by Martin Kihn
“I—I used to be. I’m working on it.”
He shook his head, unconvinced.
“What can I do, Mr. German?” I pleaded, almost whining now. “What are you doing?”
We both looked down at Hola, who remained attentively gazing up at her new idol, Mr. German.
“You’ve got to believe that getting your way is best for the dog. Since you care so much about the dog.”
“But I don’t want to be mean to her,” I confessed.
“Cruel,” he said, walking away to pick on another team, “to be kind.”
“Cruel to be kind,” I said to Hola, who immediately leaped up and darted off to party with a particularly attractive Lab mix named Maxie.
Over the next few weeks I did my best to follow the rules of dog training for Assholes, and we made some progress. Once Hola even sat when I didn’t have a treat, but then this look came over her face like she’d been horribly cheated out of something, and she went back to work on my ankles.
“Cruel to be kind,” I told my wife one night later that week as Hola slept on top of our comforter, exhausted from her latest road show in Tuckahoe.
“Forget kind,” she said. “Focus on the first part.”
Next morning, I walked past the guard in the lobby and for the first time in my history ignored him. A small thing perhaps, but I needed to set a tone.
And for the first time ever, he looked up at me and said, “Good morning, sir.”
No smiles in the elevators and hallways. Held eye contact. Less strain on the muscles of the face. More time to focus on the task at hand.
Which was walking into my office and—amazingly—turning on the light. You’ll remember my office-mate Bartholomew, who wasn’t in yet, liked the light off, so that’s the way we kept it. Not today. I checked my e-mails and set up meetings in my Outlook until he arrived.
And he turned off the light.
I got up and turned it back on.
He looked at me.
“You can have it off if you want,” he said.
“It’s staying on,” I growled.
I remained standing for the height advantage, and stared at him. He seemed puzzled.
“I thought you wanted it off,” he said.
“Yeah, right,” I sneered. “Just because you like to work in the dark, I really don’t.” I didn’t add, but probably should have, that it was also weird and more than a little adolescent. Also Goth, and I hated Goths. Also he could go climb a bell tower if he thought I’d put up with one more second of trying to work in a bat cave just because I was too “nice” to turn on the lights.
Bartholomew looked at me like I had just come out to him: shocked, but trying to be corporately correct.
“I like the lights on, Marty,” he said. “I kept them off ’cause I thought you liked it like that. I was trying to be nice, man.”
“You are fucking kidding me!”
“Nope.”
“Unbelievable”—all that darkness, those many months, a misunderstanding?
In the beautiful bright light I tried to settle back into work, but Emily walked in. She was a smart woman and a good worker, but—this has to be said—she could also be incredibly annoying. Usually, old Marty would sit through her long rambling monologues about how she’d really wanted to be a ballet dancer. But this morning, the Asshole did not have the time.
Emily sat in my guest chair, started crying, and grabbed a Kleenex from the box I’d installed for her (but intended to throw out today).
“I talked to my sister,” she started, “and she—she told me I’m too old to be a dancer now and—”
“Can this wait?” I asked.
“—blah blah out of shape. She says I should take a class occasionally and—I don’t know—”
“Emily, I can’t do this now.”
Something in my tone was different, and she finally noticed it. Her plea was so plaintive it almost broke my will: “Really?.”
Almost.
“Really,” I said, indicating the door.
The phone rang and it was Gloria. “Can’t talk,” I said to her more sharply than I meant to, “I’m in with Emily.”
“Enjoy her,” she said, and hung up.
That afternoon we all took cars out to the airport for a glamorous-not “Core Skills” off-site training session in Cleveland, Ohio, appropriately nicknamed “the Mistake by the Lake.”
I was determined to apply some of the insights I’d gathered in boxing and dog training to help me manage the most illbehaved animals of all: twentysomethings in advertising.
The training was in our Midwest HQ offices in a tall building right in the center of the city. Cleveland only has one tall building, so you can’t miss it. The view was incredible since we were all the way up on the 14th floor, which is very high for that part of the world. I could see all the industrial waste dumps I think they called the suburbs.
Like most training offsites this one consisted of a high-calorie snack, followed by some technical problems with the presentation, followed by another snack and some meanspirited gossiping, a lame comedy routine masquerading as a lecture by an SVP, a gentle reminder to keep it down in the back, a not-so-gentle reminder, and dinner.
The next day was more of the same, only earlier.
For me the highlight was the Team Breakout session, where we divided into subgroups with whoever happened to be sitting at our table. It was probably good that Emily and Eleanor were not in my subgroup since I wanted to practice before I started getting them in line. Who I did have were Jaime and Roger, token Harvard grads, who had an attitude like this firm was beneath them, and maybe it was.
But for now, I had Jaime and Roger, and a couple young women from Marketing based in Cleveland. Like all such people, in my experience, they were pleasant, competent, and extremely easy for any New Yorker to push around. Like human Silly Putty.
We were given a practice case about web traffic measurement, about which it would be hard for me to know less. However, I sat up straight, spoke in clear and even tones, and made direct eye contact.
