First, a quick review of my career progress at this point in the story:
1. Worked my way through school as a flunky on the graveyard shift. Got a useless degree in English.
2. Was promoted to a job for which I was not qualified.
3. Was promoted to a job for which I was not qualified.
4. Went to another company and was hired into a job for which I was not qualified.
It had now been four years since I’d found the employee relations job and everything seemed okay. The primary reason things seemed okay is that I had no idea what was going on at the very top. At this point, I wasn’t part of the management structure, so I could easily slip back into my lower-middle-class upbringing and bitch a blue streak about that bunch of dimwits in the executive suite who didn’t give a crap about the rest of us. I’d had very little contact with any of the executives except my boss, who, like all the other executives, believed that information was power and shared very little inside information with his direct reports.
That wasn’t why he got fired. He got fired because he screwed up the sales compensation plan and caused a million dollar shortfall in the budget.
My colleagues and I speculated about a replacement. I thought for sure it would go to a person we’ll call Andrea. She had the most knowledge and experience and had worked closely with several executives on key initiatives. The Compensation Manager might have had a shot due to her Ivy League affiliations, but she was part of the sales compensation fiasco and the CEO had publicly humiliated her for her incompetence, an incident that was the talk of the town for several weeks. There was also some speculation that, this being a French company, they would bring in one of their own from Paris and fire the rest of us. Given my relative lack of experience and the fact that I’d only supervised manufacturing people several years before, no one thought I had a shot, self included. I didn’t want the frigging job anyway. I had no desire to be a golf-playing country-clubbing bonus-padding loser Mercedes owner. I still had dreams of escaping the world of business and somehow making it in a more artistic field and living a more bohemian existence. The last thing I wanted was to be a Vice President.
It had to happen.
One day Andrea walked in and said she and her hubby were headed for Honolulu to pursue their shared music careers in the soft jazz market. Later that afternoon, the CFO came to my office and told me to follow him. We headed for the CEO’s office, which was appropriately and significantly hidden from public view down a long hallway where all the human noise of the company was shut out as effectively as if he had been working in a sound isolation booth.
The CEO asked me a question. “What’s your ancestry?” I supposed the question was still legal in France, so I answered, “My father’s side is Portuguese.”
He said, “Portuguese! Good! That means you’re hard-working.” He then told me I was in charge of HR and that he wanted me to fix the turnover problem in the sales force and keep him out of jail. I was then dismissed.
So, here I was, a newly-minted executive who had no qualifications for the job and no desire to do the job. They gave me a modest increase and I later learned that what made me the top candidate was that they knew I’d come cheap. Having Portuguese ancestry somehow confirmed the wisdom of their decision.
To say I was stunned would I have been an understatement, but the people in HR were all very excited for me. The head of sales came down and gave me a bear hug and said, “Welcome to the executive suite.” I wanted to throw up, but I mustered up a pathetic smile.
It was all put into perspective that evening around the family dinner table. By then I was married with two sons, aged eight and five. Once we all sat down, I took a deep breath and said, “Well, guys, I’m a Vice President.”
There was a moment of silence, then my youngest said, “You mean like Dan Quayle?”
Oh God, I thought. I am a loser.
—to be continued—