Estimated reading time: 11 minutes
The office was tucked away in the corner of the ninth floor of the high rise commercial building. In contrast to the long hallways, open plan design and tall ceilings that dominated that Lego piece in the sky, enclosed spaces were only afforded to the higher higher ups. Today’s new breed of middle management were not averse to jostling elbows and mouse-clicking alongside underlings these days. To some, inspire and lead by example. To others, the enemy within.
However, this particular room was different. The small, dimensionally ill-fitting space seemed like an architectural error – the equivalent of a baker’s dozen or butcher’s cut. To the corporate body, it was a third nipple. Entirely useless. A design flaw.
It initially served as a makeshift office for those who needed to make a private call. Ceiling to floor window panels along one side offered no visible cover. But, the soundproof walls afforded some degree of privacy, at least. Recently, the space was repurposed as a one-to-one room, where difficult conversations could be made.
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘Off to the cupboard’.
‘Oh.’ The response, a long drawn out sound like a missed scoring opportunity in front of an open goal.
It was there, on the first Monday morning of a brand new shiny sales quarter — can you say, Go Team! — two employees sat opposite each other at the small table. The man, Mark Jennings, was in his early fifties and had a resting face of furrowed concentration, which had served him well in client negotiations. Prospects misinterpreted the deep, almost Klingon-like grooves on his temple as impatience or dissatisfaction, going out of their way to appease the otherwise affable salesman.
The woman, Teri (always with an ‘i’), was in her mid-twenties and had been transferred recently from the company’s New Jersey office. Top of her list of responsibilities was an expansion of the UK and Irish team. She had been forewarned that this may require some difficult decisions to be made, including an audit of the existing team. This was an opportunity that the young manager relished – an opportunity to shape a team in her image. In contrast to the softly spoken Mark, the small blonde and crossfitting mother of two, was bottled lightning.
The only common ground between the pair – aside from the 150 sq metres of lush green carpet they padded nine hours a day – was their fealty to the company. Enjoying unprecedented success stateside with a series of rapid promotions after joining from college, the young woman was earmarked for greater things. All it took was a keen eye and knowing where to look.
If there were riches to be unlocked, Mark Jennings hadn’t found them. Employed for almost four years, the last three quarters had been particularly brutal with his sales numbers plummeting. In his defence, the work ethic that had in previous years, turned famine into feast, had never wavered. But, alas, Teri explained, it wasn’t about ‘working harder’. It was about ‘working smarter’.
And it was at that precise moment when she took a big breath in her sinewy little chest and said the three little words a salesperson loathes to hear the most.
“Performance Improvement Plan.”
Mark was acutely aware of his underperformance against his peers. It was, after all, scrawled on a giant whiteboard in fat marker pen for all to see. Other sales reps, IT, HR, finance – even the Goddamn cleaners could see he was stinking out the place. The quarterly leaderboard had eight names, with his propping up the rest.
“PIP. Are you familiar with it?”
That short sound. A single syllable. It was almost comical that the squeak could conjure up such anxiety. But, there it was. Hello darkness, my old friend.
Ears, rushing with warm blood, Mark nodded acquiescence. His boss, seemingly easing into the task, leaned back in the chair, and placed a pen down on the table beside a page that no doubt summarised his various crimes. Her hands became more animated, eager to explain.
“Listen, Mark. This could be really good for you—”
A PIP was never good. It was a Vampiric bite. A witch’s curse. The beginning of the end.
“—just need to keep hitting that phone. Limit bathroom breaks. Write a to-do list each evening—”
I’m being told when I can or can’t pee. I’m fifty-two.
“—and when we review it again each week—”
Micromanagement. I’m being slowly strangled to death by a North American Python.
“All this,” Teri says, “is to get you back firing on all cylinders again. Get those numbers up.”
Those numbers, Mark considered, had been up, up and away for the first year of his tenure. Long before her arrival. Management’s sudden decision to carve his patch into four parts and piecemeal it out to the other team members was, of course, besides the fact. Smaller region, same target. Was that detail on her call sheet?
Naturally, Mark said none of these things. Instead, numb with shock, he nodded, and to his later disgust, heard himself agreeing with the woman, who would have been learning her ABC’s when he was door knocking and selling insurance.
“I know you have it in you. You just need to fight for it.”
I have a ten year mortgage still outstanding. Liam’s starting Uni in a couple years.
“So, we’ll set up another meeting, same time next week, and I want you to present your action plan for the next three months, and how you’re going to achieve your target.”
Shona’s going to kill me. I can’t afford to lose this job.
“Should your performance not improve in the next thirty days, you’ll receive a written warning. Today’s meeting represents your first warning. If, after three months, your performance is still below par, we will be left with no other course of action than to terminate your employment.”
Fire me. Just say it. For the love of God, just speak bloody English you daft—
“But, we won’t let it come to that, will we Mark?”
