call. No, this certainly is not about advertising. Vivianna, my assistant, fit him into my schedule!”
There were no personal assistants; instead, one secretary served the entire office. Diamonté was a finger-waving pit bull from Queens who snapped at the trainees when they asked for a stapler, and responded to the requests of upper-management with a coquettish, “Of course, honey, I’m here to serve you in any way I can.”
When Joyce approached her desk, opening up with, “Good morning, I was just wondering—,” Diamonté interrupted, declaring flatly, “You wait over there with the other newbies.” She pointed her finger towards Claire, a brunette from Connecticut with fair skin and small lips that formed a straight line across her face.
“Okay—yes, that makes sense. I’m a trainee, and clearly, there are the rest of the trainees, so I should be over there with them,” Joyce said, looking over at a group with which she did not want to be lumped in. The women looked like floating bait, and the men, with the exception of Brian, came off as cockier than their looks merited, with jaunty stances and puffed chests.
“I apprenticed my uncle, who founded a company that sells medical devices,” boasted a redhead in a gray suit and boxy loafers. “If you have any questions as the week goes on, be sure to ask me.”
Joyce was certain that she was better than this group of misfits; first, because she was smarter, and second, because she’d already had a real job, teaching for three years. She scoffed, flashing Diamonté a look signaling the group’s inferiority, but rather than welcoming what was essentially a call for an allegiance, Diamonté raised one eyebrow and said, “Owen will be out when he’s ready for your group.”
Joyce nodded and made her way to an empty chair. The first day of school was only a few days away, and she wouldn’t be there. It’d be the first September that wouldn’t start with a trip to the mall to stock up on number two pencils and five-subject notebooks. There wouldn’t be the comfort of happy face stickers and the feel of old books that Joyce loved. She wouldn’t have to console the smallest sixth grader who showed up to school on the verge of tears, offering him a box of apple juice and a squeeze on the shoulder. There’d be no camaraderie between her and the other teachers, no recaps of summer vacation in the cafeteria. Instead of decorating her classroom with welcome signs and library charts, she’d merely fill a cup with pens and put on a headset that would keep her chained to her desk until exactly five o’clock, when she’d run home and cook spaghetti.
She was now a trainee, and as much as she didn’t want to be part of this oddball crew, as much as she resisted, knowing she was a loner, used to being in charge, comfortable working with children and not adults, she knew that she’d made a choice because she felt that she’d had no other. There was no way to know if her decision to leave teaching and join GEC would pan out, or if it was all one big mistake, as her mother had tried to tell her. She closed her eyes and imagined ringing the gong, making her first huge sale, and for a moment, she didn’t hear the shouts of the office, or the nervous chatter of the other trainees, but instead, only the resounding cry of what she’d like to think was her future—one filled with the sounds of congratulatory cries and toasts to her success.
* * *
“Not all of you will make it through training week,” Owen declared brusquely. “But if you pay attention to what I’m going to teach you over the next few days, you’ve got a good chance in making the cut. Your being here means that I saw potential, but now’s the time to impress not only me, but the managers as well.” He signaled to the main floor of the office from inside the small conference room where Joyce and the other trainees were gathered around an oval table. A whiteboard in front of the room read How to be a Salesman.
Joyce wondered what she would do if she didn’t make the cut, as she was certain that Owen’s earlier offer promised her the job, not another round of interviews. Could she have misunderstood him? She’d spent the past few days imagining her life working in what she considered to be a real office. She’d finally be able to make friends her own age, instead of having lunch with the math teachers who were fifteen years her senior. She’d be able to leave her old life behind, or at least that was what she thought prior to hearing that there was still a possibility that the job wasn’t hers.
Waiting for them when they arrived were blue folders, the covers of which had a picture of Nigel Moon, the founder of the company, with a wide grin. “We’ll be covering what would take most people years to learn in just one week. This will be, essentially, a crash course in sales. I’ll teach you everything you need to know about pitching, studying your product, and how to make the most money possible at this company, and believe me, there are plenty of opportunities for that.
