It was in October of 2008 that I began to suspect my stellar sales job was in jeopardy. The combination of me neglecting all of my daily responsibilities and the global economy getting sodomized by sub prime mortgages was an unfortunate mix that I knew was an early sign of imminent layoffs. My company had been doing poorly in the prior months and the stock market crash only fueled our desperation. In times of crisis, I like so many Americans turned immediately to the comfort of alcohol. In the past, I would have qualified as what most people refer to as a social drunk, but in these dire times I had turned to full blown alcoholism to quell my woes. A glass of wine after work generally ended with me waking in a pool of what I could only hope was my own saliva, next to several empty bottles of Merlot. It soon became common practice for me to drink on work nights, but one particular Sunday evening I decided to get especially inebriated. There happened to be four of us in my apartment one night, and with even numbers like that there was no excuse to avoid doubles drinking games. I don't remember much else from that evening but I do vaguely recall fishing a ping pong ball out of the trash can, and 3 minutes later drinking a beer it landed in. I was a mess.
Upon awaking the next morning with a deadly headache and churning stomach, I popped 4 Advil and decided it would be a good idea to avoid operating heavy machinery and simply take the subway into work. The ride in was excruciating to all of my 5 senses, and a 6th and 7th I didn't even know I possessed until that moment. There were so many unfortunate smelling people on the train that I began to feel nauseous, and I almost vomited twice after having seen an older Hispanic woman with a hang-toenail who was inexplicably wearing flip flops in October. Disgusting.
By some miracle, I actually managed to arrive at work early and even had time to order a breakfast in the cafeteria beforehand. A good sign that I've enjoyed an evening heavy with mischief and debauchery is if I arrive early to work, and appear amazingly sober by most accounts. At my office Christmas party the year before, I showed up ready to rock out at 8pm after having already shared a 12 pack of Miller high life with my roommate Alec. Upon arrival at the party, we both downed fistfuls of nips we'd smuggled in. Fast forward 6 hours and 20 drinks later, Alec and I both managed to stumble into a cab home (a cab I called by screaming "MR TAXI MAN!" at the top of my lungs until someone stopped, and it wasn't until I heard giggling that I realized my boss had been behind me the whole time. "Don't judge me!" I yelled at her, and then hopped into the cab). Even after that tomfoolery I still arrived at my desk with a smile on at 8am. Another good sign that I've been out drinking heavily comes about 2 hours into the morning when I sprint faster than a Kenyan being chased by a cheetah to the men's room and barely manage to loosen my tie before I projectile vomit into the toilet, usually with several witnesses watching.
This morning was a lot like the morning after the Christmas party, so I decided it was a good idea to take it easy. I spent the first hour of the day researching chicken incubators on Wikipedia for no reason whatsoever. Wikipedia happens to be another addiction of mine, and it's gotten to the point where I break out into cold sweats if I so much as attempt to watch anything on the Discovery channel without a laptop handy. After having my fill of incubators, I edited the Sherri Lewis page in Wikipedia, and by the time I'd finished not only had she been the voice of Lambchop, she was also a highly decorated Green Beret, and a former concubine of Adolf Hitler. What a life she's lead. After reading my work over I could not stop laughing and decided I was still drunk. Upon coming the realization that you're still drunk at 11AM on a Monday, most individuals would think it a good idea to calm the fuck down and try not to draw any attention to themselves. Unfortunately, I'm not that smart. I noticed an email in my inbox from the Vice President of Sales addressed to the entire sales team. It read:
"Now is the time to think of anyone (and anywhere) you can distribute our catalogs! As Rachel said, we do have extra catalogs in the mail center and I would encourage ALL staff to take 10-20 of them to pass out – to friends, families, doctors offices, strangers on the T, etc! Test your sales and marketing skills!
Who is going to be the first one to stop by and pick up some catalogs and gift cards to help get the word out?"
Now I fancy myself a go getter, but mostly I just like to joke around with people, particularly our Vice President who is a spitfire herself. In a drunken moment of genius, I decided it would be the funniest thing ever to send a reply which I completely intended to be a joke:
"I'll volunteer to stand in front Government Center in the morning and hand them out like those guys that hand out the "Metro". I'll even wear the reflective vest."
Clearly she wasn't born yesterday, and being the spitfire that she is she immediately replied:
"I KNEW you would be the first! How about you try it one morning this week and let me know it goes?
Just one hour – maybe 8:30-9:30am?"
I quickly sobered up. How do I get myself into these situations anyway? Oh that's right, I drink. Every person I knew in Boston took the subway and got off at the Government Center station before work. I would look like an idiot. I heard a noise from above and looked up. It was God laughing his ass off at me, and then crying a little for having created such a fool. What a corner I'd backed myself into! I briefly considered my options. I could confess my drunkenness and hope that she took pity on me but that was highly unlikely, so I decided to make the best of it and use it as an excuse to get a vest I'd been eyeing. I committed to handing out 50 catalogs.
The morning finally came and I was dreading it. The prospect of standing in the cold rain and handing out catalogs like Christian Bale in "Newsies" was about as appealing as getting a colonic at an Abba concert. I hated it. I drudged through the rain to the subway station nearest to me, and decided that that would be a fine place to whore out my company. I looked around and all I could see were ethnic teens. This was not our company's target demographic, and judging by the way they were looking at me, I wasn't what they were used to seeing either. I knew my only option was to leave the stack of magazines, go back to my apartment to watch an episode of "Who's the Boss?" on demand, and then go back to work and tell everyone it was a huge success. Two weeks later I was laid off.
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