“What we need to do is divide and conquer,” I said. “Gretel, you and Cindy”—I’ve forgotten their actual names—“work on a measurement plan. And Roger and Jaime, you focus on how we’re going to execute.”
“What are you gonna do?” asked the woman I’m calling Cindy.
“Just get to work.”
They didn’t move. It was awkward.
Finally, Roger chimed in: “Can I suggest something?”
“No!” I said, as I’d done so many times to Hola.
“It’s kinda hard to execute if we don’t have a plan,” he continued.
“Impossible, in fact,” nodded Jaime, standing up.
“Sit!” I shouted. “Down!”
“Why don’t we all do the plan first, then move on to the execution?” asked Roger.
“Makes sense,” said Jaime.
“No!” I barked. “Get to work.”
Since they were right about it being impossible to execute a plan you don’t have yet, Roger and Jaime spent an hour reading e-mail while the women developed a plan the guys hated. I sat there glaring as they improved it, against my direct orders. However, I didn’t call them off because, among the five of us, those two boys were the only ones who had a clue.
My grip on the leash was threatened again while we developed the execution.
“This is what we’re gonna do,” I growled. “We need to figure out how to get the spotlight tags and the single-pixel counters embedded in the log files and … well, look at the log files and—”
Jaime cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said.
“I’m talking,” I said. “So—”
“What you just said, Marty—it doesn’t make any sense,” he went on. “You can’t put spotlight tags in log files. Log files are just reports. That’s like saying you want a microphone in your bank statement.”
Gretel sniggered, or sneezed.
“Down!” I comm
anded.
“And what’s a ‘single-pixel counter’?” asked Roger. “Is that like a really small calculator? I think you just made it up—”
“Look, I’m in charge here,” I said. “We need a chain of command. You, stay!”
“Okay,” soothed Roger, who was still standing, “you’re in charge. But how about you let us do the plan, or we’ll never get out of here.”
He had a point. But I didn’t concede it; that would have been Castrated Beta Male. I just went over to the M&M bowl and watched my pack until they were done.
On the plane, Emily came up to me and said, “I heard your team had some problems.”
“What problems?!” I snarled.
“Never mind,” she said, and went back to her seat.
• • •
It is well known among people who use airports that they are all worthless. But the worst by a factor of a thousand is known to be New York’s LaGuardia. Not only is it built on a swamp in Queens, but It’s runways dead-end in a chemical river and they’re shorter than average. No wonder pilots who fly in there like to have a couple drinks before landing.
Which is to say my trip home did very little to soften a feeling of nameless dread that had been growing inside me. I wasn’t sure why. But I did know boxing and dog training hadn’t done much, in the end, for my confidence.
After I got home, I filled the bath with Epsom salts and Aveda Caribbean Therapy Body Creme. My wife sat on the toilet seat covered with the print of emperor penguins.
She said something but I’d sunk my head under the water so I didn’t hear more than a burble, but when I came up she said, “So?”
“So what?”
“What’s wrong?”
Historically, I am emphatically not the guy who takes things out on the spouse. That is lower than this Asshole goes. But some combination of jet fatigue, hypoglycemia, and frustration conspired to make me less than polite.
“Nothing,” I snapped. “Everything’s fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Who asked—” Thankfully, at that moment, the canine mini-Nemesis interrupted me by trotting into the bathroom, leaping up, snatching my $150 Hugo Boss shirt from the door hanger, and settling onto the floor to enjoy her snack.
That did it.
“Hola,” I screamed, “drop it!”
Suddenly, she stopped chewing and fear crept into her eyes. She dropped the shirt. I sat up in the tub and let the bubbles tumble off my sunken chest.
“Hola,” I said, “sit!”
She sat up.
“Hola, stand!”
She stood.
“And stay!” I shouted triumphantly, standing up in the tub and showing the world all that I had to offer.
Hola didn’t stay for long, and ten seconds later she was fast asleep on the living room floor with one of my socks in her mouth, but why dwell on the negative? I recommend in these moments to concentrate on just how far you’ve come.
Putting my slightly slobbery shirt back on the hanger, Gloria said, “Not bad. I’m impressed.”
At that moment, for a moment, I was the Alpha Dog.
STEP EIGHT
Put the “Tame” Back in “Team”
“He moves with single-minded purpose, his body relaxed, his gait even, his eyes unswerving and fixed on his quarry.”
—Janet Evanovich,
Eleven on Top
Now you’re really ready to unleash the beA$$t. You know how to act and think like an Asshole. You’ve practiced your moves, been ridiculed, cried like a little boy, crawled into a hole to die, wondered if there is a God, taken a nap, and come out fighting. In this Step, you apply your knowledge of blood sports and canine obedience to that eighteen-round grudge match called your job.
This is the Step in which theory finally gets out of your face and you have to go toe to toe with the bad boys who oppose you. Balls flying free, you’re running naked onto the field of glory when suddenly you hear someone saying, “For the love of all that’s holy, put on some pants!” No matter. Now comes the moment of truth.
