Employee Of The Year Pt 01

"You're a beast," my boss, Eleanor said, as she scribbled a star next to my name on the chart. "Fifth month in a row, Dante. I'm even starting to think you'll be after my job soon."

There was a round of applause from the rest of the team. While some were enthusiastic and genuine with their praise, others were clearly reluctant, patting their hands together with little effort while scowling with jealousy. Of course, I cared little for their approval, as all that mattered was the opinion of Eleanor Wilkes, the founder and president of Wilkes Cosmetics. She'd set up the company during her twenties and had made a real success of herself, finally tuning the direction towards a more niche area of the industry: self-care and rehabilitation. Initially, she'd outsourced production, but as her success grew, she brought the manufacturing process in-house, handling the creation, distribution and marketing through her own team.

I hadn't had any clue about cosmetics manufacturing and distribution when I'd started out as a trainee, and had basically taken the position because I needed the cash. However, I'd quickly found I had a knack for sweet-talking potential clients, especially if they were middle-aged women, using my looks and charms to bring them on board with my marketing programs. Even if they were somewhat reluctant, I had the old gift of the gab and used to look upon meetings as just professional flirtation. Eleanor had swiftly recognised my talents, and I'd barely stepped foot in the manufacturing plant since, instead being shipped out around the country for meetings and to get the ball rolling on campaigns I'd designed. I wasn't complaining, it was like constantly being on vacation, and after wrapping up a new contract, I'd hit the bars of whatever city I was visiting, and head straight into a flirtathon. I'd carefully made sure to nurture my reputation as a swaggering womaniser, and whenever I'd return from one of these excursions, my colleagues would roll their eyes and inquire if I'd got lucky. Obviously, I'd share all manner of boisterous conquests and I was considered the apex, alpha male within the company. As a result, my opinions were given greater weight and some of the feebler salespeople tended to avoid me. I'd subsequently trodden over a few on my way to stealing potential clients, and all were too nervous to speak up; my ability to shout them down reigning supreme.

"I just know how to sell and market," I responded in jest, cupping my hand into a fist and lightly punching the table. "I reckon I was born for it." There were a few awkward chuckles, along with some groans and rolling of eyes. A few of the other team members were obviously envious of my success, and recently I'd found myself kind of pushed away from the crowd. Not that I cared, being a lone wolf and all. I looked upon my career the same as I looked upon my love life, finding comfort in my solitary nature. Of course, I'd tried relationships in the past, well, one relationship, but that hadn't really worked out. The same went for work, and I prospered on my own, whereas I somewhat squandered opportunities while working in a team, finding that there were too many personalities and clashes of opinions. I hated that sort of thing, and found it tiresome whenever someone questioned my choices or decisions. Eleanor had recognised this too, with my last few team exercises leading to botched pitches where my colleagues simply wouldn't listen and admit I was correct. Ever since, she'd steered me away from the others and my success had blossomed. Clearly, I knew what I was talking about, and the numbers spoke for themselves. I'd already bagged myself the coveted Employee of the Year prize during the past three years, along with his bloated bonus cheque, and I was already on the road to making it four.

"Well, whatever you're on, keep taking it, as at this rate, you're going to break our annual record for numbers." Eleanor nodded with approval, before adjusting the thin glasses over her wrinkled cheeks. Eleanor was a veteran when it came to the sales and marketing teams, and over the years, she'd built many connections throughout the industry. With her nearing retirement, there had been talk of her stepping down within the next few years. The company was her life work, and as a result, it had taken her full commitment and attention. Similar to myself, this had left little room for relationships, and Eleanor had remained unmarried and with no heirs. There was talk of her appointing someone else as the CEO, whereas she'd take on a more silent role, preferring to spend her aged years in a cabin by the lake. I was already envisioning myself as the head honcho, I mean, as my eyes traced across the rest of the team, there was hardly anyone else that fit the bill. She, in turn, also seemed similarly unconvinced as she addressed everyone else. "As for the rest of you, well, are you going to let him walk it again this year?" She smiled at me affectionately, tapping the chart with her fingertip. "He's so far ahead that the rest of you should be embarrassed."