Joyce enjoyed being the student. She eyed the box of glazed donuts in the middle of the table. Brian was hovered over them, blocking everyone’s access.
“Look at this suit, mates,” Owen went on, rubbing the cuffs of his jacket between his fingers. “This is a four thousand dollar Italian suit, and I have eight of them.” The men in the group eyed each other.
“Let’s begin with the number one lesson of sales—understanding the hierarchy of a company. Simply put, who are you going to need to get on the phone in order to close a deal? Because if you present yourself the wrong way, you’ll be put through to assistants of assistants of sales, or some other inconsequential persons who will never, and I repeat, never be in a position to sign a contract. Tell me mates, why is that?” He paused to look around for an answer. The redhead raised a pointed finger.
“Yes, Chad.”
“Because that person won’t have the authority,” Chad answered smugly.
“Wrong, he won’t have the budget. It’s not so much about power as it is money. That’s our only concern. Write this down: the person who holds the purse strings is the Cheese. The Cheese, and only the Cheese, has the ability to sign a check. Most often this is the CEO, but in larger companies, VPs of Marketing have their own budgets. The general rule is the larger the company, the lower down you can go on the chain to find someone to pitch. Now open your folders and look at the yellow sheet entitled Pyramid of Power. No one here is going to get the CEO of Coca-Cola on the phone. Understand?”
The group nodded.
Owen continued: “Very rarely will you have only one person to pitch. People are social by nature, as well as indecisive. They will always seek out the opinion of at least one other person before committing to an investment. The person whom they’ll go to is called the Kicker. You’ll want to pitch him as well. And why’s that?”
Chad’s hand shot up in the air. Brian tilted his weight on the back legs of his chair, forcing it to tip and nearly fall.
“Joyce, why do we have to pitch the Kicker?”
Joyce tried to think. She was used to calling on students, not being put in the hot seat herself.
“Because—” she said, drawing out the word, “if the Kicker is involved in deciding if the company will spend money, he or she has to be knowledgeable about our product so that an informed decision is made.”
“Yes,” Owen responded quickly, “but even more so, the Kicker has to be convinced because he’s going to hear our price and automatically say no, case closed. He doesn’t understand what makes GEC’s reputation pristine. As the best, it’s our job, no your job, to tell him. All parties in the decision making process, or DMP, have to be pitched. No deal will go through if one player is missing from the huddle. No exceptions.”
“But what if the Kicker is out sick or on vacation?” asked Ben, a short brunette with the deep voice of a radio deejay.
“Then you’ll phone him on his cell.”
“How will I get his number?”
“Because lesson number two of sales is blagging, or, the art of retrieving personal information via lying.”
Brian’s chair landed with a loud thud.
“Without direct lines and cell numbers, you’ll never be able to reach the Cheese. The schedule of any CEO is hectic; he’ll be in and out of meetings and stuck on phone conferences. You’ll never so much as hear his voice if you don’t call his personal number.” He turned to face the group, his hips jutting forward; he was becoming more animated, enthused, as if he had just discovered a cure. He spoke as if this was all obvious information, anyone would have guessed that getting a cell phone number was necessary in order to close a deal. “You can phone his secretary under an alias, or conjure up a reason as to why it is absolutely imperative that you have his cell number. Then, wait a few days before ringing him to ensure the secretary forgets.”
Joyce considered the idea of fabricating a story for the purpose of retrieving a person’s private information with the end goal being to make money. Owen’s enthusiastic description made it seem like a game, one that Joyce thought she could win.
“Here’s an example. Ring-ring-ring.” Owen positioned an imaginary phone to his ear. “Good morning,” he said in an overly friendly voice, and then nudged Claire on her shoulder.
“Good morning,” she replied.
