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Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 21, 2003 || 4:58 pm

It’s been brought to my attention that while you, wonderful readery people that you are, realize that I have about fifteen hunnert lead balls in the air, you are sick of the punchy, short entries that have not really a point in their pretty little paragraphs. In short, I’ve been told, it’s time for an entry with some meat in it. Plus, I promised this little ditty to Acidman some time ago. Welllll, here you go.

Back when I left my really fat paying job at the ad agency to take the leap into radio, I really didn’t have enough sense to know what I was doing. Like any great endeavor I’ve ever undertaken, I just kind of let ‘er rip with the not-quite-sane laughter and jumped in feet first. I was in the Pacific Northwest, a Delta girl with great legs and wide smile and a smart mouth from which Southernese flowed, to the delight of my companions and co-workers. They’d take one look at my five-ten frame, hear one drawly something-or-other and assume I was an ignert backwater hick who couldn’t spell her way out of a paper sack, much less conjugate a verb. I think, for a short time, I was viewed as an ‘easy mark’.

I’m not really sure if I was aware or not that I’d been lured away from the agency because the station had just lost their ‘eye-candy’ AE, but I didn’t care. The firm I was working for had just changed ownership and a lot of the electric, fun-creative atmosphere our motley crew of decidedly non-corporate heatherns had crafted was swallowed up in the merger with a more traditional, straight-laced firm. I had problems with it. There were a lot more females on staff at the other place, a lot more ‘typical-woman’ females, and they tried their damnedest to make it uncomfortable as all-fuck for the handful of women that came from our agency. We were of the mettle that could throw back tequila with the roughest of the menfolk during our Friday afternoon ‘creative meetings’, that could take a push and then push back with verve. If there were any tears, it was after work, on our own time, and that won us points in the respect and camraderie departments.

So yeah, I was recruited on over to the station by this guy known industrywide as ‘The Snake’. This guy, he’d do anything to get a contract signed. He didn’t care who he fucked up, fucked with or fucked over to fatten his wallet. He was good at what he did, but in a bad way, you dig?

The Snake recruited me and after my newbie orientation, he was assigned to ride with me on both cold calls and appointments I’d lined up. One of the appointments I landed was with a local furrier, an older gentleman who was notoriously hard to deal with and even more famously difficult to garner a signature from. But I’d gotten an appointment with him, which no one else had been able to do for years.

Snake and I showed up for the meeting, both crisp and professional-looking, million-watt smiles freshly charged. I (and I don’t remember exactly how now) got the guy to sit down and actually look at some run schedules, was coaxing him into the salesmanship end zone, when somehow I dropped the ball. Well, not so much dropped the ball as stumbled while carrying it, thus kind of whoopsy-daisying the whole thing and trying in a somewhat grabass fashion to get ahold of things again. Then The Snake started interjecting and the whole thing went to hell in a handbasket. The furrier was not inclined to listen to a fucking word that guy was saying, and his irritation grew more and more obvious with each second that ticked. Finally it was like he just drew the mental sash (made of iron…CLANG!) and there was nobody coming back to the door. Snake and I said our good-byes and left.

That fucker bitched at me the whole way back to the office. He was still bitching when we walked through the doors, and Lori, the savvy receptionist/Girl FridaySaturdaySunday asked what was up as I took my briefcase and my barely-checked anger toward the kitchen for some coffee.

“She had him right there, Lor, and she fell over into the mud. I tried to hammer it back together, but it was just gone.”

Lori asked him for the details, and before he was halfway through she shut him down with, “You can’t pick someone up and carry them outta the mud, dumbass, you’ll both sink. You help them out, but most times you let them pick themselves up, scrape off the muck and try again.” Maybe she’s blown it, was her unspoken message to him, but you’re seasoned and you should have known better.

Cut to three months later: I had come off of my draw plus commission paycheck and was doing well on commissions alone. So well, in fact, that my commissions had been bumped to the next level a few months early. Then one Wednesday afternoon the big boss, Grady, summoned me and the one other female AE to his office.

