The Social Enterprise - Blurring the Lines of Business

Do you ever stop and try to remember what life was like before we were armed with phones and tablets, connected with Facebook and Twitter? I often think about how, only a decade ago, our dependence upon social media and technology was much different. The way we interacted, our behavior, and our thought processes were so much more independent. But with the ability to instantly connect, share, and browse, our way of life is intrinsically different.

Confrontation Consternation

Confrontation – A face to face meeting. The clashing of forces or ideas.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Growing up, I watched my father haggle with car dealers. I watched my mother engage door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen. I saw my grandfathers verbally combat arrogant landowners and indignant baler-buyers. And as I ventured out from behind the towering figures of my elder role models, I began to realize how important it was to stand strong against opposition. Whether that consternation is caused by a smarmy salesman, licentious landlord, or berating boss, I've found it eternally difficult to absorb the abuse, stand my ground and give a concise, firm response that protects and respects.

Baler Bullshit

There seems to be a vengeful pleasure found in some established professionals. As if some form of initiation into the adult cohorts, these seasons businessmen and women take pride in looking down their noses at perfectly competent, incredibly intelligent, young professionals. This phenomenon first happened to me in college, working on my grandfathers farm.

A commercial hay man, probably in his mid-forties, brought in his Model XL baler for repairs. The baler looked like crap. It was full of dents, had rust showing around the edges, and was in general disrepair. I took notes on the main concerns for the equipment, and was preparing the paperwork, when the man made some snide remark about my hair.

To provide some context, when I was working for my grandfather, I had stick-straight hair that fell to my shoulders. I generally kept it under a hat and behind my ears, out of sight and mind. This man decided that, rather than assuming that I was a competent employee, it'd be better to make assumptions about my masculinity, penchant for illicit drug use, and overall lack of usefulness, based on my hair.

I brushed off the mans jeers, and cordially sent him on his way, pretending that his remarks didn't bother me.

That day still brings back feelings of rage. I wanted to sock the man in the jaw. I wanted to do what I'd seen my grandfather do many times before to this same farmer – I wanted to zing him with a one liner that would put him in his place and shut him up tighter than an oil drum. But instead, I balked. I clenched my jaw, and let him pummel me with insults that I'd done nothing to deserve.

At what age do you gain the ability to retort? At what level can you successfully return the bullshit and retain your dignity in these situations? A few years later, I had a memorable experience that spoke to this question.

Finding Problems and Fixing Problems

I worked at a Boy Scout camp for a month or two every summer. These are mostly happy memories of swimming, boating, building monstrous fires and playing pranks on others. But one memory stands out as not so positive.

I was a member of an honor society through the boy scouts and, after a few years of membership, had climbed the ranks and was one of the leaders of the organization. Along with that privilege came great responsibility. With that responsibility came a great potential to screw up, and one week, that is what I did.

We were at an event that was far removed from the main part of camp, at a ceremony for the new members. It was a fairly stressful day, with little sleep and a lot of work, and I had neglected to bring a crucial element for the ceremony. Upon realizing this, one of the adult volunteers pulled me aside, mid-ceremony, and began berating me about this slip up. This man was a well-liked member of the organization, fairly influential, and physically commanding to boot. He towered over me, his temples turning crimson with fury.

I listened to the man go on about my incompetency and inabilities for about a minute, all the while glancing back at the ceremony still in progress. Finally, I had to stop the abuse. I looked the red faced buffoon in the eyes and said,

“Listen, I realize that I screwed this up. I am going to go fix the problem, so that we can have a successful event. When we get back to camp, you can rip me a new asshole. Until then, don't talk to me.”

With that, I stormed off, bent on fixing the error and completing the ceremony. We did and, as I recall, I didn't hear anymore on the subject. In retrospect, I did exactly what I'd seen my father and grandfathers do before me. But not all of my attempts at confrontation have been so positive.

Once You Pop, You Can't Stop

Flash back to the man with the hay baler. We repaired the dilapidated machine, replace the abused parts, and gave it the best face-lift possible. The work was not egregious, but the man had definitely not followed the common sense recommendations for caring for a machine worth more than the truck he drove.