The boss had set up an early meeting in her office the next day, and when I got there the Nemesis was already in his corner. Since I was a few minutes early, it seemed that my adversary had either grabbed some preview face time with the boss or been privileged to a pre-meeting on the topic we were all there to discuss.
The boss wasted no time, asking me, “What have you heard about Lucifer?”
I told her I hadn’t heard a thing, which was true. I hadn’t even known what I was walking into this morning.
“Here’s the thing,” said the boss. “The client changed her mind. Again. She’s asked us to come back with a proposal in three weeks. It’s a competitive situation.”
“Who’s gonna be there?” asked the Nemesis.
“I think Avenue A, Grey, Digitas. And probably Bain and McKinsey. Gretchen”—our agency’s EVP—“wants to see it on the fifteenth. So we’ve got like two weeks to pull it together.”
“What shape does Gretchen want it in by the fifteenth?” I asked.
“Finished.”
“Oh.”
“And there’s another thing—this is very important,” stressed the boss. “You can’t talk about it with the client.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“She doesn’t want to favor anyone. She’s clear on this—no phone calls, no e-mails. Everything she wants to say is in the brief. Okay?”
We both nodded.
“So here’s what I’d like,” continued the boss.
She looked down at her desk, moving a piece of paper around like an air hockey puck in what Al would have told me was a cluster signaling abject anxiety. “I want you two guys working together on this. And for logistics I want you”—pointing to the Nemesis—“to head it up. Okay?”
This was Lucifer: the launch of a new teen-focused credit card product, and how to get it into the hands of as many teens as possible so they could enjoy the privilege of low credit scores and bankruptcy heretofore selfishly reserved for their elders. It was a ginormous project—the first stage alone was probably worth more than a million in fees, as well as a major career boost for the lucky project leader and a bodacious bonus at the end of the year.
Months ago the boss had said I’d be heading up the pitch team; apparently she had changed her mind. But I had come too far not to try to make her change it back.
“I’ve got,” I said, standing up, “a different idea.” I flung my arms around and power-stared the Nemesis—I might have overdone it. But the point is that I did it.
“Here’s what I think”—
And I came out swinging, as my friends at Queensway would say.
I outlined a plan where we worked in two teams, one headed by the Nemesis, one by me. We’d put forth our best thinking by the fifteenth and the EVP could decide which team would present to the client. “That way,” I wound up, “we get to really dig into two ideas, and she picks the best one.”
“I don’t get it,” said the Nemesis.
“What’s not to get?” I asked. “Two teams, two leaders, one winning team. Like—oh, I don’t know—a boxing match.”
“It’s a waste,” said the Nemesis.
“Why’d we do that?” asked the boss.
“Yeah—why?”
“’Cause we”—I pointed to the Nemesis, palm flat and vertical—“don’t agree. We have different approaches to Gen Z and—and we won’t know which one works better unless we do a lot of work on both. This way we’ll drive to the best answer for the pitch—”
“Hold on,” said the boss, “what do you mean ‘different approaches’? How’re they different?”
“We both agree the blatant sales pitches on these social networking sites don’t work with younger people—they’d see right through it on MySpace and Facebook.”
“R-right.”
“But he thinks,” pointing at the Nemesis, “we should focus on the mobile platforms and sell ads there. It’s s
till a blatant pitch. I think we have to get embedded in the networks themselves and build a viral word-of-mouth about the products—”
“That’s too hard,” said the Nemesis, “and it doesn’t w—”
“It can too work—kids make recommendations all the time. Look at Borat—”
“You don’t know that—”
“Selling banner ads on iPods is a waste of—”
“—word of mouth didn’t—you’re imagining—”
“Okay!” said the boss, loud enough to stop us dead. “I get it. You don’t agree. And I don’t know who’s right.”
“Therefore,” I said, with a triumphant leonine head toss, “two teams.”
“Waste of time—” whispered the Nemesis—
“Not my time—” I shot back—
“Guys, come on,” scolded the boss. She made a show of looking through her staffing sheet, but I could see she thought I’d made sense. “You have capacity for your other projects?”
“Yes,” I said. The Nemesis stayed silent.
“You can do it with two analysts?”
“Each,” said the Nemesis, and I said, “Yup.”
The boss thought some more.
“Okay,” she smiled, “two teams. Two analysts. Two weeks. That’s a whole lotta twos—”
“I don’t know,” said the Nemesis. “Still seems like a waste of time to me.”
“You could always concede,” I said.
Before the boss changed her mind again, I left her office and grabbed Emily and Eleanor at their desks. I briefed them in my place and unleashed them to put together a workplan.
Then I called Gloria on her cell phone and debriefed her. I heard screaming in the background—some kind of cooking emergency. But one thing I’d learned about commercial cooking was there was always an emergency.
“I’ve positioned it as a one-on-one,” I said to her. “My team against the Nemesis.”
“Good strategy,” she said. “If you win this one you’re on trajectory to take it all. The promotion, the bonus. Now let’s get clear on tactics.” We talked for a few minutes and agreed a shock-and-awe blitzkrieg running up to the EVP encounter could demoralize the enemy and make the most of my limited firepower. Having been given my marching orders, I rang off.