Home Run

Update: I ended my career at Home Runners in August of ’13 but am now publishing my terminus reportus. Enjoy, and if you’re ever obliterated in Portland, ME definitely call this fantastic company. They should be millionaires by now.

I drive people home in their own cars. It is a prerequisite of the customer that they be drunk, high, or both. When they have sufficiently incapacitated themselves, they find the contact in their phone labeled Home Runners and my pocket sings the ring-tone song of the lost and over-indulged. A coworker picks me up once I have delivered the car and the drunk home safely and we head back into town for the next ride, wash, rinse, repeat.

This service has been around for 8 years now in Portland, Maine, and was started by an energetic German-American named Dan. He came from California to taxi the gluttonous to their doorsteps in the most efficient way possible, making a living off of the (ir)responsible habits of others.

I have been employed by Dan for about 8 months now, sometimes driving late into the night behind the wheel of dozens of automobiles, with now-hundreds of different drunks and their accompanying stories. My time here at Home Runners has ended, so in typical Diggins fashion, I relay a few of the best and worst tales of my designated-driving career.

Mary and Paula were around 50 years old. Paula declared loudly from the back seat that she thought mary was my soulmate. When we arrived at their apartment they slurrily invited me in to have some drinks and enjoy the warmth of their wasted company. I politely declined out of professionalism and thanked the work-gods that I had a good reason to run away from two prowling cougars whose words slid incoherently after a night of complete intoxication and horny advancements on what I assume was everyone in downtown Portland, including the statues of Longfellow and Ford. Once again, the two errr…lovely ladies had been denied. Sorry Mary, it wasn’t meant to be.

Cliff was a little bit older than me and extremely successful in the boat building industry. My follow driver got lost and was trying to find Cliff’s home after following the wrong car for a while, and as I waited in Cliff’s kitchen for my coworker, he told me about his recent trip to Hawaii where he had scored some of the best green “coffee” he had ever had. I politely nodded in acceptance of his odd enthusiasm and pretended to enjoy the Cola he had poured over ice for me, while he rummaged through his cupboards and produced a Mason Jar full of weed, a bag of store-bought coffee, and a few plastic baggies. He put a fistful of weed into the first bag, sealed it, then put it into another bag with a bunch of coffee beans. He then put these into a third bag with even more coffee so that the weed was sealed and smell-proof for the remainder of my night. What a considerate coffee-enthusiast. All the while, Cliff rehearsed his success story; his longing for a better relationship with his father and his distaste for all of the stainless-steel kitchen appliances he had stocked his high-end kitchen with. Sliding the bag across the counter and offering another glass of Cola, he looked me in the eye and said “This is really good coffee. Enjoy.” Not once did he mention what he was doing, act awkwardly, or interrupt his story to joke about the secret drug deal. When my ride finally came to bring me back into town for the next ride, I thanked him for the coffee and shook his hand. It was a good night.

Sam was a sad man. The wrinkles around his mouth gave away his helpless sorrow. The constantly furrowed brow spoke volumes about the tragedy in his life. The jagged, overthrown steps that his legs made revealed his excessive tendencies toward booze. The dead battery in his car shined light on his reckless abandon, and the fact that the bartender called Home Runners for him showed that he was shit-faced.  After jumping his car with the follow-driver’s cables and pouring him into his passenger seat, we were off to his home. His old Pontiac stunk of b.o. and skunked budweiser. As soon as we left the pub parking lot, he started sniffling and trying to hold back tears. Through his mumblings I interpreted that his lover had recently passed away. Sam gargled that she had left three cockatiels behind in his care and he loved those birds as he had loved her. “Chirp chirp squawk!” he mimicked their sadness through his own bird-cries. “Squawk chirp, burp, chirp chirp” he sang. I know it’s not nice to laugh about a loss, especially a fresh one, but Sam was drunk as drunk can be, like roll-over-in-your-own-shit kinda drunk (we’ll get to that part) and I couldn’t help but laugh. It was at this point that I noticed my butt was feeling a little wet from his driver’s seat. He said he had to stop at a gas station to use the ATM and get smokes. Standard procedure, a $5 fee for stops, so I said it wasn’t a problem but asked that he hurry as we had other rides waiting. I watched as he stumbled through the doors, stood in front of the cash machine for a while, then disappeared into the restroom for a few minutes before returning to the car. When he opened the door it smelled like he had found an old diaper and was bringing it home with him. Did he forget to pull his pants down in the men’s room? Was it early onset beer-diarrhea? Either way he crapped his pants; fully shit himself. The rest of the ride home was torture. I was sitting in a beer-soaked drivers seat, presumably from his spilled road soda on the way to the bar earlier. Sam continued to hum, chirp, cry, squawk, blubber incoherently, and stink like shit. When I rolled all the windows down he cried a little more and the bird-calls came less often. We pulled up to his trailer and I told him the price. He paid in cash and left a generous $1 tip, but more importantly a priceless story. I got into the follow drivers car and as we drove away they asked why I smelled so much like beer. It was only my ass.

