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A haunting tale of office politics and corporate discord.
I was pretty worn out in October 2019. My wife was 8 months pregnant, we had just moved into our first home in the suburbs, and I was commuting 80 minutes each way to an utterly demoralizing office job in the city. Because it was that kind of place, they hired a lot of super young people fresh out of college, paid them pennies, but kept them working late with free Pirates Booty and a never-ending schedule of team building activities. At age 31, I was one of the oldest employees at the company — the only thirty-something who wasn’t on the insular leadership team. This group of ghouls was even blander than the subpar snack selection. They sat around all day sipping their Kool-Aid and redesigning the KPI dashboards displayed throughout the office.
Can you tell that I might have been harboring some resentment?
Halloween’s arrival brought a golden opportunity to release some tension. As it happens, the goblins on the leadership team were organizing a Halloween Costume Contest. This was announced under the guise of promoting company culture, but I knew the real reason for the event. The CEO and the VP of Marketing had recently disclosed their romantic relationship to the rest of the company and were desperate to show off their matching Rock of Love costumes to the underlings.
Whatever the motivation behind the costume contest, I was determined to ruin it with my diabolical plan.
Step 1: Wear an absolutely terrible costume.
Step 2: Sow chaos and discord during the voting process.
Step 3: Prove the contest was dumb by winning it.
Needless to say, I knocked the first step out of the park. I was a seasoned veteran when it came to half-assing a Halloween getup that technically counted as a costume, but absolutely reeked of indifference. Previous examples included a David Wright jersey and a paper bag over my head (Mets fan), bathrobe and a stuffed tabby (crazy cat lady), and a cheap suit and a messy blonde wig (host of The Apprentice).
With Trump marching toward his first impeachment, I decided to take that theme a bit further this year. On the day of the contest, I showed up with a Ukrainian soccer jersey and a whistle around my neck. I was the anonymous Ukrainian whistleblower — a costume so terrible that even the select few who understood the reference could barely muster a groan at the sight of it. It was a piss-poor excuse for a costume, a visual display of unrivaled apathy towards the contest in general. In other words, everything was going according to plan.
As I got off the elevator, I watched the reactions unfold. The cliquey customer success team who had put in actual effort on their costumes all glared at me with pure disdain. The joy-sucking vampires on the leadership team were too busy making bar graphs to even glance my way. The interns, however, took a quick break from munching their free Pirates Booty to give a bit of a chuckle. They had always liked me for some reason. Probably because, lacking full-time status, they hadn’t fully dissolved in a puddle of the company’s bullshit and recognized that I hadn’t either. Whatever the reason, I saw my opening and I exploited it.
I started my manipulations, playing puppeteer with the interns. "It would be hilarious if I won," I argued. They nodded, wide-eyed, pulled in by the grand joke we were setting up. And just like that, I had my first few votes locked down.
From there, I sized up the competition. Christine on the sales team had put together a pretty elaborate and impressive Harley Quinn outfit, makeup and all. It was a showing that probably deserved the win, but, as a bit of an outcast, she’d never get enough votes on her own to pull it off. Honing in on this insecurity, I waited until she took a coffee break and pitched her a classic “you vote for me, I vote for you” pact. Of course, I had no intention of holding up my end of the bargain. I would be scouting the office for another sad sack costume to vote for — thus securing my lead and destroying any chances for competition.
I locked up a few more votes from other sales reps. As the head of inbound marketing, I had control of which leads got assigned to them. I agreed to siphon a few hot leads their way and help boost their commission a little bit as the month drew to a close. Unethical? Sure. Effective? Absolutely.
The clock was ticking, and I was holding onto my lead by the skin of my teeth. It was time to really get serious: Divert attention, start some vicious rumors, and keep the undecideds from voting for any particular costume. I bribed the executive assistant in human resources with a matcha latte and got her to remark that the planned prize was pretty cool. “Wouldn’t it be a shame,” she stated according to my orders, “if one of them won it for themselves?”
The insinuation that the witches and warlocks from the leadership cabal might win their own contest should have sealed the deal for a flawless victory, had it not been for Ms. Day-of-the-Dead. She had spent a lot of money on her Dia de los Muertos face paint, caught wind of my plan, and started raising hell about it. A company-wide email was sent out, reminding us to respect the sanctity of the competition and only vote for the costumes which exemplified the hard work and dedication reflected in our corporate values.
After I was done vomiting, I checked the standings. My popularity had certainly taken a hit. I was behind by 1 vote with only 3 votes outstanding. The leadership demons were watching me like a hawk, so I couldn’t overtly whip the vote in person. I fired up Slack and opened up a DM to the most vulnerable undecided voter. I had recently heard him complaining that his request to purchase a new computer monitor had been denied.
>>yo. vote for me. ldrshp sux plus you can use my screen for a week. >>make it a month and you have a deal. >>👍
And just like that, I was tied for first place… with the CEO’s girlfriend.
It was now up to him to break the tie, setting up two absolutely fantastic scenarios. He could choose me, wearer of clearly one of the worst costumes in history. Or he could choose the other half of his recently disclosed corporate romance, award her the prize, and forever open himself up to ridicule and resentment for giving unfair treatment to his partner. I could see him panic as he took in the chaos I had created. I was pretty sure I had checkmated him, flashing a mischievous grin as I awaited his proclamation.
But I had underestimated what a decaying pumpkin he really was, seemingly impervious to shame or embarrassment. He disqualified me for “violating the spirit of the competition” and awarded the grand prize to his boo.
Get it? Boo. Halloween? Okay then.
While none of this might seem like the smartest career move, and in fact I was laid off a few months after this incident, some things are just more important than work. It was worth it to have turned the entire office against the leadership team’s holier-than-thou attitude. Whispers of, “I don’t understand how he was disqualified from a costume contest for wearing a bad costume” permeated the common spaces and conference rooms for the next week or so. And I, the supposed victim, sat back, ate my Pirates Booty, and reveled in the chaos I'd created.
Anyway, enjoy the AirPods sweetie. Happy Halloween!