We might. Christ, who am I kidding? I need this paycheck.
“Now, just a formality, but I need you to sign this to confirm that we had this meeting and you agree with the implementation of the PIP. Sound good?”
That little sound again. PIP. Pipsqueak. Peppy.
A sharp noise that sounded like, ‘yip’ left Mark’s mouth. It may have been the visceral gut punch of the PIP that caused it, but given his current sorry state and crumpled form hunkered over the table, it was more likely a concession of defeat.
The small, firm hand slid the document across the table, turning it around slowly so he could read. Mark glanced at it and searching, found the little box where he signed his name.
“Good,” Teri said, practically leaping from her seat. “I really think this could be the best thing for you.”
As Teri left the room, Mark turned to watch as she passed the row of cubicles, high fiving an employee who had just closed a deal. She play-boxed another on the shoulder, smiling and spreading good cheer on her merry way. His stomach lurched forward violently with the dawning realisation that he had ultimately signed his own death warrant.
There were no high fives on Mark’s return. A few sheepish grins peered around screens, and chairs swivelled away as he snaked around the cells and retook his seat. He unlocked his computer and stared at the display for a few moments, wondering what to do.
The voice opposite – Teri – made the choice for him.
“Did anyone see Love Island last night?” The head popped over the desk divider, seeing if any of the team would take the bait. There was always at least one happy idiot willing to play along.
“Oh, God, yeah! That Darren was—”
Mark got up and left.
*
Several weeks later, it became clear Mark was drowning and desperate for a buoy to cling to. For the first month, the only obvious change in his behaviour to those watching – and Teri, with one ‘i’ – always open, always watching – was an increase in call output. He combed through the embers of previously dead deals where he had walked away from difficult customers. Happier times when he could be choosy. Not anymore. His job now was to resuscitate the corpses of quarters past. He was desperate, and it was coming off him in waves, as the month drew to an end.
*
In the second month, four weekly meetings with increasing urgency were set aside to review performance and KPIs. These required detailed powerpoint reports that took Mark away from his daily job, taking several hours to prepare – administrative hours that he couldn’t afford. Logging calls, counting emails, tracking leads.
“Pause it there.”
They were sitting in the cupboard, a room he was beginning to despise. Motivational posters had now been tacked on the wall. Mountaineers scaling snow-tipped peaks. Safari lions prowling gazelles. The two chairs had been replaced by beanbags which made sitting upright difficult. Mark’s laptop was open and on the table. The recording software was playing his most recent call.
“Go on.”
He leaned forward and struck a key. ‘…have a minute of your time to talk about what CRM…?’
“Pause it. There!!” Mark looked up at the wide-eyed woman who was pointing at the laptop. “What could you have said differently there?”
Mark, feeling the two decades of sales experience weighing heavy on him, swallowed back the growing pressure in his chest. They had been in the room for almost an hour, dissecting his calls. A notepad was by his side, sentences half-heartedly scribbled in shorthand.
How could you better phrase that? How can you create urgency? How can you overcome that rejection in the future?
“I could have asked an open-ended question?”
Teri dismissed the idea.
Just tell me the right answer so I can get out of this room and make some ACTUAL calls you stupid—
“I could have set up a time contract at the start?”
“Attaboy!”
Otherwise known as setting time expectations. Thirty seconds to explain how I can help, after which you can decide to hang up, continue the conversation, hurl abuse down my throat, or all three. The pop psychology naming conventions that distil and label the elements of a natural conversation. Nothing quite says rapport than matching the tonality and communication styles of your lead prospect.
“You need to speak their language, Mark. ‘I hear what you’re saying. ‘I can see the value in that’. People like people who are like themselves.”
You need to manipulate them by pretending to be like them, more like.
“Let’s try another. One of the calls where you were rejected.”
Sure. Let’s look at those healing scabs and rip them off again.
*
The third month required a performance for the ages. By the second week, the writing was on the wall. Literally.
Sales is built on reputation and those at the bottom do not live long in the memory. For every Mark Jennings, there are ten ambitious rookies snapping at your heels. Eager to blast through call lists before midday. Working lunches to crawl through social networks for leads. Fearless and pliable to the latest sales training and methodologies that make them a better talker, listener, communicator and all-star employee. Smile and dial. Fail forward. The early bird.
As Mark faced the inevitable prospect of unemployment, he knew that something fundamental had been lost and wouldn’t return. For him, there once was an ecosystem that supported life. The seas where his type could freely navigate, co-exist in harmony with others, feed on the plankton and smaller fish. But those oceans were getting smaller. He was becoming an endangered species, driven to hazardous waters to sustain life. Such was the order of things, perhaps.
There was a new rival. Faster, cleverer and with an appetite that was insatiable. This apex predator had emerged from the dark and murky depths. And its rise to dominance would be swift and brutal.
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
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