Sellout
“If we improve the affective store displays across our restaurants in the northeast side, we should – will— see increased revenue for the next quarter.” The voice spoke with a confident tone catching her doubt for just a second; it had been 3 years of this – and she knew she was good in her role.
You want it darker.
“Oh, and any data to back-up that claim?” A silvered-haired foxish marketing director spoke evenly, if not languorously, a cocked eyebrow framing his words. They were good enough co-workers; his tone wasn’t defensive – just curious and probing for the moment, he wanted to believe. He was her mentor. This was there weekly one on one; he was bare foot on his fine Persian rug. His office, large, impressive, and dignified. Smelling faintly like cheap bourbon and strong Stetson cologne – smokey alcohol and clean firewood. The panoramic view of the city below, marvelous.
“Yes, Roland. We’ve been doing live feedback polling in our cafes – the highest response rates are usually from the 55 to 68 range – our primary target demographic.” She ran a hand up her neck, cracking it to both sides, a hand instinctively touching her ear. Forgetting for a moment that her bar piercing was no longer there – she was clean cut now. She straightened out her sleeves being sure to cover the inked forearms hidden under her pure white dress sleeves. Not that Roland would care – coming to know the old man, she was fairly sure he had been begun drinking in his office before their one on one begun.
She knew where he kept his bottle hidden in his bottom drawer. And it was already after lunch.
“Roland, it’ll work. Unless you want to try out my other idea of dimming the lights by 5%. I am positive that will increase our visit length time and elicit the affective response we’re seeking here. Dim lights are emotional comforting and offer a host of cognitive benefits.”
“Oh, come off it with those got-dammed psych shit, Sarah. We sell good pasties and burnt coffee. At least speak to me in marketing.”
There was a pause. Her rebuttal already planned before the meeting. So, this was what it meant to be a Sellout. Well, its not all bad. Now to just talk convincingly.
“We sell peace of mind. With a side of good pastries and burnt coffee. And good lighting is peace of mind. This is marketing.” There was another smirk, she never thought she’d be working for a middle-class coffee chain, but life is absurd its own casual, beautiful and uneven way.
Priorities in life shift she told herself, thinking about romantically to the stories she liked to fashion – she had a heart for high-fantasy, and sci-fi: goblins and aliens, sometimes all the better when they were mixed in the same medium. A wry, bitter smile, tracing on her face – when was the last time I wrote anything for myself?
You want it darker.
She sighed returning to her smaller office. She was promoted a year ago. She had a half-view now. It wasn’t bad. Perspective is everything.
“Why am I mad again?” She found herself talking out loud. “This is just work. Just work. Work, work, work.” She breathed in and out of her nose, remembering some of her counseling experience from her past clinical rotations – the actual human component to her work. A breathing exercise would help come her down. She was an I/O psychologist. No one knows what that actually means, not even herself fully still – she remembered explaining it to Roland glibly in the final round of their interview together:
“It’s all Business Psychology…
Inhale.
We take the understanding of the human experience…
Exhale.
And tailor it towards…
Inhale.
Effective organizational and industrial practices.
Exhale.
Essentially, its best methods for understanding consumer and worker insights.”
There was one final deep breath.
You want it darker.
She was more in control of her mood, of her consciousness again. There was a sigh, she wished she had built up more seniority so she could start letting it “all hang out” like everyone else on the top floor. She was probably a good 2 or 3 years off from being able to do that though. Everyone in corporate here, probably in corporate America, has something in their bottom drawer.
She never thought herself to be middle-class and tame. But perhaps, this was all part of the game – there is nothing wrong with wanting a paycheck and a comfortable life. Roland is just like this in his own way.
One more sigh, the breathing exercise losing its effect. Is this all it is then, a game? Ladder hopping?
Roland is getting up in years, though. He’s drinking more at his desk these days. Caring less. He’ll be out the door soon enough one way or another.
She shook her head, “Really, Sarah? Ladder-hopping that’s really what we’ve resorted to?” She looked at the bottom of her desk drawer. One hand on her chain, another on that same ear – the lobe had completely healed, not even a hint of that piercing to be found. Clean cut, remember?
You want it darker.
“Oh, what has become of myself?” It was dry sarcasm but was it serious. She had been speaking to herself more often since working her these last 3 years. Her eyes teared with a wet glimmer, looking at the pulsing blue screen before her – an array of excel sheets, Google analytics forms, and SEO optimized data pulled from their proprietary software.
L’appel du vide. French for “The call of the void.”
That nagging, pulling feeling, that thought, that gut, low-pounding pulse when you’re on top of a building and think “what if I slipped? What if I jumped?” Or when you are driving and think “what if I just swerve into traffic”. What if it’s all just gone in an instant. We all think this or thought this, somewhere in our heads.
She looked again at the bottom of her desk drawer. Wisdom and truth would be lovingly hand etched into the cold steel cylinder of what was tucked away in that safe, little brown confide. It made her feel… powerful? Was that the correct term... perhaps alive? Sane?
It shouldn’t be here… should I?
You want it darker.
Roland would come in. She would be in a puddle on the floor. Would he be barefoot? Would his feet be stained? His hands? Would the old fool think he had just one too many for the day? Would he scream? Faint? Cry? Would else would come in? What would they all say?
She was laughing now. “Oh, Sarah.”
“Something is missing here isn’t it?” She scanned the screen once more, “The effective displays aren’t enough to win that old badger over – maybe if we pair dimmed light model that alongside something else. How about... a value bundle? We could sell chips at cost, alongside a packaged “premium” fountain drink – that would get people in the door…
And once they are in the door… it’s all over.
…Run it as a promotional event in the summer. If it sticks and drives revenue we keep it, and turn the price up by 10 cents under their noses. ”
You want it darker.
“They’d go in — they’d buy in – they’d go for a sandwich, or perhaps a cookie to finish it all off. It could work... I could make it work.” Her eyes peeled through the company’s financial numbers, the schemed skeleton turning into a fleshed out living idea with working internalized organs and flawless, bleached skin, all covering its once barren infant form.
She leaned back now in her chair, she had something here. She clicked the print button on her screen. The warm sound of a printer firing off behind her, as pages effectively bodied out one after another. It would work — she was good after all. Being on the top floor was nice. Maybe soon she would have that full view.
She looked at the bottom drawer of her desk.
Reaching low for it, turning it open, she pulled it open wide and picked out a manila folder to place her new plans in.