There was a clearing of a throat. "That's because we work as a team," a colleague, Martin, said under his breath, before narrowing his eyes at me. "We care more about the company as a whole, rather than our own personal achievements." Martin had always been one for bitterness, ever since we'd had a mild disagreement back when we used to bond. In my early days, I'd frequent the Friday night social drinks, being eager to make new friends during my infancy at the company. I got along quite well with Martin and a few others, however, one night he'd started flirting with a girl, who then showed more of an interest in myself. I'd left with her that evening, though, when she'd invited me back to her place, I'd quickly been overcome with nerves and made my excuses. Of course, when talk went around the office the next day about me being Casanova reborn, I obviously didn't correct anyone, figuring such a reputation was a godsend, and it had been. Therefore, whenever a rumour went around about me bedding a client or some random, I'd quietly confirm it, without ever sharing the actual truth. Some of the guys looked up to me, others would slap me on the back and lament the fact they were in sexless marriages, but ever since that night, Martin had been a nasty, twisted little troll that constantly bitched behind my back like one of the women. It was pathetic, and these days I barely paid him any mind, leaving him to gossip about hair and nails with the other airheads.

He was grinning at me after his little bitchy comment. Instead of sniping back as he probably expected, I simply stretched my arms in the air before letting out a prolonged, extravagant yawn. "Anyway," I said, while eventually rising to my feet. "I have work to be getting back to. You know, lots of potential clients beating down my door." I looked towards Martin and winked, before leaning in and whispering, "Particularly female ones, not that you'd know anything about that."

There were a few bemused gasps from his neighbours, whereas Martin held out his hands towards Eleanor, evidently flabbergasted by my friendly jibe. "He can't say something like that."

Eleanor simply rolled her eyes. "I didn't hear anything. Besides, you fired the first shots." She patted down her blouse. "You know what I always say in this industry: it's dog eat dog. So, if you want to stay on the sales team, you better buck your ideas up, sunshine, otherwise you'll find yourself in the factory. There's plenty of cleaning that needs doing down there."

Such a threat was enough to make Martin shiver in place. No one wanted to be relegated to the factory floor. I mean, I liked selling our products and marketing them to customers, but I wasn't about to get my hands dirty in making them again. Besides the pay being a lot less, you had to spend all day working in that boiling hot, humid hell-hole. Eleanor constantly dangled it over our heads as a threat, and it seemed to do the job in keeping the team motivated. She was very old-school in her thinking, and despite championing women to pursue the industry, she was very much against all of that political correctness crap. Even when HR got involved on a few occasions regarding my blue talk, Eleanor waved it off, stating she wasn't about to let me go with the numbers I was bringing in. As a result, I felt like I had a bit of a free pass and could speak my mind however I liked. If someone got offended by what I had to say, well, that was their problem, not mine.

The company environment had always been like that, and there was none of the tip-toeing around soft souls that some other modern companies pushed for. When I'd first started at the firm, they'd shoved me on the floor of the manufacturing plant. I'd started off doing general donkey-work, like sweeping the floor and cleaning some of the lines of spilled ointments and gels. When a worker had one day called off sick, I'd quickly been shoved on the conveyer belt and told to fill in. After a couple of days of fumbling through the tasks, I got a handle on things as a result, and I kept my place. The poor idiot that had called off sick was relegated to the cleaning tasks I'd previously been sentenced to, and even when he requested to switch back, I was reluctant. "You snooze, you lose," I'd said, without a hint of sympathy, because I wasn't about to step back down to the grunt work.

"Like that, is it?" he'd asked with a glare, while sweeping the floor, wearing the same 'cleaner' high visibility vest that had once been mine. "Looks like you're going to fit right in here then, bastard."

And I sure did. I became a natural on the manufacturing line, and after a couple of months, I'd been promoted to team leader, again, after the current one had called off sick. On that occasion, he wasn't even the one that was ill. Apparently, his wife had come down with a bug after giving birth, and he'd asked for a week or so to take care of her. That had been enough of an opportunity for me to step into his shoes, and I'd never looked back. I never even saw him again, so figured he'd been fired or something, but that was just the nature of the business, and there was no time for emotional thinking. It was dog eat dog, and I wasn't about to be gobbled up by the big boys.

