Before I go down the sad treacherous road of the apparel company's demise, I almost forgot to mention the first Christmas Party that Amy and I attended. I was three months into the new job, and I was enjoying the people worked with me, and I was *gasp* actually feeling like I was making a difference at the company; I felt valued. What the what??? The last time I felt that way was at the game company. It was all quite odd. Each morning, when I climbed into the car to head over to the office, I did not have the typical, "I hate my life, I hate your life, I hate hating life," attitude that I had developed over the preceding years of gainful employment. Again, what the what???
The Christmas Party was held at the Bacara, which for those not in the know is a stoopidly (intentionally misspelled for dramatic effect) expensive spa and resort located on the outskirts of Santa Barbara/Goleta that caters to folks who are...well...not me. But now...I repeat...but NOW, bitches, I was goin' to the Bacara! The party was out of control, alcohol flowed like water, the beautiful people at the company looked more beautiful than ever, the food was insane, the door prises were grand (I won some wine and a restaurant gift certificate), and dancing went on all night. When it came down to it, Amy and I had a blast. We ended up talking to the manager who hired me and we got to know everyone a little better; overall a great night. We left on the early side and went home to pass out. Back at the office on Monday morning I learned that the Bacara was threatening to never let our company return due to the amount of throw-up in and around the premises, including on the ladies' room door handle AND because three intoxicated young men decided the fountain at the entrance of this premier establishment was a good place to relieve themselves. No, I am not kidding.
Anyhow, the point of the whole Christmas Party story was that the party was fun, the people I worked with were cool and nice, and I was enjoying the job....*gasp!*. Unfortunately, I started to look at the numbers on the spreadsheets that I maintained and I began to notice that some of the Chinese factories were not shipping our apparel. I asked the director about this and he informed me that the owner enjoyed making the vendors wait for payment and essentially beating the hell out of them. He also said that a certain amount of ass kissing was also required by the factories to retain our business. This struck me as odd. "Wouldn't it be better to take our best two or three factories and treat them as partners in our business, and always pay them on time and to back off on the whole we rule, you are sniveling peons attitude that we projected," I said. The director laughed and looked at me like I were a cute puppy that had just piddled on the floor. "Of course, Donist, but that is not how things are done here. Trust me, I tried."
Shortly after my naive talk with the director, I was asked to move all of the apparel that was in production at our biggest and best factory over to a brand new factory, which was a royal pain in the ass, but I did as told; this also happened with some of the other brands as well. Our best factory had told us to hit the bricks. This happened with a few more factories over the course of the year, and I was repeatedly asked to pull old records for the factories we were no longer doing business with, I assume because we owed them all a truckload of money.
to be continued...
to be continued...
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