Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 78249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
People often made the mistake of thinking good business was about decisions and deals. Those were part of it, but only just. Often, good business was about selling yourself. The way I dressed, the state of my building, the size of my conference tables, and even the look on my face—those could close deals through the sheer force of suggestion.
Good business was about having a wide and varied toolkit, along with the ability to choose the appropriate tool for the appropriate job.
The three employees I invited to this meeting were like tools in my toolkit, and each was here for a specific purpose today.
There was Roman, my cutthroat chief of acquisitions, who had been openly angling to fill the currently nonexistent roll of Vice President of Operations. Roman was lean and sharp-featured with dark wavy hair always pushed carefully back from his face. He dressed like old money in tailored Italian suits despite his middle-class background, and regularly proved to be one of my most valuable employees. His ability to consistently provide useful insights baffled me, because I knew the man was regularly out late after work distracting himself with women and parties.
There was Julian, the somewhat air-headed but surprisingly ambitious senior chief of marketing, who really only wanted a "fancier title, because he loves cool titles."
Last but not least, there was Moira, my senior client relations consultant. She wanted to graduate from delegating tasks among my employees to a more direct, hands-on role. Moira wanted to land deals, deal with clients herself, and, of course, collect the subsequent bonuses.
Knowing the aspirations of my employees was yet another tool. It was the carrot on the stick to drive them toward higher levels of productivity. Part of my job was pushing them until they found potential within themselves they didn't even know they had.
And what would I say to myself if I was my own boss? What would I think of Orion Foster, the employee, and his behavior the past few weeks?
The thought curled my lip in annoyance. I would say he's distracted by a needless cat and mouse game with a Hate Notes employee—that he's letting the irritating little woman infiltrate his thoughts and distract him from work. Worse, I would say he's in a critical period of potential growth for the company while his competitors are angling to get an edge, and his lack of focus shows a complete disregard for the good of the company.
The annoyingly accurate self-reflection didn’t help my growing headache. Worse, I hardly ever suffered from headaches—at least, I hadn’t before the damn woman in red entered my life. I was allergic to her and the bullshit she put me through each and every morning, from her made-up personalized notes she read from blank cards to the way she had begun using voices and delivering hate notes to me like she was auditioning for a role on Broadway.
I pulled my focus to the table, dimly aware that I hadn't even been listening to the chatter of my employees thus far.
"Alright," I said softly as I studied the map Roman had laid out on the table. He was to my right, while Julian and Moira sat to my left. "I see the old industrial park here is highlighted in green. Tell me more." I said.
"I've uncovered some information about these lots. Information that leads me to believe there may be an opportunity for Foster Real Estate to acquire all three."
That was enough to spike my heart rate. I didn't let my excitement show, but I lifted my eyes to meet his. "You're certain?"
Roman threaded his fingers and leaned forward, brow cocked dramatically. "Do old people love Bingo?"
"What?" Julian asked. "We were just talking about real estate. What do old people have to do with anything?"
"I'm trying to make a—" Roman began.
"And," Julian continued. "You really shouldn't call them 'old people.' That's so insensitive, man. Call them like... generously seasoned individuals." Julian spread his hands as if he was visualizing this in bright letters on a billboard somewhere. "Or maybe chronologically over-qualified? No... that's not good. Geriatric gladiators? Hmm. I'll workshop it with the team later."
"Anyway," Roman said with a sigh. "It's a saying.”
"That's a stupid saying," Moira said. Moira was twenty-eight, tall and imposing with sharp cheekbones and dark hair cut in a severe bob that matched her personality. Her entire wardrobe was made from shades of black and gray with the occasional touch of purple if she was feeling festive, and she wore the kind of stilettos that could double as weapons. The overall effect made her look like she'd be equally comfortable in a boardroom or a vampire coven.
Despite her dry, often grim sense of humor, I had to admit I appreciated her blunt approach. She was head of client relations, which was mostly an organizational role focused on assigning the right agents to communicate with clients. "Just like 'Roman makes milk curdle' isn't a saying."