She's the Boss Page 3

  “I’m not their mom,” I said dryly.

  “You’re their supervisor,” he shot back. “Same thing! You’re not here to make friends. And you want to know what the key to failure is? It’s when you try to please everybody.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I countered. “To them, you’re just some stranger from corporate headquarters who just happened to waltz into town. This may come as a surprise to you but these people are my friends. I’ve worked alongside them for years and years and years and years.”

  He regarded me cuttingly. “Are you done now?”

  “As a matter of fact, no.” Icicles dripped from my voice. “Look, I get your deal with the company dress code but your approach today was all wrong. Your tone and your manner was a total turn off and you know what? That just guarantees that no one will listen.”

  For a brief moment, he looked at me with something approaching respect. When he spoke again, his tone was fractionally warmer, but not much. “It’s your job to make your agents listen. A good supervisor relationship requires distance and it requires boundaries. And if you don’t know how to do your job …” A hint of warning came into his voice. “I might just have to find someone else who can.”

  I took several long, deep breaths and steadied myself, keeping my emotions in check. But Carter wasn’t quite finished yet. “I expect your team’s stats to improve by the end of this month. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  His tone had made it quite clear that it was he who was calling the shots here. And my tone had made it quite clear that I understood. He shifted his gaze back to his computer, making it abundantly evident that it was time for me to leave. I could take a hint.

  With leaden legs, I stood up and started for the door.

  “One more thing.” Carter’s acerbic voice halted me.

  I froze, knowing this wasn’t going to be good. Carter’s tone was so acidic it was giving me heartburn, gastritis and acid reflux all at once.

  “When your agents don’t meet their stats, I expect you to write them up and copy me on everything.”

  “Will do,” I replied, an edge of rancor slipping into my voice.

  “Thank you.” A look of quiet satisfaction crossed his face. “Do you have any questions for me?”

  Yes, I thought. What is the quickest way out of here?

  Belatedly, I realized Carter was looking at me expectantly.

  For added confidence, I placed my hands with lazy confidence on my waist. “No,” I said curtly, “I don’t. Will there be anything else?”

  “Why?” He raised his eyebrows at me, as if daring me to answer. “Wasn’t this enough?”

  I felt a sharp pang of annoyance but I behaved myself and quelled my childish urge to yell, “Ja wohl, mein Führer!”

  “You can go now,” he said in clear dismissal. As an afterthought, he added halfheartedly, “And I look forward to working with you.”

  I attempted a smile.

  Carter smiled tightly.

  I smiled back at him with all the synthetic sweetness of Splenda.

  Carter smiled wider in return.

  “Oh, I look forward to working with you, too,” I said with radiant insincerity. Without another word, I strode out of the dictator’s bunker.

  “Sweet mother of Zeus!” Truong gasped. “You look like you’re about to murder someone. What happened?”

  “Carter Lockwood happened,” I said darkly.

  Truong snickered. “I suspected as much.”

  “You know, I’ve been around men who are completely arrogant, but Carter is another category altogether. Seriously, I have no idea what his problem is.”

  Truong gave me his answer to all of the world’s ills. “Maybe he’s on his period.”

  “I think he hates me. And he’s not even subtle about it.” My voice turned wistful and I felt a sudden stab of longing for my old boss. “I miss Dick Jones. In contrast to that tyrant over there.” I gestured my head in the general direction of Carter’s office. “Dick Jones was Aung San Suu Kyi!”

  “Dick Jones!” Truong exclaimed with deep contempt. “DING DONG THE DOUCHE IS GONE! C’mon, Dick was as shallow as piss on concrete. I could not report to that box of rocks and let’s be real, he was the worst director in the history of directors.”

  Hmm. Truong had a point.

  He carried on ranting, “I still resent him for sending me home last month. All because I wore short shorts but at the same time, he was totally OK with girls prancing around half-naked. Seriously, Dick kept his brains between his legs and I don’t miss his double standards one bit.”

  “All right,” I admitted, “Dick was a little biased.”