“Ladies,” he greeted me and Deb when we’d all sat down, “I have something to run past the two of you.” Deb was ten years my senior, a tall, attractive black woman with a graceful manner but a suspicious, distrustful nature. She immediately pulled to her full height in her seat.

The basic gist of the conversation was that there was this client, one we’d landed some years ago, that was a significant portion of the yearly gravy at our station. He spent an enormous amount of money on advertising, and he preferred to do it all in one whack, one time per year. The time for renewing his contract was here, and Grady needed a rep to draw everything up and meet with him. The catch was that the AE had to be a female. Sherry, the previous eye-candy, used to handle all of his business. Now that she was gone, it had to be Deb or me.

I knew of Sherry. She was known in the local industry as a savvy businesswoman. She had looks, a killer instinct and a fat bank account. She was also of questionable integrity, which probably aided her bank account quite a bit. She and The Snake were the best of friends before she moved to California, if that tells you anything about her character.

Deb cocked an eyebrow, “And??” she asked, “Because, Grady…I’m pretty confident that there’s an ‘And’.

Grady had his poker face on, but you could see the internal wince, which was surprising. You could tell that he was searching for the best way to word what came next.

“Aaannnnd….he likes to fraternize with the rep that handles his account.”

“So what you’re saying to me is,” Deb paused here to suck on her teeth, “Is that this man wants some play for his pay.” Grady looked very, very uncomfortable, and this was before the Age of Rampant Sexual Harassment Lawsuits.

“Ahh, yes. Yes he does, if the past is any indicator.” He hurriedly finished with, “But, I won’t force either one of you to take this account.” The room went deadly quiet for about two minutes, though you could hear everyone’s gears whirring. Deb was starting to grit her teeth when I looked at Grady.

“I’ll take it,” I said, “I’ll handle the account.”

I went to my desk and immediately got Mr. Moneybuckets’ secretary on the phone. I scheduled an appointment for the following Tuesday; it was a late-morning slot so as to allow us a ‘working lunch’ if necessary. Some copy and time order specifications were already available to me; I spent the biggest part of my weekend setting up the contract and working to flesh out the rest of his runs and writing up new material to have recorded for sample spots on Monday.

Tuesday morning I didn’t even go into the office; I spent that time getting ‘purty’ at the salon. Then I went to the bank and drew out a hundred-dollar bill.

“Make it the crispest one you’ve got,” I told the teller.

I was nervous as I approached Mr. Moneybuckets’ building, but I greeted his secretary warmly and introduced myself. She ushered me into his office where there was a table already set up for us: It was laid out with coffee and tea (bleck, never touch the stuff, tastes vile as allhell), finger sandwiches and light pastries. Moneybuckets eyed me from behind his desk as I pulled some paperwork from my briefcase, along with a pen. I cruised around the table, the hundred palmed in my right hand. Just as he was opening his mouth (to say something smarmy, I’m sure), I slapped the hundred-dollar bill down on his desk.

“Here’s a hunnert bucks, go get yourself a blow job.” THWACK, I slapped the contract down on the desk next to the cash.

“Here’s the contract I’ve drawn up,” THWACK, I slapped the pen down on top of the contract, “here’s a pen.”

“Now sign the thing.”

He looked at me, eyebrows raised, for what seemed like nine years and I started steeling myself for the worst. I figured surely an ass-chewing, if not an ass-beating, was about to commence. But I was ready for anything. My momma always taught me that if you ball up your fist like a man and hit like a man, you better be ready to get beat down like a man. I was in a sure state of high-heeled, business-suited readiness when that old fucker let out the biggest spate of genuinely-amused laughter I’d ever fucking heard in my short life. I thought he was gonna pop a valve from laughing so hard. When he finally straightened up in his chair and wiped his eyes, he gestured and said, “Let’s sit down here at the table and go over the specifics before I actually sign.”

I left there that day with a lot of fucking money in my pocket. That money was made all the sweeter by the fact that my dignity rested in there with it.

I don’t know whether or not he paid to get his peepee sucked, but that fucker kept my money — and my pen, too. Prolly had ‘em framed.

Nobody worked it out »

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