Cupid’s Annual Performance Review

“I have some good news and some bad news. Which would you like first?” Mr. David said as I sat down on the hard backed armchair facing his desk. I’d been working on last year’s new years resolution, to get in shape, and my thighs were no longer fat but now they were huge, muscular and huge. The armchair was uncomfortable and I had to shift my ass side to side to get properly seated.

My wings felt heavy. I knew my run of luck hadn’t been running so well lately. What with all the bad news in the world, my services were just harder and harder to sell. I was close to my target quota for the year but the annual deadline was approaching too fast. When it comes to profit sharing and commissions, close doesn’t count.

I dreaded this conversation with the boss. He would want to go over my annual results and I’d been trying to come up with reasons for my failures, the percentages, ranking the soon to be closed deals and all the forecast numbers for the final push of the year to get my sales numbers into the bulls-eye range. I didn’t want to be fired.

It was January 15th. I had one month to get my numbers up. Or my number was up, for good. I went through this scene last year. In fact, every year since time immortal. Every year with one month to go I’d get my points sharpened, new glasses for my weary eyes, do a lot of target practicing, study the psycho-social aspects of a good sell. One year I even studied the weather patterns, wind shifts, up drafts, down drafts, cloud formations, analyzed the results based on the alignment of teeth. Centuries ago, I studied acupuncture.

I read the classics in poetry and literature, before they were published. Yep, I’d been reading the words as authors penned words like ‘How do I love thee,’ which by the way started out as “How do I love her.” I had to nudge the feather pen and what’s his name finally spelled that last word the better way. “Her?” What kind of nonsense it that? You are writing to her but you want it to be personal, you idiot. I had to knock over his copy of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet to remind that author of romantic words.

And there was that guy who wrote Doctor Zivago and wanted the whole thing set in freezing Russia. We argued over that one. How can anyone become committed by just looking in the eyes. There’s a body under that fur coat!

Well, okay so I lost that battle but I was a pubescent teenager and didn’t spend a lot of time looking in the eyes. I’ve learned since then.

Ever since that loss, I read a lot of Harlequin Romance pocket novels. But I’m not going to tell Mr. David that. No way. I’m not going to tell him I get most of my ideas from Harlequin novels. That’s my secret.

My boss doesn’t realize I work 24/7. I’m working when I’m reading those novels and the over the shoulder spying on author’s mis-penned words. I’m always looking for ways to get the message out there. I eat, sleep, dream of ways to be successful at my job.

I listen to the sounds in jazz clubs, heavy metal, punk rock, rap, calypso, chamber music concerts, watch opera, Broadway musicals, and off off, Broadway and even watched community theatre performances. I hang around conferences, seminars, conventions, picnic areas, family reunions, the subways, donut shops, burger palaces, drive thru line ups, the airports which I don’t like much. (The air traffic really interferes with my flight path plans.) I would check out the sweet chocolate offerings from Ganong, Godiva, Allan, and even Willy Wonka at the chocolate factory. I was so working when I was at the Super Bowl. (Go Patriots!) Fifty thousand souls in one place at the end of January. Man, I ought to find a thousand targets at gatherings like that. Oh, listen, in the sixties, protest marches and demonstrations were a great way to increase my ratings.

And how could I know about all those happenings and be there?

I read every newspaper that came out. I circled the globe reading over the shoulders of editors. I had that timing down to a fine art. Daylight hits Tokyo early in the morning and then I flit on over to Beijing, Singapore, Sydney, Baghdad, Cairo, Athens, Rome, Paris, Barcelona, London, St. John, Boston, New York, Washington, Toronto. I’m sure you get the picture. That’s a lot of reading every morning. I’d be exhausted by the time the sun came up in LA.

Then when google hit the system, I didn’t have to fly around so much. That’s why I got fat. I could search from home, in my pajamas! My wings almost withered, my ass got bigger, thighs turned to flab, I needed bifocals to read all the info on the web. And before I got a new set of glasses for distance, I was missing the target six times out of ten. Man, was I depressed at those numbers.

And by the way, MISTER David. I paid for my new glasses out of my after-tax wages. We need a health benefits plan that includes eyeglasses and dental. Okay, so sitting around my house, searching google-dot-com, and taste-testing the new chocolates and sweetheart candies, added more weight to my ass than I anticipated. But I’ve got more energy now since I started last years new years resolution.

I got Herbal Magic, Ginseng tea, exercise more… What’s this thing about making the fitness clubs uni-sex? How is any decent hard body going to find another terrific committed workout wizard to fall in love with? Man, what’s that about?