  And the more I thought about it, he really was. I had to work extra hard, putting on an elaborate dog and pony show to clinch my promotion. Whereas Amy E. Areola, Wendy D. Whoppers, Pamela Pornero and Jewel De’Nyle (yes, those are their actual names, or so they claim) played the ‘low-cut blouse’ game and just breezed on up to the top.

  Truong’s voice jolted me out of my reverie. “Now say it with me: DING DONG THE DOUCHE IS GONE.”

  “DING DONG THE DOUCHE IS GONE.”

  “See!” Truong said winsomely. “Carter is a step up from Dick. Were you expecting another Dick Jones?”

  “I don’t know what I was expecting, but I sure wasn’t expecting Carter Lockwood.”

  “C’mon! Admit it, Kars.” He nudged me in the ribs. “Doesn’t Carter just make you go weak in the knees?”

  “More like weak in the stomach. His management style is so … so Pavlovian.”

  Truong’s eyes shrank. “For real?”

  “Afraid so. Carter Lockwood means business. Have you even read his Company Dress Code Manifesto?”

  “Not yet.” One of his quick smiles lit his face. “Is that why you’re wearing that dress?”

  “Oh this?” I curtsied prettily. “You like my frock?”

  Truong crossed his arms and made a great play of studying me. “Erm …” His words petered out.

  “What?” I asked. “What?”

  “You look like shit.”

  “Why thank you, Truong! You’re a real boost to a girl’s ego.”

  “No, seriously. Why are you dressed like a deranged Amish woman? It’s tragic!”

  “The real tragedy,” I said with a strained smile, “is your whole outfit.”

  “Hey!” he said a touch defensively. “I’m on your side, Kars. If I were a supervisor, I’d dress as though I meant business.”

  I lifted a skeptical brow. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Then how come you’re dressed like Mrs. Roper meets the Chiquita Banana Lady?”

  Truong sighed in a way men do when faced with unreasonable women. “First of all, it takes a village to look this good, thank you very much,” he said with offended dignity. “And secondly, I’m not a supervisor; I’m just a lowly minion here. I’m not trying to claw my way to the top. But you, my friend, are. And Coco Chanel once said that if a woman is poorly dressed you notice her dress and if she is impeccably dressed you notice the woman. Right now honey, all I notice is your dress.”

  “Point taken,” I conceded. “Just make sure you read Carter’s dossier and comply with it or else I’ll be forced to write you up.”

  Truong pulled a face. “Someone’s throwing her weight around.”

  “It’s not me. It’s him. You heard what Carter said; he seems to think he’s God, so really, his word is Gospel. And since you’re on my team, you’re going to have to buck up. Your sales are stellar so keep up the good work on that front, but you seriously need to improve your Auxiliary Time.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Truong said amiably.

  “Thank you. I have a feeling we’re all going to see some changes around here, whether we like it or not.”

  “You better like it, Kars.” Truong coughed lightly. “Don’t let Carter get under your skin. It’s only his first day here and the two of you are already butting heads. Tr
ust me, you don’t want to go there.”

  “I can’t help it.” As far as I was concerned, Carter Lockwood was a douchebag and I took great pleasure in rattling his cage. After how he’d humiliated me, he’d forfeited any rights to be treated nicely.

  “Kars, don’t go head-to-head with him. Even if you win the battle, you’re gonna lose the war.”

  “What if I’m right?” I said indignantly.

  “Then keep your mouth shut. The more right you are, the more damage it will do you in the long run.”

  I sighed deeply.

  “So you’ll try?” Truong persisted. “You’ll try to get along with Carter?”

  “I guess,” I said noncommittally. The idea of getting along with Carter seemed as impossible as scaling Everest in a bikini.

  I was threading my way through the maze of cubicles when I caught Jennifer Carley idly browsing the internet.

  “Jenn, why are you logged out? You’re supposed to be on the phones right now.”

  “I’ll hop on the phone in five minutes.” Her voice was laced with irritation.

