In 2000, I made the second-biggest mistake of my life. (#1 took place in 1992 at the Delta Chi house in Lawrence, Kansas, and will very not be written up.)
In 2000, I took a job just for the money.
I had been working at an agency I loved until everyone started to leave. This happened often in advertising; creative departments scattered quickly. You didn’t want to be the last one standing.
I justified my exit by convincing myself that I should be making piles more than I was—I was a whole four years out of college and huffy that puns like these weren’t yet bringing in the big bucks:
There was an agency in town that had been the cool place to work years earlier but had since tanked, the superstars of its creative department long gone. They were interviewing for a writer, so I pushed the hesitation aside and threw out a number so high, I surprised myself. They didn’t blink. I should’ve known.
From day one, I was miserable. The agency had lost its creative director and decided not to hire one, figuring they could just do without. Y’know, sort of like how the rowdiest class in school could just do without a teacher.
Instead, the creative department reported to one of the oft-absent owners, who walked over from his corner office on the other side of the building every week or two, smiling and saying hi and sometimes getting our names right.
Without a solid leader, there were tyrants everywhere. An art director who, if you looked at him on the wrong day, screamed until his face turned red. A writer who kept his feet on his desk and a nude painting of his wife on his wall. A project manager in charge of making sure deadlines were met but who put herself in charge of everything else, too.
Andrea* loved to sidle up sweetly to the owner and assure him that she’d help keep things under control and report back to him, only to turn on us when he wasn’t around. I’ll never forget when she refused to give me the budget for a radio spot I was to write and produce. “You show me your ideas first,” she sniffed. “Then I’ll decide if you can see the budget.”
Arriving home in a boneless pile, I cried to Paul every night for a full year. What a sucker I’d been for that big paycheck.
I do have one good memory from that god-forsaken job, though. Andrea gifted me with what’s been, so far, the most memorable line of my life.
“Okay everyone, to the living room!” Paula, Jon’s wife, beckoned on tip-toe, both hands up to her mouth. We had taken to calling her The Cruise Director that night, thanks to how determined she was to make this Christmas party a success.
Jon and Paula, both in their 60s, were hosting the entire creative department—about 15 of us, plus significant others—at their refined, ornately decorated house. We’d just finished eating and now the Cruise Director commanded everyone to a different room, jazzed for some forced fun.
"Let’s go around the room and say one thing no one knows about you!” She clapped once in excitement.
I plopped down on a huge couch, searching my brain for the perfect nugget to share. I could say…that my original major in college was French? Or…that my aunt and uncle had ten kids? Finally, I landed on an especially thrilling one, or so I thought. I sat up straight and awaited my turn, giddy to share.
"Okay," I said, drawing in a deep breath, ready to spill. I pivoted my head, looking dramatically at every person. "I’ve played the piano since I was 7!!!” A few vaguely interested murmurs went up and I felt pretty good. What a mystery I was!
Next up was Andrea, who perched next to me on the couch, beaming with anticipation.
“Well, I had SEX with TED NUGENT!” She blurted.
Of all the record-scratch moments in my life, it was by far the scratchiest. The room went airless. No one was sure how to proceed. She filled the silence with more details: She’d been 17 (!!!). He’d been in Kansas City on tour. It happened in the backseat of a limo.
Paula and Jon turned gray with shock, here in the middle of their exquisitely adorned home. I have no memory what happened the rest of the evening, only that I was able to keep it together until Paul and I got in the car, when I started laughing and didn’t stop for what felt like days.
Months later, I would successfully make it out of that horrific workplace, striking gold and landing my dream gig, a place I’d stay for seventeen happy years.
My stomach still turns, though, when I think about chasing a paycheck into that lousy and lawless job. But it’s all been worth it. Any time there’s a brief lull in conversation at home, I never pass up the chance:
“Yeah, well I had SEX with TED NUGENT!”
Thanks, Andrea. You were the worst, other than that one time you were the best.
*All names have been changed. Other than “Ted Nugent,” unfortunately.
🫶 Thank you to new paid subscribers Jody A. and Matt G.! Please enjoy this Nugent-adjacent bonus material, in the form of a joke I once heard David Sedaris relay: “What's the last thing you want to hear while blowing Willie Nelson? ‘I'm not Willie Nelson.’”
Another wonderfully funny piece! So good. :)
oh. my. GOD????