Grant Reeds. The name of my mentor, the guy who I’m shadowing for the first week or two, to “get a taste of how things are done.” Apparently also one of the company’s best agents.
When I arrived at the office, I glanced at the criminally short and unhelpful email I received and printed the night before.
[My office. 5:30 AM. Don’t be late. – Grant]
How wonderfully helpful for actual directions. And the hours were insane – most of the other employees apparently started four hours later than Mr. Reeds. I asked the blurry-eyed secretary for directions. The sixteenth floor? That rules out the stairs, it’s already 5:20. I mutter a quick thanks as I stride over to the elevators.
The sixteenth floor is… completely desolate. For that matter, so is the entire building – I don’t think there’s anybody in this place except for the secretary and apparently my mentor. I can already tell which room Mr. Reed is in – it’s the only one with lights on. I knock on the door and walk in after the short “Come in.”
My first thought upon seeing Grant Reeds? He is an intimidating man. Built like a bear – a good head taller than me and considerably bulkier than me as well – he wouldn’t look out of place on a football field. But here he was, dressed in… what definitely were not workplace-appropriate clothes, jeans and a plain T-shirt that loudly proclaimed “FUCK OFF.” I kind of stared at him for a few moments, or at least at his bowed head. He was doing paperwork this early in the morning?
As this was my first job, I didn’t want to screw this up. I said, “Hello, I’m the new guy and I…”
Reeds didn’t even look up. “Your stack is over there. I don’t care what your name is, I’m going to call you Joe. You have until 8:15 to finish the stack. Go down to the cafeteria and bring your own chair. Bring it back down at 8:15 and then be back here at 8:20.”
I blinked. What. And I turn around, and balanced precariously on the smallest desk I have ever seen is a mini-Tower of Babel. Of paper. Wait. That’s not even a desk, that’s a plastic trash can flipped upside down. I’m baffled and I probably came off as confused and dazed as I just stared at him.
Finally, he looks up, twin irises focused upon me with a glare that could probably kill mice from the concentration of acid present. “Joe. What are you waiting for.” The last part of the sentence wasn’t a question, but a heavily enunciated message conveyed with great displeasure. It would not be inappropriate to say that I fled the room.
It only went downhill from there.
My mentor is a complete ass. The first few hours involved me doing a ridiculously huge stack of paperwork that made me want to punch walls later when my fellow novices complained waking up too early. Some of the more experienced personnel grimaced when I came down to the cafeteria to return the chair I appropriated and expressed their condolences. At this point, I was glad for a break. But I really shouldn’t have. Because when I returned, Grant had already put on a light blue jacket. We were going out for field work and I mustered up my enthusiasm. After all, now I could watch the esteemed Grant Reeds at work, the master negotiator who had virtually ended overdue payments to the company and tripled company profits within the month he joined.
In hindsight? I really shouldn’t have been excited.
Upon reaching the parking lot, Grant told me to “make myself useful and drive.” As I pulled out onto 176th Street, he told me that we were going to the house of a client who had missed their annual payment yesterday. That was a paraphrase – his actual words were “Anne Sullivan missed her payments. Her house is here.”
We reached the house a scant fifteen minutes later – a modestly sized suburban building with a rather bare and unkempt lawn. In the time it took for me to park the car, he had strode over the lawn and rapped hard against the door.
The woman had hardly opened the door before he invited himself in. Nothing more than a “Grant Reeds. Your payments are overdue. Shoes?” before pushing past the surprised woman.
The “negotiation” took all of two minutes, and reminded me heavily of schoolyard bullies extorting lunch money from hapless victims.
“I’m so sorry, please, you have to…”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. You have an outstanding payment due yesterday. Where is it?”
“I, my husband, he’s off in Ira…”
“Your income statements show that you still have the capability to pay even without your husband. That’s not an excuse.”
“Times have been hard, I’ve barely had enough to take care of the bab…”
“Woman, everyone’s been having a hard time. The money, or I’ll need to file...”
“Please, just give me some more time, I don’t have…!”
“Tonight. Latest.” At this point, he turned to me. “Joe. We’re leaving.” And he strode out the still-open door, leaving me and who I presume was Anne Sullivan gaping after him. I mouthed a quick apology to her before I jogged back to my car.
“Sir, what the heck was that?! She already said she was having a hard time, you could have given her a bit more leeway than that!”
“Her payment was overdue. I am giving her leeway. She should already have the money.”
“But what if she doesn’t? She needs time to…”
“Then she shouldn’t have signed the contract.”
“It’s a fucking recession!”
“So she can’t pay her bills, but can pay for a new widescreen TV?”
The rest of the car ride passed in silence, aside from the next address.
We went to more homes. Grant Reeds visited more depression-hit clients, showing as much mercy to their financial situation as children to sugar.
I fucking hated him.
Work became the most unpleasant part of my day. Hell, I’d take going back to college over this – never have I felt so embarrassed over anyone else’s crudeness. Take the award, Grant Reeds, you fucking jackass. The first day was merely the beginning. By the end of the week, I begged for to shadow some other agent. There weren’t any.
The day I was fired, Grant walked into a secretary and sent her tumbling to the floor along with a huge stack of fax and printouts she was carrying. He didn’t even give a glance back as he strode on, as she groaned on the floor.
I tried to apologize for him. “Sorry, Mrs. Ai-“
Grant called “What are you sorry for? She should have been paying more attention. Hurry up, we have twenty appointments today, you can’t be dawdling around.”
“You… You fucking money-grubbing asshole! Can’t you think of anything other than money and appointments…!”
And… I blew up. I can’t stand this ass anymore. Can’t stand his fucking obsession with money, his obsession with cramming as many goddamn people into his schedule in order to get paid more – god, he almost doubles his salary with his overtime pay – his condescending “Joe,” everything about him. What followed was a massive outburst of swearing, made up words, and shouting that prompted security to remove me from the building. That night, I received a notice that Grant had filed a report on me and that I was fired. Fucking good riddance.
I went back up to Grant’s office the next afternoon, to pick up some of the few things I had left there. He wasn’t in the office – probably off being a massive ass to some poor fellow who forgot to file a few papers – so I started throwing my stuff, conveniently gathered in a small pile next to the now-upright trash can, into the backpack I brought.
I was about to leave. But then I realized, I’ve never been in Grant’s office without him in here to supervise me. What the hell did he have in here anyways? Maybe I’ll just smash something – god knows that the jerk deserves it. This place was a dump – a nice, orderly dump, but full of second-rate cabinets and strained folders that could barely hold their contents. I strode to his cabinet and pulled out some loose sheets randomly. An invoice, some transactions, some old newspapers. I shoved them back in haphazardly.
I briefly glanced at his desk. I was about to turn around and leave after briefly scanning the few papers, but then something caught my eye. I walked over, and picked up the folded sheet and the number that caught my eye.
[TOTAL BILL] - $5,419,450.
[LEFT TO PAY] - $2,861,305.
What is this? Grant owes this much? To what?! I scan the top part of the page.
Hospital… brain surgery… heart transplant… Sarah Reeds…your sister has shown signs of consciousness…will keep you notified…your insurance only covers…
I feel like I’ve intruded on something that I shouldn’t have. I fold the invoice and place it back on the table. I didn’t really feel like smashing Grant’s office anymore. I left the office.
Three days later, I quietly sent the one payment I had received to the city hospital, directed to one Sarah Reeds.