Thank you Home Runners for offering me employment and a fantastic source of entertainment. All of the names have been changed and Home Runners takes no responsibility for my actions or story-telling.

 

“Dr. Natural”

I.

I started two weeks ago. My life hasn’t been the same since. I’d like to start this story from a later point, when I’ve already become “brainwashed” but I’m afraid that I will forget to pen anything at all and be cast into the sales world to forget who I truly am. Read this when you can, make sure to read this and learn from my lessons, just please read this so you don’t have to go through what I am going through.

A cautionary tale of lies and deception as told by a liar and deceiver.

Spoiler Alert: The fat lady will sing…

The ad was on Craigslist and JobsinME, so frequently posted that even the newest of web job-surfers were getting sick of looking at the dumb graphics and annoying mainstream-green header, the color of an unentertaining cartoon frog. The job title was either “outbound sales” or “inbound sales”, the gamblers choice.  Not knowing dick about the sales world, I chose to subscribe my email to the outbound demon, trying to find twelve other jobs and feeling assured that this one would be like the others, just another application to be left dusty on the internet windowsill, never loved, never returned, never cared for.

I had to get a goddamn job. I wasn’t piss-broke but I was breaking, and not only was the entire money situation getting too tight to rent in Portland, but it was breaking the relationship that I came up here to nourish in the first place…

II.

Update: It’s been three weeks since I have had a chance to pen anything about the new job. Let me take you back.

My resume which accompanied the application email must have been received, processed, folded, unfolded, and approved within a day by HR because Dr. Natural called requesting an in-person interview a few days later. When I arrived at the office, I was greeted by a friendly receptionist sitting behind a pod of a desk, only the top half of her face showing over the high front as I took my first steps into the dungeon. Signing in and waiting, I took in the initial hum of the florescent lighting like high school, college, and the dentist. A drop ceiling, of course, short wall to wall carpet, the just-noticeable voice of a talk-radio personality somewhere above.  I waited for Andrea, apparently, who would be interviewing me in a few moments.

She stood short and plump, a happy older woman whom I would be glad to talk with and laugh next to any day, which is exactly what we did. After she unfolded my resume to ask about each job and my qualifications, she then handed me a pen and asked me to sell it to her.  I improvised high-tech names for the features (stainless, shatter resistant, polyurethane coated, gravity loaded, spring action released), she was happy to buy it back, but mentioned that I never asked why she would even want a pen in the first place.

I was now here at Dr. Naturals to sell vitamins and supplements, and shouldn’t I know why people would like to purchase our products? Shouldn’t I ask them what the main health concern in their life is? Wouldn’t it be great if they didn’t have to deal with that sore shoulder anymore? Wouldn’t it be nice to get outside and play with their grandchildren again, and not have to worry about getting out of bed the next day because of that bad back? (yes, Yes, YES, YESS!!!)

Training started immediately and for two weeks I learned about tie-downs (see previous paragraph), cross-sells, greetings, messages, products, and the sales process, including but not limited to disputing rebuttals, omitting unnecessary details, pretending to care, showing enthusiasm, and eventually becoming a believer.

After the two weeks, one of which included the great blizzard of 2013, Nemo, I was given a desk, a chair, a headset, and an inch thick stack of phone numbers. They told me to dial and dial I did. I think the initial week I was averaging about 35 dials an hour, then they told me to talk more, so talk more I did. It all became so serious and absorbing in such a short time. With metrics and new policies came more paperwork and meetings, through which I surfaced, finally on the other side of my first sale.  It was for a three-month supply of a top-selling oil capsule, a body lube of sorts that makes burps taste like the fish market. I had fallen into rank and I didn’t blink.  The rush of the sale is something I’ve felt a few times since, and it always mixes with adrenalin and embarrassment. I know I can be a good salesman but the environment is so sticky with greed and dream-bubbles of commission that my conscience questions my motives, if you know what I mean.

Sparing the details, I am still working here and do not rely on commission just yet.  The first three months after training is a trial period with an hourly wage and a little hazing from the management. I suppose I am nearing the end of month one and feel no strong pull towards telesales. The secret now is to build a client base and sell them only three-month supplies as to have another sale in three months, because now they’re hooked. Then the next time they buy their favorite product, you sell a different one too, and now they love two products. Then the cars, the parties, the nice shoes, and the will of man will all be within reach.

So glad to know I made a difference.

It’s really not a big deal. It’s just another job, though i’m not sure I always felt this way. I remember at the beginning feeling odd and rebellious, wanting to infiltrate and spy on the hot shits who ripped off the elderly, stripping the social security check from their decrepit claw before it could start to get oily (the check).