“I was hoping that you might be able to help me. My name is Elias Wit, Head of Research at Pennsbrook. I’m over in Belgium at the PECO conference, waiting for a meeting with John, but I fear that I might be in the wrong location. I want to give him a quick ring, darling. What’s his cell number?”
Claire hesitated, then said, “I – I can get that information right now for you.”
“The secret,” Owen said, changing his voice from charming, even seductive, to authoritative, “is to go in with confidence. Go in with the mindset that you’re not a salesman from Queens, but a colleague of the Cheese. You have every right to his cell number. You two are on the same level; maybe you’re even a little better. He went to Yale; you went to Harvard. He owns a house in Connecticut; you own a house in the Hamptons. His kids whine at night that daddy’s always at work; your kids cry just as much.”
Joyce nodded emphatically as Owen spoke. She liked the idea of reimagining her identity; that’s exactly what she was doing by quitting teaching–believing that she could be someone else.
“That brings us to the last, and one might argue most important, sales lesson, which is how to get past the gatekeeper.” Owen returned to pacing the room, his body upright, his chest inflated. “Who is the gatekeeper?” he asked. “Anyone?” He walked around the desk, looking at the scribbles on his students’ papers. “The first person you will speak with is the Cheese’s secretary. Before blagging, go in blind. You phone the number listed on the website and ask for him directly and authoritatively. Ring—Ring,” he said, signaling his imaginary phone. “Joyce, pick up.”
“Hello, how can I help you?”
“Morning. Put me through to John.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Elias Wit from Pennsbrook. Is he in?”
“Yes, I’ll put you through right away, sir.”
“Now—” Owen said thoughtfully. As Owen spoke, he kept one hand in his pocket, while the other sporadically clicked the top of a silver pen that he held in the air like a maestro. “If she asks what the call is regarding, what do you say?”
“A business opportunity,” Chad shouted.
“No.”
“A private matter,” Ben offered.
“Wrong. You either say that he should be expecting your call, or you go in with a story that can’t be proved untrue. Pull a name off one of their press releases. For example, Harold Smith from Pennsbrook and I are working together. I believe John’s been in communication with him. Can you put me through? Always end with a question. This keeps you in control of the conversation. You ask the questions, not her. If you let the secretary get the upper-hand, you’ll sink. Then, your only option will be to blag. This is route number one. Get past the secretary without letting her know that this is a sales call, without giving her any identifying information whatsoever. Exaggerate. Charm. Flirt. Do whatever you need to do to get the Cheese on the phone. You define your own boundaries, should you choose to have any.” Joyce drew a line down the middle of her paper, cutting the phrase “Pyramid of Power” in two.
Owen went on. “What do you do if she says that the Cheese isn’t in? Would you like to leave a message, mates?”
“Tell her you’ll phone back,” Brian answered.
“That’s reasonable, but we’re businessmen, we’re not reasonable. We have an amazing product to sell, and we have no time to wait till tomorrow. Our publications are flying off the shelves, so if Cheese number one doesn’t want to purchase advertising from us, Cheese number two will. In fact, Cheese number two might be ringing us on the other line. We tell her it’s urgent. This is a matter of money, and what could be more urgent than that? We ask for his cell number. Always ask for his cell phone number. If you can’t get the Cheese on the phone, you can’t pitch, and that’s what you’ll be getting paid to do, should you make the cut. Do whatever it takes to complete the pitch. If you come away with nothing else, come away with that.”
* * *
Three days later, Joyce and the rest of the trainees strutted into the offices of Phone Pharma, figuring they were now part of the team. They had befriended much of the staff while in the break room, riding the elevator, and entering the lobby. They had familiarized themselves with the neighborhood, discerning which coffee shop offered the best lattés, as well as put themselves on a first name basis with Juan, the young security guard downstairs.
Cockily, they greeted Diamonté as a group. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” teased Chad, as they made their way towards Owen’s office.
“Tomorrow will be better,” Diamonté said. “At least for some of you.”
