I was a Corporate Stepchild

When she revealed the paltry sum she wanted to pay me, I was insulted.  

 
The Offer

I’d been freelancing with her Manhattan-based company for years. She was a trade show director, and  I was a meeting planner / trade show generalist, running a home-based business in Downtown Brooklyn (DOBRO). 

I enjoyed my freedom, but from my solo cup of coffee in the morning, to shutting down my computer at night, I was in solitary confinement. When I caught myself striking up a conversation with the scrawny kid from Domino's, who just wanted me to fork over the cash so he could deliver the rest of his pizzas, it was time to face facts. I needed workplace socialization.  Water cooler gossip.  Employee bonding. It was time to trade in my bunny slippers for grown up business attire. I needed a J.O.B.

When my client, who I'll call Jane, emailed me with a job offer, I was ecstatic. She knew my capabilities, so I assumed she’d pay me well.   Our quick email exchange went something like this.  

@Me: Great! What’s the salary?  

@Jane: I am prepared to pay you X.

@Me: That seems low.  Is it a typo?

@Jane: No. And it’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.

I thought, really?  So it’s like that?  Who did she think she was dealing with? You don’t low-ball a seasoned professional like me.

So after I accepted, we decided I would start right away.

I should have smelled trouble, but my nostrils were filled with the sweet scent of a regular paycheck and health insurance that would no longer cost me a fortune.  Besides, this was a woman I knew and respected. Her only flaw?  She could pinch a penny tighter than Suze Orman. 

But girlfriend, I had a job.

Summer Fun

Before I knew it, summer arrived.  This was a big deal because Half Day Fridays kicked in.   So at 11:59 a.m. I cleaned up my desk and headed for the front door.  I had to pass Jane's office to get out, and I was surprised to see her buried behind stacks of paper. Before I could scoot past her, she made a point of raising her head to give me a look that said,

“You not leaving now, are you?” 

I felt guilty.  Even though the half day was policy, I'd just come on board, and I didn’t want my boss thinking I was a slacker. Besides, she was still working, and showing no signs of even thinking about closing up shop.  So I bypassed the elevators, hung out in the hallway for a bit, waved goodbye to the droves of people heading out, and came right back to my desk.  So much for getting an early start on the weekend.  Her intimidating look was enough to make me sit there all summer, like a scared little rabbit, never having the guts to leave early a single time, until Labor Day Weekend. Of course, the fact that she happened to be on vacation had nothing to do with it. 

By the time our busiest season rolled around, she knew she had me under control. And I was starting to see things going on around me that were more than perplexing - little things that left me stumped. 

Late Night Mystique

Soon we were deep in preparation for a big show.  I stayed late many nights, sometimes past eleven.  I noticed when my colleagues stayed late, they often ordered takeout from nearby restaurants.  The minute their food was delivered, they’d take a dinner break. I settled for filling up on the Snapple and diet Cokes in the kitchen. Short on extra cash, I ate (like a horse) when I got home.

In the back of my mind, I wondered how my coworkers, including those who were poor as church mice, managed to spring for pricey dinners, night after night.  I smelled a rat.

Another Unsolved Mystery

When I stayed after-hours,  the next day I'd drag in late, looking lifeless.  Par for the course, I thought, after a grueling subway ride followed by very little sleep.  I noticed others who stayed late and lived a million miles away from the office, managed to show up bright and early the next morning. And they were energetic – running back and forth to the copy machine, making numerous phone calls, and staying alert at staff meetings. Some of them lived in the Bronx, Queens, and even New Jersey, enduring commutes far longer than my trek to DOBRO.  How'd they do it?

Hotel Jam

As always, the trade show staff was booked at a premier Times Square hotel for the show. I looked forward to it.  We'd all get suites, fine amenities, and impeccable service.  But one day before we all checked in, my boss feared the premier abode might run short of complimentary rooms for us. God forbid she should spend an extra coin (of not her  money, I might add), to make sure we were all comfortable.  Her quick, low-cost fix?  Kick someone out. Put them in a hotel guaranteed not to cost one red cent. 