The break room is a depressing pit; no windows, long, thin in shape and desirability. When they gave us our first tour, the woman made sure to point out a Wii. Haven’t seen it since. In the later part of the evenings, when one or two managers have left for the night, we like to sneak in there anyways, me and the other greenhorns, eyes glistening with computer screen torture. We crack jokes and try to squeeze one last little bit of enjoyment and relaxation into the slaved-away day.

K-Cups are only seventy-five cents, there’s a continual supply of coffee cups, creamer, and sugar, and I’ve hung up photos of waves that a coworker gave me…

III.

I’ve been on commission for a couple weeks now.  Health insurance is about to kick in. I still just sit in the cubicle all day, calling and selling, sitting and dialing, typing and staring, screaming and soothing, crying and dying. Well, I’m not dying, but some people on the other end of the line have passed away. It makes for awkward conversation when you ask a grieving man or woman if the deceased parent is available to chat about their health.

The turn-over rate of employees isn’t surprising. There are a few veterans and even a relatively new hire who are just built for sales. Built like brick shit-houses. They toil with the lives of others; innocent-elderly and enthusiastic-youth. A new drink came out of Silicon Valley called soylent. It has everything you need to survive and your farts won’t smell anymore.  Some customers of mine would jump at the idea of a fully supplemented diet. A sleek-slick lifestyle fully optimized for efficiency. I also know some people against supplements in general, believing in and practicing local sustainable nutrition. Farm-to-table people are awesome, nutritionists are awesome, supplement-hounds are great, skeptics are awesome, and to each his own.

This job sucks toast.  The atmosphere is bleak and full of hot air. The computer screen is burning my brain and the chair is bending my back but it’s putting food on my table. It’s about to be less lousy because with time comes one of two things: power or weakness. I choose power. I’m going to quit! I just need to get a physical and visit the dentist with my new insurance plan first.

Tricking customers from the shadows.

IV.

I went to the doctor and got my physical three days ago and went to the dentist for my initial visit today. The blood work cam back from my physical and I’m clean as a whistle, the dentist scheduled my cleaning for this Monday coming up. Seeing how everything is well with my body I see no need to keep this job for the insurance.  For this most recent week I have only tricked a few helpless elders in re-upping their supplies. My apologies, unless the supplements I sold you are actually working to your benefit. I hope they are.

Since my appointments with the doc and dentist I have really been slacking off and looking for a reason to quit. There isn’t much else to do for me seeing how I’ve already made the conscious decision to move on. I asked HR about the insurance policies and, through subtle hinting and ambiguous wording, found out that insurance will last until the end of the month in which I quit. That puts my two week notice at next wednesday to get the full free month of benefits. It feels weird to have a death date on my present paycheck, especially since I don’t have another job lined up, but that proves how much I really can’t stand this place. I’ll be ending my employment on July 1st and moving back in to the world of uncertainties which thrills me to no end. I haven’t spied, I haven’t found anything out about myself that I didn’t already know, and I haven’t accomplished anything except paying the rent.

Important, but not what I seek. Not even close. Next time we talk I may have already put in the notice.

V.

I put in my two week notice two weeks ago tomorrow, that it to say, tomorrow is my last day. Time really slowed down at the old phone-trough. It really surprised me how much I hated dragging my ass there Monday through Friday. I was working for the weekend. I lost sight of the assignment.

When the alarm goes off at noon and you don’t want to wake up yet, that’s a low point. When you think of an excuse to leave early, then make a checklist of excuses so you don’t use the same one twice, that’s a low point also. As frivolous as our life becomes, our life becomes, our life becomes, be comes, B. Combs. The list of funny names I walked away with is priceless. People payed with a credit card bearing names so unfathomably disrespectful for the bearer that it requires questioning the sanity of the parent. I’ll say no more.

VI.

One week later, full freedom, not a weak week, not an indoor communication hub where you never see the eyes of the sucker on the other line, not a prison, not a hard week. The easiest stretch of the year. 8 days of freedom to be exact and on every one I have gone swimming. Beat that, office job!

This past week I worked outside and I played outside. Reading back on my journey through Dr. Naturals made me realize how much I learned “inside”. Mostly that I prefer outside. That sales job really ate me up. It changed me in a negative way with little positive outcome. Inspiration for writing can come in an uncountable number of ways. I heard that thousands of years ago humans attributed creativity to a spirit that passes through the creator and hands off an idea. This time I forced it and used writing as medicine to get me through the journey. Writing, beer, coffee, weed, and even a little tobacco. Not to mention the…

Anyway, I am so much happier now. I picked the hottest week in a Maine summer to start working outside, doing my landscaping thing. A seasonal gig, no doubt, but I have enough money to hold me over through the summer on top of a designated driver job that I may have to write about as well. There’s a book’s worth of stories when you drive drunk people home in their own car. The point is that I’m happier now. Here’s to that. Here’s to writing and going to the beach to drink beers! Here’s to cheer’s-ing through the internet!

This drink goes out to all the suckers and the sucked. The world wouldn’t be what it is without you. Sláinte!