Joyce thought about not being offered a job at the end of training week. It seemed impossible. She had already become obsessed with the notion of working at Phone Pharma – pitching, selling, and most importantly, ringing the gong. She heard the gong when she showered in the morning, reciting the pitch with newscaster precision in the same manner she used to read the back of the shampoo bottle as a little girl: Rinse. Repeat. Caution! Avoid contact with eyes.
She heard the gong as she slurped yogurt while riding the train in the morning, staring at the suited men and women as they marched in and out, catching their glimpses, and then looking away, embarrassed. Her life quickly became a matter of reciting the pitch and not reciting the pitch, practicing her intonation and not practicing her intonation. As the week passed, her determination to get the job grew. She read the pitch in various voices, trying out different inflections, and mimicking the personalities of her favorite celebrities as she did so.
First, Joyce tried Barbara Walters. She softened her voice, stiffened her jaw, and said the opening lines with slow precision: “Hi John. This is Joyce Little. How are you? Great. Listen, I’m working with Elias Wit, who heads up the R&D Department at Pennsbrook, and he suggested that I give you a call. Is now an okay time to talk? Perfect.”
She sped up, imagining how Oprah might pitch – serious, yet a little over the top. She saw a packed audience sitting before her, waiting to cheer. “I’m the VP of Research here at Phone Pharma, a publication that goes out to 36,000 C-level executives worldwide, including Heads of Drug Discovery, Proteomics, and Directors of Analytical Chemistry and Lab Automation. We’re looking to focus on the need for increasing efficiency within the discovery and verification of biomarkers for the feature article of our upcoming September issue, and we’d like to highlight BioCorp as a leading solution-provider. Would you say that’s pretty much spot on with what your company specializes in, John?”
She tried moving as she spoke, gesticulating her arms widely, flailing them like a broken windmill. Though she wore loose pajamas festooned with tiny green elephants, she imagined herself coiffed and sleek in a brightly colored dress. She was Rachael Ray: friendly and approachable. Each line she rehearsed had the goading effect of a cheerleader performing in a stadium. Her already high-pitched voice shrieked. “What I’d like to offer you, John, is a full-page, full-color advert positioned in the front of the magazine, directly across from our lead feature article.”
Joyce had been used to having to cultivate a personality from the time she spent working as a teacher. “You’re twenty-years-old,” her mentor, Virginia, told her, “and you look sixteen.” She spoke as if this was a choice Joyce made, to stop the aging process. “Imagine yourself older, wiser, and more adult. Never tell the students how old you are, or that it’s your first year teaching. They’ll eat you alive. Pretend that you’re an actress playing a role. That’s the only way you’ll survive.”
Now, Joyce looked at her reflection. She wasn’t sure which celebrity she’d imitate the next day when Owen made the trainees give their first full trial pitch, but she was sure of one thing – she wouldn’t be herself.
* * *
“I’ll set you up at separate tables throughout the office and then call you one by one. After we exchange hellos, you’ll pitch me, then, after we break for lunch, I’ll provide everyone with feedback,” Owen said as he led the group.
“This is your station,” he directed Joyce, and turned to leave. She was at a table with five young, attractive men. The manager, who was chubbier than his team, sat at the head of the table on a tall chair. The men smirked as they eyed Joyce. One of them winked.
“Good luck with your pitch,” the manager said. “We’ll be listening.”
The office was filled with discordant noise of too many salesmen shouting over one another. A tall blonde with a low cut shirt covered her left ear to better hear the man on the other end of the line.
“Don’t the executives you call overhear the commotion?” Joyce asked the manager.
“The phones have noise blockers.”
She closed her eyes and tried to calm her nerves. She was brave, she told herself. She didn’t look fearless or tough, but she was. Her mother had always told her to voice her opinion, stand up for herself, to fight if necessary.
The phone rang.
“Hello,” Joyce said eagerly.
“Hi, this is Owen Lawson.”
“Hi, Owen. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“I wanted to speak with you because I’m working with Mr. Wit from Pennsbrook on a project focusing on drug discovery. Is now a good time to talk?”