Being the newbie, I knew I'd be the one to take the hit.  Jane cancelled my reservation, swearing  she'd find "a nice alternative" for me.  So now my suitcase was packed but my housing was up in the air.  One. Day. Before. Check-in.   

To say I was a little anxious would be an understatement.  I was starting to get a rash. 

Let me explain.  This was a show involving 40,000 people, requiring a 12-15 day hotel stay for anyone working on the event, no matter how close you lived to the venue.  It took a small army of people, exerting blood, sweat and tears, to run this puppy.  And every night when the show closed, you’d be lucky if they didn’t carry you out on a stretcher. Or worst case scenario, they’d bring you out feet first.  Staying home, having to deal with your regular life over the show dates, was out of the question. If you had a husband, there could be loss of life – his.  We needed the nicest hotel rooms possible, so we could live in comfort and focus on the tasks at hand, until the show closed.  

When I did get assigned, the hotel looked fine on the outside, but my room was a different story. The entranceway was so narrow I had to turn my suitcase sideways to get it in. Not an easy feat, since it was a huge clunker with wheels that didn't rotate easily, let alone spin. The room had a doorless closet with three hangers, and a small dresser, with fake drawers, although for several minutes, I tried to yank one of them open. The TV didn't work, and there was an audible leak in the bathroom.  It was also the tiniest hotel room I'd ever laid eyes on. Could I last fifteen days in this dump?  Nope. Not a chance.

I thought about my colleagues, getting settled into their suites, luxuriating in fluffy hotel bathrobes, sipping wine, and enjoying their fruit baskets.  Furious, I called my boss.  My voice was shaking, for fear of being fired, but my tone was loud, deliberate, and serious, when I said the following.

"This so-called hotel room you gave me is unacceptable.  I'm checking out and heading home to Brooklyn." 

All of a sudden, she changed her tune.

Jane quickly contacted our company's hotel lady, who hit my cell phone right away. Begging me to lower my standards and stay put for  just one night, she promised to get me a spectacular room for the duration of my stay.  Too exhausted to move or argue, I settled in. 

The next evening I stopped by the front desk to pick up the key to my new room.  An apologetic young woman told me  that last night, they'd placed me in the only room in the hotel that hadn't been renovated. Hmm. Was it just bad luck, or had Jane set it up that way?  Paranoia was starting to set in.  I snatched the key, and as I got off the elevator and realized my new room was on the concierge level, I still had low expectations.  I put the key in the door, and presto!  Someone must have waved a magic wand for me. I was standing in a huge corner room with a wraparound picture window, and a view of Times Square. The hotel sent a nice bottle of wine and chocolate covered strawberries to boot.  The room was brand spanking new, with a working TV, and fresh linens that had been turned down with chocolate placed on the pillow. And of course, there was a fluffy bathrobe hanging in the huge closet.  I breathed a sigh of relief.   I could now get through the show, without tears, or claustrophobia.

Petty Receipts

The show closed, and everybody went home to collapse and recuperate.  When we came back to the office, it was time to wrap up the financials. Being one of the poor souls without a company credit card, I submitted my expenses immediately, looking to get my money back, like, yesterday.

The minute my expense report hit her inbox, Jane called me into her office. 

When I walked in, the woman had fished out one of my cash register receipts, and she was waving it in front of me. The total amount - twenty bucks. With a straight face, she questioned me, like I was a suspect at a police station. I remember thinking - Why should I have to explain what was spelled out on the receipt?  Chicken fried rice, Szechuan chicken and two egg rolls. Then she let me know she’d done a bit of detective work.  The receipt was dated the same day as the show’s opening night party, where she’d spotted me and my new six foot-five boyfriend eating hors d’oeuvres. This confirmed my suspicion that she'd been stalking  staring at us that night.  She said we should have filled up at the party, rather than spending money on Chinese takeout afterwards.  WTF?