However, work on the factory floor had been dismal. Even as a team leader, I'd find myself going home every day with aches and pains. It had been a tough grind, and I'd looked on enviously as the sales team would occasionally swing by to collect some goodies. In they'd waltz, in their pristine suits, barking out orders for the ground staff to bring them a trolley of merchandise that they were going to use to woo new clients. I'd watch idly by with my clipboard, jealously noting their designer suits and perfectly polished shoes. Meanwhile, I'd be there in my khaki pants and smudged sneakers with the palms of my hands callused and blistered. Even though I hadn't known anything else other than working on the manufacturing line, I'd felt like I was out of place, and that I was destined for something a lot better. I'd quickly lost interest in working in the factory, because I wanted to be like those sales guys, cool as hell in their designer suits and barking out orders to those beneath them.

As a result, whenever one of the sales team had come on the floor, I'd make an immediate beeline for them, making it clear there was distance between myself, as team leader, and the minimum-wage grunts on the line. I'd cosy up, trying to make a buddy, all while cracking jokes at the expense of my factory colleagues. I'd make subtle enquiries about what life was like in the office, away from the factory floor, and ask questions about how they got the job in the first place. Gradually, over time, I'd built up a bit of a rapport with one of the guys called Bruce, and we'd often hang outside while having a cigarette. He'd boast and brag about the meetings he'd get sent on all around the country. How they'd put him up in quality hotels and all of his drink would be covered on expenses. "I basically get paid to get laid," he'd sniggered one time, and the more I heard, the more I wanted that life.

However, it had taken another couple of months, and ever-growing pains in my knees, before I had mustered up the courage to finally ask the question that had been balancing on the tip of my tongue. "How can I get in on that?" I'd muttered, just as he'd been outing his cigarette beneath his polished brogue. "I'm done with the factory. Could you help a guy out?"

He'd looked up at me curiously, and rubbed his chin while considering things. "You do have a good head on your shoulders, and it'd be nice to have another guy around the place to shoot the shit. You know, they've been hiring too many stuck-up lasses and ass bandits these days. They think it's all about flouncing around and looking the part, but that don't mean shit." He had tapped his lips. "It's all about what comes out of here, kid."

I had merely blinked and figured he was about to waltz off back to the office. However, he had let out a sigh and pulled out his business card. "Tell you what, I'm actually feeling charitable"--he sniggered while glancing down at my scuffed sneakers-- "and you look like you need to catch a break. So, give me a call this afternoon and I'll see what I can do. The boss lady is in and I hear one of the sales girl's numbers are looking shit and she's up for a review. Maybe I can sort something out." He had already turned and walked off while I clutched his card. "But no promises," he had shouted back over his shoulder, "and if you fuck up any chance I gift you, well, that's on you."

Well, Bruce, that magnificent shit, did actually pull through. When I'd given him a call later that day, he had just been finishing up a meeting with the founder of the company: Eleanor. He must have been feeling in a good mood that day, as he had put me on speaker and basically touted me as the second coming of the messiah. "He's like a mini version of me," he had gloated. Anyway, Eleanor had agreed to give me a trial for a couple of weeks, though kept me on the same wages as I had already been on. That part had sucked, but, with a foot firmly in the door, I had been determined not to let that chance slip me by.

"He's your responsibility," Eleanor had said to Bruce just before the call ended, and that's how I'd found myself shadowing him the following Monday.

I'd had to borrow a suit from my old man, looking quite ridiculous as the sleeves had run too long. It hadn't been my fault, as I couldn't afford anything decent with the meagre wage I was in, but I had done my best to look the part.

"You come straight from school, have you?" Bruce had jibed as I'd turned up in his office. "You look like your mam dressed you this morning, kid."