“Not really, I was just heading out to a meeting,” Owen said in a dry voice.
“This will only take a minute, actually.”
Joyce kept her pace steady, her voice upbeat. She knew that Owen would try to prevent her from completing the pitch, just as real executives would. “I’m the Vice President of Research here at Future Pharma—”
“The pub?” Owen interrupted.
“Yes, we go out to—”
“Is this a sales call?”
“It’s a –” Joyce floundered for words. “I’m VP of—”
“Research,” Owen finished.
“Yes, and I wanted to feature your company in our magazine, highlight BioCorp, really.”
“How much would it cost?”
“I’m going to get to that.” Joyce twisted the phone cord around her hand. Her fingers reddened like cheap carnations. The men at the table stared as they pretended to dial. “Mr. Wit is penning an article about the inefficiencies of biomarker discovery and validation, and what I’d like to do is position BioCorp as the leading solution-provider, giving you a full-page advert that would be in the front of the publication. Now does that seem like a good fit for you?
The trick was to ask questions that you knew would merit a yes, to get the guy on the other end of the line in an agreeable frame of mind.
“It does,” Owen said, “but how much are we looking at here, darling?”
“The total cost for the ad, which would include the full assistance from my production team, who would essentially act as an in-house ad agency for you, as well as access to our lead generation tool, is 24,500 USD.” Joyce realized she’d skipped the bit about the lead gen tool and how it’d give Owen a chance to see a direct return on investment.
“That’s quite a price tag for an advert. I bought a double-page spread in Life Sciences Live last month for 18K. I tell you what. Let me think about it, and if it’s financially feasible, I’ll get back to you,” Owen said curtly, and then he hung up, so that all Joyce could hear was a flat sound that was the dial tone.
* * *
Joyce found herself on her bedroom floor with closed eyes. She was practicing the ancient Tibetan technique known as The Lion’s Roar, the name being self-explanatory: imagining oneself as a lion and roaring with all one’s might. She stretched her jaw, squinted her eyes, and wound up looking like she was trying to pop her ears after landing from a long flight.
She let out a small roar, and thought how she’d rather be a lion than a woman working at GEC, where all of the female staff wore tight skirts and all of the CEOs pitched were men. However, she had been playing into the role of the GEC fem cliché from her very first day, giggling at the male employees’ tired jokes and offering a smile that might have been construed as an invitation.
The feedback that Owen had given her was entirely negative. “You sound overly excited and a bit fake, my dear,” he said. “You might be able to sell makeup or candy, but I wouldn’t fork over twenty thousand dollars of my money based on what I heard today. There’s just no authority in your voice, I’m sorry to say.”
There had been authority in her voice as a teacher, when, on her best days, she could settle a group of thirty-five loud teenagers. She imagined a lion in front of a blackboard, charging a class of students, one of them a younger Owen, his hair slicked back and greasy. The lion snapped his neck and sent his limp body into the air like a doll. She opened her eyes and let out a noise that sounded more like a hungry growl then a roar, and as she did, she became angry, not just at Owen, but everybody who worked at GEC. She felt like she was better than the entire staff: the men who acted like they were still part of a fraternity, and the women whose wicked stares made her feel like she was in a competition that she’d not signed up for, and to make matters worse, she was losing. The more Joyce thought as a lioness, the angrier she became. She was accustomed to excelling at school, and she didn’t like the way Owen quickly labeled her as not good enough.
As she sat on the floor, looking around her room with only a bed dressed in stiff sheets and a dresser, Joyce wished she were younger, back at her parents’ house and eating her mother’s meatloaf. As a teenager, she was in a rush to leave the small bedroom she shared with her sister. Looking back, maybe it wasn’t really that bad – being cramped with her family. Now, there was no one whom she could call for consolation. Her mother would only tell her that she brought everything upon herself. She let out a final roar, a muffled sound that fell flat like something metal dropping in the night, and then she went to bed.