All of this hoopla over twenty dollars? Okay. So was this jealousy, extreme cheapness, or both?  I doubt if she nailed other staff who bought dinner rather than sucking down a boat load of franks in a blanket at the party.  But I didn't push back.  If deducting twenty clams from my reimbursement check made her day, so be it. 

Pink Slips   

Time went on, and we had another summer of Half Day Fridays.  This time, I took advantage of it.  Summer turned to fall, and one day I came back from lunch to find Jane throwing her belongings into cardboard boxes.  She’d been fired. I was stunned, although I knew we had a new president who was cleaning house.  So just like that, my boss gone.

I felt sorry for her.  All in all, she hadn’t been so bad.  Be that as it may, I noticed I was smiling a lot more, although heads were rolling faster than I could count them.

Enter my new boss. Green. Harmless. Scared.  Not a problem (yet).  She was just one of the new hires who were happily filling empty slots left by folks who'd been chopped.  Smart cookie that he was, our new president hired a counselor, one of those touchy-feely types,  to address the concerns of employees who had whiplash from all the changes.  Someone we could talk to if we had any fears or concerns. And of course, anything we said to her would be strictly confidential.

Happy Days

When I learned the touchy-feely lady was recording our “private” conversations and bringing the goods back to the president, I had a plan. I set up an appointment with her.   I drew up a proposal for a salary increase.  I outlined my responsibilities and found data on salaries for people doing the same job. I even lied and said I knew their were people in the company doing less work that me, for much more money.   The touchy-feely lady listened, claimed I had a good case, and suggested I take it to our new commander in chief. Meanwhile, I knew she’d talk to the president before I did. 

He called me in for a meeting.  He pushed some papers across his desk, telling me to take a look.  I couldn't believe my eyes.  He'd signed off on a huge salary increase, for me. I was speechless.  Then I thought about it.  My pay was probably lower than the suggested starting salary for managers in the company who were on my level.  Can you spell lawsuit?  Still, this man was genuine. He knew what my job entailed, and he saw to it that I was paid accordingly.

With the swift motion of his pen, he made my life better, and for that, I will be forever grateful.

Secrets Revealed

Time flew, and the busy season rolled around again.  The late nights were upon us, and people were ordering food.  Bolstered by my new salary, I looked at a couple of menus and put my order in.  When the food was delivered, I whipped out my money.  Jaw’s dropped.   

They asked, ‘What are you doing?” 

 I said,  “Paying?”   

And that’s when I learned if you worked past seven o-clock, the company paid for your dinner.   So all of those nights, when I was filling up on diet Cokes, I could have had dinner? Why didn't Jane tell me?  My opinion of her was starting to change.  

One snowy night, now that I was in charge of managing staff housing with the hotel lady,  I was asked to find rooms for people who were staying late, including me.  Huh?  That’s when I discovered staff could stay overnight in nearby hotel rooms, gratis, of course, so that when they worked late, particularly during bad weather, it wouldn’t be such a hardship. Many came in with suitcases in the morning, knowing they would not be returning home that night.  Here was another fringe benefit she'd shut me out of.  The next time I worked late, I stayed in a lovely hotel, just steps away from the office.  In the morning, I arrived just as perky as everyone else. 

Then one evening I was headed out late, and a colleague asked, 

“How are you getting home?” 

Before I could respond, she handed me a form and told me to call the number at the top.  She explained that the company had a car service employees could use to get home when they worked late.  Holy Moly! While I was in the subway, dealing with Pizza Rat and assorted weirdos, my coworkers were being safely chauffeured home  in black cars.  Jane never breathed a word about it.  

Soon, I was given another big raise.  Goes to show you just how much I was underpaid.  And they gave me a corporate credit card.

The raises were life-changing.  The credit card actually helped me be more productive, because it took away the stress of always having to reach into my pocket for certain show expenses.

I was a new person, embarking on a new and improved life.