He came by the shop about a week after the initial confrontation. I steeled my nerves as I saw the portly, pompous man approach the shop. He strode into the office and declared,

“So, ya figger out what was wrong with that damned piece of machinery, hippie?”

Without blinking an eye, I glanced up from the manual I was consulting on the desk, adjusted my hat, and just as I'd heard my grandfather retort, I flung the following phrase from the corner of my mouth:

“You ever heard of operator error?”

The man turned seven shades of red under his tanned skin. At first I thought he would jump over the counter and wring my neck. Then I realized that he physically could not jump over the counter, so I was probably safe.

I thought that, as in the movies, my amazing one-liner would shut him up like a steel trap. Unfortunately, my insolence only embroiled his rage, and made his comments worse. After that one moment of shining glory, I closed back up, shut my mouth, and went back to deflecting his jeers with a closed mouth and a determined look.

Lesson learned? Confrontation is more than having the gall to take the petulant route. It's taking that course, then stick with it till the end.

Sales = Constant Confrontation

In my current job, I deal with confrontation every day. It seems that when a 25 year old walks in the door to talk to you about your marketing strategies, it is open season. People have a difficult time looking past my age and my job title to see that I am a person trying to not only further the newspaper I work for, but also help their business succeed.

I walked into a restaurant a few weeks ago, and was met by a business owner who was not only crass, but referred to me by the disdain laden moniker,

“salesman”

The man thought he was a big deal. He dressed snappy, sported designer glasses, and had obviously colored hair. He owned a swanky establishment and knew that, while I was on his turf, I was his mouse. I don't know why, but on that day, I wasn't in the mood to put my head down and wade through the guff. I listened to him talk about his business for a while, listened to his gripes about my paper, and gave him some poignant rebuttals to the scoffs and dismissals he threw my way. At the end of the meeting, he grinned and asked me a heavily baited question,

“So what's your favorite restaurant, salesman?”

I looked him square in his smug grin, and told him about Antonella's Trattoria, a little whole in the wall Italian joint in Davenport. I raved about the authenticity, the service, and the wine. I gave him the address and told him to check it out. It was priceless to watch his face go from smarm to startled in seconds. He actually believed that I would kiss his ass and say that I love his restaurant! As I walked to the door, I turned back to Mr. Bag-o-chips and said,

“You want a salesman response to that question? Ask me again after you advertise with us for awhile. I'll probably say the same thing.”

Just because I sell things, doesn't mean I have no integrity.

So maybe I am learning a little about handling confrontation. I still have times when I fold like a bad poker hand, but I also am getting better at playing it cool, choosing my words, and standing up for myself. I guess it comes with age. To quote a song that resonates with this issue nicely,

"Stand your ground, don't back down, it's the only way to win. And when life throws a punch, son, you've got to take it on the chin."

William Elliot Whitmore, Take it on the Chin

According to his Inability

Have you ever met someone who is not cut out for their job?

The newspaper I work for hired a new advertising account executive – fancy wording for an ad salesman. This is what I do. I sell advertising or, as I like to put it, I help businesses find clients and patrons through effective marketing. It can be a difficult job at times, but rewarding. I have learned a great deal through my work in advertising – about businesses, interpersonal communication, and rejection. These lessons have made me a better salesman, community member, and a better person.

The new guy seemed like a good fit for our publication at first. He was young, dressed with a dapper professionalism and a potentially excessive dose of gel to hold his quaff of black hair in place. As I met with the new hire, who we'll call Greg Parker for the sake of this story, I could tell he was enthusiastic about working for the paper. He'd had nominal experience in advertising, selling ads on fund-raising calendars and sports memorabilia for local high schools, and peddling ad spots in Mega Hunter – a recent manifestation of the phone book. He seemed to know some of the basic tenants of sales, had a good attitude, and we needed another sales rep. It was a perfect fit.

The First Day

He arrived at work promptly on his first day at 8:00am. He got to work, familiarizing himself with our management software, his client list, and the basic layout of the office. Having a desk adjacent to that of Mr. Parker, I answered questions, helped him find office supplies as needed, and tried to make him feel at home in his new environs.

“You want any coffee?” I offered as I strolled to the kitchen.

“Nope! I'm an energy drink man!” he replied as he violently shook a water bottle full of chalky, pastel yellow substance.