  “But you’re supposed to be on the phone now.”

  “Well I’m busy,” she hissed.

  “Busy doing what?”

  “Checking out job-posting sites so I can get the fuck out of here.”

  I was momentarily flummoxed and rendered speechless, slightly taken aback by her abrasiveness. Before I had the chance to be mortally offended, Jenn caught herself and quickly apologized. “Sorry Kars, it’s not you. It’s this job. I need a change and I need to be making more money. Working for a paltry twelve bucks an hour just isn’t cutting it for me.”

  I twisted my lips. “Why don’t you stop by my desk in twenty minutes? I’ll have Scheduling Ops take you off the phones.”

  “For what?”

  “We need to have a talk,” I said in all-seriousness. “In the mean time, you need to log in and start taking calls.”

  Jenn gave me a silent salute. “Yes ma’am.”

  Exactly twenty minutes later, Jenn wandered over and hovered by my cubicle in an agitated manner.

  “Jenn! Have a seat.” I set aside my paperwork and turned to face her. “So tell me,” I said earnestly, “are you really unhappy working here?”

  She hesitated for a second, then asked, “Can I speak candidly?”

  “Of course.”

  “The work sucks and the pay sucks. I have student loans up the ying yang, a car loan, rent … I’m living from paycheck to paycheck, just barely surviving. And I want to thrive, Kars, not just survive.”

  “Well, what if I told you that you could thrive here.” I paused dramatically for effect. “In this call center.”

  “Here?” Jenn fixed me with a deeply skeptical eye.

  “Listen,” I said, “I know twelve dollars an hour isn’t much but what if I told you that you could be making over a hundred thousand dollars per year.”

  “Really?” Jenn’s eyes were sparkling with vitality under the fluorescent lighting. “A hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Yep, you got that right.”

  “A hundred thousand dollars?” she repeated.

  “A hundred thousand dollars,” I confirmed.

  “A hundred thousand dollars?” she asked once more.

  “YES!” I exclaimed, my patience fraying. “Which part of a hundred thousand dollars don’t you understand?”

  Jenn sank back against the chair and began to brighten like a flower given water. With exaggerated courtesy, she said, “Go onnnnnn. Tell me how I can make that kind of money.”

  “By embracing sales,” I said simply.

  Jenn’s shoulders immediately stiffened. “But I’m not good at sales.”

  “Then you learn to be good at it. And I can help you. Now tell me, why aren’t you pitching any products?”

  “Fear, I guess …” Jenn gave a short shrug. “Fear of rejection.”

  “Do you know that all the super stars on the sales team fail half the time? In selling, rejection, as they say, comes with the territory. And rejection is rarely ever personal so try not to take it personally.”

  “Yeah.” Jenn laughed harshly. “But knowing that does not make it any easier to take. I hate to fail.”

  “It’s OK to fail, Jenn. Failure is inevitable. If you care enough about success, you’re going to have to try, fail, and correct your mistakes.”

  “So …” There was a pause until she added, “How do you propose I get better at selling?”

  “Well, it helps if you know our products and services. Educate yourself on every facet of it. Make it the bane of your existence.”

  “All right.” Jenn nodded thoughtfully. “I guess I can work on that.”

  “And build rapport with your callers; learn something personal about them. Find out what they want to buy. It’s so much easier to sell someone what they want to buy than it is to convince them to buy what you are selling.”

  “Mmmmm.” Jenn seemed to be considering this for a bit.

  “Most importantly,” I carried on, “be a good listener. Take your cues from the callers.”

  “How?”

  “By asking the right questions.”

  “I don’t know …” Jenn trailed off unsteadily. “I don’t think I know how to sell.”

  “You do know,” I said, putting conviction into my voice. “Most of us are born salesmen. Take me for example. At school, I sold my peers on accepting me. At home, I sold my mom a ton of bullcrap.”

  Jenn started giggling. “What sort of bullcrap?”

  “When I was sixteen, I convinced my mom that I couldn’t survive without a car.”