Right at that moment, I'd known I was where I belonged. The following few weeks had been constant jokes and barrels of laughs. It had almost been like I was hanging down the bar with one of my boys, and I had realised that being a salesman in that company meant you were on a completely different level. You could basically do whatever you wanted and say whatever you wanted, because you were the guy bringing in the cold, hard cash. The morons in the factory just made the shit; the guys up top were the ones that actually turned it into profit.

I had looked on as Bruce breezed around the place, even cracking jokes with the founder of the company, Eleanor. It had been as if he was wearing bulletproof armour, because no one would stand up to him since he was constantly at the top of the sales charts.

Bruce had been exactly the kind of salesman I wanted to be, and I had paid attention to everything he had said, joining him on multiple meetings and learning from the best. I had gradually mimicked his attitude, and sort of absorbed his cockiness. He had been a bit of a ladies' man, constantly making lewd comments at the other women in the building, and I had noticed he treated clients in a similar way. He just had a way of talking it up with the women, and I had been awestruck at how be brought in the contracts; a large proportion of them having come from companies headed by middle-aged, divorced women.

"Here's my little secret," he had told me one time. "You want to make them think that you're attracted to them and interested in them sexually. Do whatever it takes, but don't cross any lines. Be flirtatious, suggestive, but not overly explicit." He'd looked me up and down. "You're still young, so they're going to eat up any compliment you throw their way."

"Isn't that unprofessional?" I'd asked. "I don't want to get fired before I've even got a proper job."

His face had contorted as if he was disgusted. "Unprofessional? What do you think the point of life is, kid? Fucking! Why do we go to work every day, so we can come home and fuck. You think these dried up old women are any different? They want to feel sexy, they want to feel desired, they want to be made to feel like they still have it. Make them moist between the legs and the ink will soon be drying on the contract. That's how I've been doing things all these years, so how about you stop questioning me and start paying attention instead?" He had flicked me on the forehead. "Or maybe you can go bitch about it with the other bimbos and pillow biters."

Fuck it, I'd thought, and from then on, I had attuned my sales spiel to the kind of confident, suggestive rhetoric that Bruce always wielded. Whenever we'd met with a female client, I'd been sure to be over-complimentary, bordering on flattery. I'd smiled and bared my teeth. I had lowered my voice and tried to be as masculine as possible. I had led, rather than asked, and tried to seize control of the narrative, leading them to the point that they had no other choice other than to sign the damn contract. When they hesitated, pen in hand, I had seized the moment, pouncing on their meekness and haranguing them over the line. I had utilised all of the tricks that Bruce had let slip, and after three weeks I'd made my own sale while he looked on approvingly.

A week later, I had been comfortably heading out on my own, and when meeting with an old dear that had taken over her deceased husband's business, I'd gone out all guns glazing, using every form of flattery I could think of. However, when the old bitch had still been refusing to make an order, I had upped the ante and had basically leant over her, breathing down her neck with intimidation until she'd shakily signed the paper. I'd organised the whole marketing campaign after that, increasing the commission for myself.

"He's my prodigy," Bruce had bellowed while slapping me on the back, almost knocking my dad's briefcase from my grasp. "Look at the orders on this," he'd proudly proclaimed while showing off the contract. "The old dear has gone for a huge order and given this kid the lead on the marketing campaign too. They're gonna have him basically redesigning their store fronts."

One of the salesgirls, a rather meek, quiet, mouse of a woman named Deborah, had looked rather perplexed while reading over the contract. She hadn't been too bad looking on the eye, but she was too shy and lacked confidence. Sometimes, I had heard her whisper a decent idea, but since it had come from her sappy lips, I'd simply take it as my own. I had never faced any consequences, so I figured it was fair game. Like a good woman, she'd shut her trap and accept defeat. "Mrs Gilbert?" she'd asked in surprised tone. "I'd thought she was off limits?"

"Don't get jealous," I'd sniped, almost as if Bruce's words were spluttering from my lips. "Just because I'm the one that bagged the deal, while you sit around here combing your hair."

Deborah had looked disgusted. "She's been a widow for like two weeks. She's emotional and vulnerable." She had turned towards Eleanor and seemed rather annoyed. "You said she was off limits."