* * *
There was an indescribable serenity in the office in the early morning hours when it wasn’t crowded with shouting men and women. Joyce could look out onto the streets and appreciate the view of a city that was so alive: the architecture, the grand buildings that made you feel larger, instead of smaller, like anything was possible. New Yorkers rushed by, weary of one another, as there was no concept of personal space because of the overpopulation; the person who sat next to you on the train pressed his thigh against yours. This was the unspoken relationship between all New Yorkers: a closeness that was unwanted, yet intimate nonetheless.
Joyce stared out onto the streets like a fish in a tank. She thought she’d feel nervous; the rest of the trainees were. Instead, she felt the stillness that comes after anger settles – something closer to acceptance, or insouciance. “How could someone who looks so sweet an innocent have such a vicious temper?” her mother asked when Joyce was younger, after she’d fought with her sister, digging her nails into Abbey’s arms and ramming her against their bedroom wall. She’d lost herself in the violence, forgotten that she was part of a family from whom she’d always felt distant. She’d no longer hear her parents’ screaming, or have to wonder what her alcoholic father was going to do next. She was able to release a hurt that couldn’t be let go any other way.
“Kim’s extension is 301, Joyce,” Owen said as he approached. When you’re ready, give her a ring.”
Joyce knew the pitch, knew every response for any reserves that Kim might express. Kim would be a tough sell, having a reputation for being ruthless. She managed the entire office and had sold millions of dollars worth of advertising in her few years at the company. She was a petite Asian woman with perfect features and long hair dyed a deep caramel. She chained smoked and expressed all sentiments of joy and frustration in the same deadpan voice.
“Hi Kim, this is Joyce Little with Future Pharma. How are you doing today?”
“I’m doing well. What’s this all about, Joyce?”
“I’ve been working with Elias Wit,” she said, jumping right into the pitch. “As I’m sure you know, he heads up the Research Department at Pennsbrook, and he suggested that I give you a call. We’re working on a project concerning biomarkers and the need for increasing efficiency as far as their discovery and verification goes. Is it fair to say that this is what your company focuses on?” Joyce didn’t ask a question, but rather offered a statement that was clear and certain. She was a lawyer giving an opening argument, defending both herself and the publication.
“Yes, but tell me, is this a sales call?” Kim asked flatly.
“I’ll tell you exactly what this is,” Joyce said, as she took a few steps forward, one hand on her hip. “Wit tells me that BioCorp is the number one solution-provider for biomarker discovery, and I’m looking to highlight one company out of our sixteen vendors in our September issue that will be entirely devoted to drug discovery. I want to give you a full page ad that my team will help you create. I’m going to couple that with our lead generation tool, which means that I’m going to send you a list of every verified C-level executive from our group of 36,000 subscribers who have specified that they want to receive more information about your company. Now these are Heads of Drug Discovery, Proteomics, and Directors of Lab Automation. Are these the people you generally look to target?” Joyce’s pitch built up momentum as she continued; each word gained force, power.
“It is. But tell me, how much is this going to cost me? Our marketing budgets for the year are quickly dwindling.”
“The full page, full color ad that my production team will assist you with, along with access to our lead generation tool comes in at 24,500 dollars. I’ve got a conference call with Vexx Corp. tomorrow morning and a meeting with my production team at twelve. What I’d like to do is give you a call before then to see if everything looks good on your end, and when it does, all I need to do is fax over a one-page contract that will confirm everything I’ve said, and the spot is yours. How does that sound?”
“It sounds great, Joyce.”
“Now what’s your cell number?”
* * *
The trainees were called into Owen’s office one at a time. The others watched through the glass walls, trying to read Owen’s lips and expressions. First Ben went in, then Claire. “I’m pitching on the summit,” Ben boasted as he came out.
“I’m on the delegate team,” Claire said in a lackluster voice. The job of the delegate team was to procure speakers for the summit events. Their commission structure was different from the rest of the staff. As a general rule, they were looked upon as inferior salesmen.
