Say Hello To My Little Friend!

“Tell me the truth, you’re the smart one, is this a scam?” two fellow FNPs asked me.

“Well,” I said, “it is what it is.”

“We ain’t got paid yet, and we’re on foodstamps. Is this gonna affect our food stamps?”

“Well, you’re a 1099 contractor. Do you understand what that means?”

“No,” they said as if I had just spoken Martian.

“It means you don’t get a paycheck every week with taxes taken out, they can just pay you an hourly rate or commission.”

They looked at me in disbelief.

“They key to getting paid is to make as much as you can dropping bottles: get $30 for them if you can, and ask for a tip, and only when you meet their goals will they pay you your bonus.”

“It takes us two hours to get here on the bus,” he said. “How are we going to pay our rent?”

“This economy kicks my ass also. I will not bullshit you, they’re not going to pay you unless you drop shitloads of bottles. What were you doing before?”

“Door to door construction sales.”

“How’d that go?”

“Shitty. People ain’t got no money. They paid us by the hour, but if we didn’t get any sales they’d fire us.”

“Well, that’s how it seems to be going everywhere. I hope we all make some money very soon, here or somewhere else. Good luck if I don’t see you tomorrow.”

This conversation ran through my head as I noticed their absence and little things in the office, such as signs that say if you damage the perfume box, you have to pay a $1 to replace it; you have to pay $4.50 if you deplete your perfume by over-spraying.

I could see it from both sides. I knew it cost less than ten cents to manufacture those boxes, and less than $5 to produce a bottle of perfume itself, yet I saw why they needed to protect themselves against shrinkage, and make $16 profit per bottle even if they weren’t spending any money on salaries or employment taxes. If you make it to the 60 to 90 day mark, they put you up in your own office, through the “generosity” of the owner. Let’s not bullshit everyone and call it generosity, let’s just call it “the business model.”

As I found out, many people who do get their own offices, can’t keep them. (Surprise!) Just because you’re good at dropping bottles in gas station parking lots, doesn’t necessarily mean you’re good at things like Profit & Loss Responsibility, etc. So those people have to return to training and drop more bottles, and make more money for the house.

Sure, it’s a little sleazy, but isn’t corporate America just as bad, just sugar-coated?

Today, Little Boss T took three of us under his wing. We promptly rode off to a Starbucks to plot our strategy. He wanted each of us to give him a quick bio. I told him that might take a while. He prodded for a quick version….

“Like Lynyrd Skynyrd, I came into this world via the 1970s South, and have been on an extended world tour ever since, and now here I am in a Starbucks in Torrance with you. Can you smell that smell?”

He looked simultaneously amused, puzzled, and constipated as he racked his brain trying to place the Lynyrd Skynyrd reference. I lived my late teens vicariously in the brief moments I listened to the two nineteen year old girls recount their life stories. I still have that hopefulness that everything will work out, just as I did then; but find myself more skeptical now.

After much ado about his management style, and his questions about our career goals, and some practice pitching, we at last got to pitching, and pitching I did. I pitched everybody I saw: Old men, little girls, families, people of all colors. At long last he let us go to the Mexican restaurant. I started pitching these Mexican men waiting for their food. The first two didn’t have money, the old one responded in Spanish, to which I retorted:

“No te precupes, nino. No quiero hablar ingles mas.” (Don’t worry, baby. I don’t want to speak English anymore.)

I brandished my bottle of (fake) Hugo and got to work. I found pitching much easier in Spanish, because I had not planned it. Also, I followed the golden rule of making them laugh. First of all, a Southern girl speaking Spanish with a Catalan accent makes anybody chuckle. I say things in Spanish I would never say in English. The few inhibitions I have fall away, and I get even more dramatic.

“Otra dia” he told me. (Another day.)

I decided to get a little Eckhart Tolle on his ass.

“Manana estamos muertos! Solamente tenemos esta noche. No despiertala.” (Tomorrow we’ll be dead. We only have tonight. Don’t waste it.”)

He smiled knowingly, calculating the investment. He knew full well that this 3oz bottle of liquid panty dropper was well worth $25.

“Normalmente solamente trente, pero para ti papito, solamente viente cinco.” (Normally only 30, but for you, baby, only 25.”

He slowly shucked two tens and five ones out of his wallet, and off I went to join my crew, who was ready to move to fresh territory.

Our fearless leader fixated on finding a Staples or Office Max where we could laminate our pitch cards. I roamed the aisles of Staples, pitching everybody I saw, including the employees, but alas, no dice. He then decided we should go eat while they laminated our cards. More pointless conversation about dreams of grandeur of their future empires in Gardena ensued.

I pitched to a black guy covered in gold and diamonds while the rest of my crew ate their hot wings adjacent. He got all of his cologne for free, of course. I enjoyed pitching. At last I could turn the tables on all the unwanted attention I receive. Anything from the occasional, “Yoah huhsbund a lucky may-un,” to “Day—um! Got-----day—uhhhhm!” to “If yoah husband evah, evah, evah fuck up, please let me know” to my latest favorite: a man approached me, using his three year old son as a wing man, as I harvested a week’s supply of Cool Whip from the grocey freezer section, asking me “Is you obligated?”

“E’cue me?” (I typically respond in Cuban in these situations.)

“Are you married?” (While I have received marriage proposals while throwing up, this was the first time I had received one while purchasing Cool Whip.)

I smiled broadly, “Aye, si, papi. Eso es para mi marido! No se puede imaginar los placers y felicidad de nuestra vida juntos” (Oh yes, Baby, this (Cool Whip) is for my husband. You cannot imagine the pleasures and happiness of our life together.)

Now, I am the aggressor. I made I mental note to take my merch bag with me everywhere, just as Little Boss T recommended. I could not wait for my next run in with Carlos, my latest stalker/admirer.

Like most Latin men in Southern California, Carlos sells Herbal Life, or something like that. At first I assumed he was one of those “I talk to everybody who comes within three feet of me” freaks (before I became one myself). He typically spies Sassy Hancock Jones and me on our morning walks, parks, and approaches us by foot, or, if he cannot find parking, follows us in the car, and tries to convince us to get into his car. He confronts us at least once a week, but never recalls previous meetings. The last time we saw him, he had already spotted us, found parking, and was already waiting for us, with lipstick smeared on his cheek. He only “wants to be my friend,” although he quickly gets lewd when I brush him off. The next time he lunges from behind a bush wanting, I’ll have my bottle of Hugo cocked and ready so he can “say hello to my little friend.”