  “I tried that.” Jenn smirked. “Didn’t work for me.”

  “Well,” I pressed, “did you ever convince your parents to let you stay out late at night?”

  “All the time.”

  “See!” I said with a satisfied air. “You were selling back then and you still do it today. Every day. You already employ the aspects of selling: the powers of persuasion, the art of negotiation, and the definitive teenager’s tactic—to never ever take no for an answer.”

  “Hmmm.” Jenn tilted her head to one side. “I guess I did sort of get what I want … most of the time.”

  “So there!” I gave her a sunny smile. “I know you still have it in you.”

  “All right,” said Jenn at last. “I’ll give this job another shot.”

  “Good. Let’s see how you do and if your stats improve, I might be able to get you on the Sales Team.”

  “So I can make a hundred thousand dollars per year?” There was a determined glint in her eye.

  “Damn straight!” I enthused.

  After that little pep talk , I caught a little pep in Jenn’s step as she strode off. Feeling marginally better, I returned to my computer and tried to get some work done. No easy feat. Barely two seconds later, my concentration was temporarily waylaid by Shoshanna Hunter. She wafted past my desk, smelling like a flower.

  “Hold up.” I halted her. “Why are you late Miss Hunter?”

  “I’m late?” Her perfect eyebrows arched in a question.

  “Sure are.” I checked my watch. “Thirty minutes.”

  “Well, my new shampoo instructions said to lather, rinse and repeat. So um, I did. I lathered and rinsed, and lathered and rinsed until I was completely out of shampoo.” She carelessly tossed her hair over one shoulder. “The problem with society these days is people just aren’t willing to commit to the long haul. And you know what? I’m committed!”

  I could not think of a single solitary thing to say to her. Clearly, she wasn’t brimming over in the brains department.

  In the pause that followed, Shoshanna stared at me with those puppy eyes and turned her head a little to the side, smiling at me beguilingly, expecting instant forgiveness.

  So fake.

  She seriously needed to dial back her neediness.

  While her antics must turn most men into mush, it left me completely unmoved. Shoshanna se
emed to assume that everyone was going to be captivated by her beauty. And she seemed to think that she could use her good looks to get away with the sort of behavior not allowed to us less favored mortals.

  All her lame excuses might have worked with her prior male supervisors, but it certainly wasn’t working with me.

  I was so tempted to throw my monitor at her stupid head. When I finally found my voice, I said, “I’m sorry, Shoshanna, but I’m going to have to write you up. Don’t forget, three strikes and you’re out.”

  “What?” Her puppy eyes turned into poison darts. “You’re going to write me up for being committed?”

  “Nope.” I kept my tone neutral. “I’m going to write you up for being late and for being a complete idiot.”

  “How dare you call me an idiot,” she bristled crossly. “I’m reporting you to HR!” With that, she stormed off in a huff, flicking her hair this way and that as if her life depended on it.

  I stood perfectly still, staring at her retreating back.

  With all that incessant hair flipping, her head might just snap off.

  Which wouldn’t exactly be a bad thing.

  I sighed and battled with my conscience over my malevolent thoughts, but it was only a brief tussle.

  I sighed again. Who said being a boss was easy? It made me feel suddenly despondent. Then I remembered Homeland was on tonight and cheered right up.

  Chapter Three

  It was Friday, which was my Monday since Wednesdays and Thursdays are my days off. I should write a song titled My Weekend Starts on Wednesday, and the chorus would go like this:

  Last Tuesday night! T.G.I.T! T.G.I.T!

  Really. I was so tempted to shoot the next person who yelled, “T.G.I.F!”

  “Good morning,” I greeted Carter in the hallway with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  “Morning,” he replied with equal warmth.

  I walked to my cubicle and set my steaming hot coffee on my desk, humming “TGIT! TGIT!” fiercely to myself. At some point, I stopped humming when I felt someone’s eyes boring into the back of my neck. I threw a glance over my shoulder and was surprised to find Carter standing right behind me.