Next, Owen called for Chad, who turned towards Ben and Brian, pounded fists and chimed, “here goes nothing, gentlemen,” before heading into Owen’s office.
“He’s definitely on the summit team with Ben,” Claire said. “You guys are so lucky. Kim says you might even get a chance to attend one of the summits. The next one is in the Caribbean.”
“I wouldn’t mind taking a trip to the Caribbean with Kim,” said Brian.
“I don’t think anyone would,” Ben agreed.
Brian Studied Owen’s expression. “What’s he saying? “Chad looks upset.”
Chad’s head hung down like a doll with a broken neck. Owen stood to shake his hand and say goodbye. The whole matter of finding out who made the team seemed to be taking mere minutes.
Chad returned to the group, shocked. He muttered, “I didn’t make it.”
“But how could that be?” Brian blurted out. “You were the best out of all of us.”
Chad shook his head, baffled. “Owen said that I didn’t address Kim’s concerns the way he’d taught me. He said I gave away the price too quickly, and I strayed from the pitch too frequently. I can’t believe it.”
Joyce imagined that Chad had attended private school his whole life, that his family took him on annual trips to Europe and had his polo shirts tailored and sent to his apartment. She was glad that he didn’t get the job. This might put him in his place. She remained quiet.
“They’re probably just looking for a particular style of pitching,” Claire said.
“I’m too good for this gig anyway,” Chad scoffed. “My dad can easily get me a job that I don’t have to audition for like a fifth grade school play. What I don’t need is a sacked soccer player telling me that I’m not good enough. Joyce, you’re up next. I’m out of here” he said, then left.
The group fell silent. Joyce would have normally been afraid of failure, but she was too exhausted. She’d woken up early to recite the pitch while eating her usual breakfast of mushy, buttery egg. She’d put on a green face mask at five-thirty in the morning and returned to bed, where she stared at her ceiling and told herself over and over again that she was going to get the job. She imagined herself ringing the gong. Afterwards, Owen would come over to her, give her a kiss, and then she would look into his blue eyes and ask him, “Is your tan real?” The only thing left to do was surrender.
“I don’t know how you did it, darling,” were the first words out of Owen’s mouth. “This has been the quickest turn around by a trainee that I’ve ever seen. Kim loved you, and to managers said that they’d be happy to have you on their team, Ananda and Helga.”
“That’s great news,” Joyce said with disbelief.
“You’re officially a part of the GEC family. Welcome. I’m glad to have you on board.”
“Yes. Thank you. Wow. I don’t know what to say.”
Owen shook her hand, gave her a pat on the shoulder, and opened the door. All that was left to do was to tell everyone the news and celebrate. It was Friday, and that meant that happy hour was on the company.
“Congrats,” Brian said when he stopped her in the hallway. “I’m very impressed.”
“I’m a bit stunned, to be honest,” Joyce admitted.
“It’s great news. It looks like we’ll be working together. You were the only person I was rooting would get it.”
“And why’s that?”
“I like to have a nice view when I work.”
Joyce blushed. If this were high school, she had just made it into one of the elite groups, like cheerleading or the booster club, only this felt bigger than high school because the company was international. Owen was a chic businessman who probably lived in a loft somewhere with exposed metal pipes, and he has told her, Joyce, someone who had worn a dental headgear to bed up until the age of sixteen, that she was the most improved and deserved a spot with the company. Any anger she felt had melted away. The office looked bigger. Brian looked cuter, and Joyce felt different, as if an old skin had been shed.
She made her way towards the bar with her head up; taking big breaths, she felt loose. She was now an official saleswoman. Training week was over. Brian gave her a nudge, and as they left the building, they blended in with the passersby, all of whom were dressed in suits, their eyes forward, not noticing that Joyce had a huge smile on her face, her head up to the sky, not particularly paying any attention to where she was headed.