When I returned from the kitchen, he'd finished half the bottle. He was zoned into creating his email signature with tenacious concentration, so I passed by without a word, returning to my own task list for the day. Before I could get settled in, he poked his head around the divider.

“What do you use for an email signature? I can't figure out what to put in mine.”

I sent him a blank email, showing my signature at the bottom. I tried to refocus on my attention to the impending deadline of the next issue. Soon, Greg appeared at my desk. He had taken a lackadaisical route to my workspace, as if he were on his way back from the fax machine or copier. I find both of these options hard to believe, unless he was copying his newly minted email signature.

“Hey man! Are you into MMA fighting?”

I looked down at my computer screen for a moment, hoping that this question was directed at the wall – a likelier candidate for this question than I. I glanced up. He was still standing over me. Shifting his weight from one leg to the next, as if he wanted to engage in some mixed martial arts there and now.

“Uh, not really. I'm more into...working.”

“Oh, cool!”

He loped back to his desk, resuming whatever task was next on his orientation list. A few moments later, a little box appeared on my screen. Greg had discover Google Chat.

Greg: Where do I find my clients?

Chris: Under “Greg” in the client management program.

Greg: Koolio!!

A bit later, I heard from behind the partition,

“You're going to Paris in June? SWEET!”

Greg had discovered the companies online calendar. And my vacation, evidently.

“You'd better be careful over there man! You know there's a volcano over there? Iceland – or Greenland, I think. I heard Lindsay Lohan might miss her court date because of all the smoke. That's what TMZ's saying.”

“I'll be careful. Thanks for the...advice.”

The First Sale

I did my best to avoid him the rest of the day. He must have fared well enough, because bright and early the next morning, there was Greg, full of vigor and ready to start making sales. He consulted me on a couple clients, then dug in. About 10 am, he made a phone call. After a few minutes of chatter, he hung up.

“I think I might have screwed up.” He said blankly.

“Ok...” I replied, unsure how to respond to such a statement.

“Well, I sold an ad.”

Surprised by the speed of this supposed sale, I went back to check on the terms of this sale. As I reviewed the terms that Greg had agreed to, I realized that while he had sold an ad, he had grossly undercut the bottom line, practically giving away the ad space. I brought this to Greg's attention and told him that he should run any special pricing by the publisher before offering it to the customer.

Properly chagrined, Greg emailed our publisher, explaining what he'd done. Then he left for lunch, which would be followed by a visit to a client. I was having lunch in the office that day, so dug into getting some real work done in Mr. Parker's absence. About an hour later, I got a call from the new sales rep.

“Hey Chris! You at the office?”

“Yeah Greg, whats up?”

“Well, you know how I was heading out to Silvis to see this client? I kind of forgot all my stuff.”

“Do you have anything? Price sheet? Calendar? At least an old copy of the paper?

“Uh...no. I don't think so. Can you bring me my binder?”

“No Greg. I will not bring you your binder! Stop by a restaurant that carries our paper, and at least bring that with you. Talk about marketing strategy, and avoid specific pricing questions.”

The Last Supper

Needless to say, he didn't make the sale. About three hours later, Greg came strolling into the office. He sat down at his desk, rummaged around a bit, and logged onto his email. A few moments passed before I heard an exasperated mutter behind me,

“Gah! What an asshole! I...I gotta get out of here!”

He stormed into the kitchen, then swept by me in a flurry, without a word. The door jangled as it bounced in and out of it's frame, standing ajar in Greg's wake. I looked at Elizabeth, my co-worker in astonishment. She solemnly observed,

“I don't think he's coming back.”

“Why not?”

“He took his nuts!”

The nuts she was referring to were the canned variety, cashews I believe. These were what he'd retrieved from the kitchen. We investigated around his desk for clues into this tempestuous behavior. His email was still up and on it was a reply from our publisher regarding his 'sale' earlier that day. The email was completely professional, albeit reprimanding in nature, but nothing to storm out about.

A few hours later, the publisher returned from his meeting. We explained the situation. At that point our leader made three unsuccessful attempts at contacting Greg Parker. It was clear that the newest addition to our organization was not coming back.

In retrospect, we should have seen the writing on the wall with this guy. But you want to give them the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes though, it's just not meant to be.

I doubt he'll be using us as a reference.