Bottom line is, I’m terrified that my boss is going to fire me for failing to reach my target numbers. I didn’t want him to pull out the computer printout of my stats for the year because then I’d have to pull out my bifocals to read those number crunchers’ and auditors’ analysis of my record. I didn’t want the boss to know I needed bifocals. My only salvation was if he pulled out those statistical reports, they would be from Arthur Anderson, and I would say, “yeah, well look what they said about Enron. You’re going to believe them?”

“Okay. The good news first.” I said to my boss.
“It’s January 15th.” He started.

Like, I didn’t know that? I didn’t say it out loud. I can be irreverent but I know when to listen.

“It’s time for your annual performance review.”

Does he think I have Alzheimer’s? Get on with it man. I was sweating bullets, which wasn’t helping the comfort of my ass on the wooden armchair. The wind beneath my wings was going to fart aromatic wonders if he didn’t get on with this discussion. If he was going to fire me, let’s get it over with, but could I keep the Super Bowl tickets?

“I know it’s been a tough couple of years, since 9/11 in Manhattan.”
I blew out a “Whew. Has it ever.”

“And this talk of war in Iraq.”

“You can say that again.” I said.

“Not to mention the weapons build up in Korea”

“The protest marches helped me though. I made some pretty decent hits at those. My wings were working like a hummingbird’s.”

Mr. David winced. Then he smiled. “We’ve been reviewing the numbers and know how hard your job has been. So we’re recalculating.”

“Is this the good new or the bad news?”

“Wait for it,” He smiled.

I knew I was in for something. Mr. David usually doesn’t smile over bad things. He has an offbeat sense of humor but he loves numbers. Don’t all sales managers love numbers? Sales managers and accountants motto is ‘numbers are my life.’ Me? I’m a sensing type of person. I go for feelings. Good vibrations. Numbers scare me, especially the shape shifting antics of accountants, CFOs, and the IRS.

I smiled as if I expected really good news. But gosh, in about thirty seconds he lost me, in all the ROI, percentage discounted attributes, inventory days, per capita adjustments, seasonal adjustments, unemployment rate, and bankruptcy numbers. My butt was about as numb as my brain was quickly becoming. At least my gut had stopped twisting and I no longer feared that a loud raspberry would escape. I was bored to tears and pretty damn sure I was being laid off. Maybe, I’d get severance, but where was I going to find another job, with my skills? Mr. David thought all this number talk was good news. Well, let me say this about that… Blah, blah.

“So the bottom line is?” I asked. “The good news is?”

“We’re increasing your profit shares.”

“You mean my options to buy shares? Isn’t that what got Enron in trouble? You want me to buy more shares of the company, with my after-tax dollars? And pay tax on the difference between what I paid and what they are worth? The IRS is going to love that.”

“I told you not to move to Florida. There are tax free islands in the world. If you live in the USA you have to pay the IRS.” Mr. David had an answer for everything.

“But if I go bankrupt I can keep my house, in Florida.”

He scowled and shook his head. His hands waved in the air to stop that topic. He glared and as a prophetic comment added, “and when you retire you’re already some place warm.”

Well, that kind of put a knot in my shorts. “Are you forcing me to retire?”

“You are so negative. You need an attitude adjustment.”

“Oops. Sorry. I’ve been feeling the stress.”

“I know. I know. So…” He smiled again. He liked to smile when he gave out good news. “So…” Then the phone rang. He picked it up.

Man, I had to learn to not hold my breath. This anticipation was killing me. I quit smoking years ago when everyone said it was bad for the environment especially the environment in my lungs. Back when it was fashionable and sexy, and all the bars and pickup joints that I hung around in and it plastered my skin with second hand smoke any way, I took up the habit. When it was a bad thing to do, I quit. But I still held my breath when bad news would drop on me like a Chernobyl event.

“No! Not yet. I’ll tell you when to let her in.” Mr. David said and slammed the phone down. He gave me one of those really phony smiles.

“Her?” I blurted.

His face contorted, not a pretty sight.

I groaned, involuntarily. At least a groan isn’t as aromatic as the fart I really wanted to release. “Her?”

“We think you need an assistant.”

Well, my eyes went wide. My wings fluttered like the beating of a lamb being led down the ramp to the sheering pen. I was stunned. I thumped my chest to settle the pacemaker I had installed a couple of decades ago. My thighs banged against the armchair.

“Settle down, Mr. Cupid. Your assistant wants to start immediately. To get in on the end of year rush. To help you hit the Feb 14th Valentine’s deadline. All targets you hit go toward your commission, profit sharing. Thought you could take her to the Super Bowl as the first training seminar. So in the next ten days, you’ll have to bring her up to speed.”

I was panting. Breathing heavy.

“Stop it. Or you’ll go into orgasmic convulsions in a minute.”

“But does the assistant have to be a her? My wife won’t like that, won’t like me traveling with a her…”

“Well, that’s the bad news. It’s a her.”

Word count: 1994