Welcome to Hell, I Forgot You Were Coming...

So my first day as a Mortgage Banker finally arrives and with it a promotion from the more tawdry title of Mortgage Broker. The air conditioning in my Volvo station wagon dies that day, I remember this vividly because I drove 40 miles to meet the Mortgage Devil at what would be my new office wearing a black dress, with no air conditioning, on a 95 degree day at the beach. The black dress thing was part of my notion that now that I was a banker, rather than a broker, I had to dress like I could also handle your funeral arrangements and host your wake. This was an idea I eventually shitcanned in favor of wearing whatever I felt like.

Excitedly I run up the steps to thrust open the office door and greet my new and prosperous life....It's fucking locked. I am now super grateful I am wearing black despite the heat because I'm sweating my ass off and pretty sure any other clothing choice would ruin my only chance to make a great first impression.

I peer inside, no people are evident. I remember that there is a front and back door, of course, they probably just forgot to unlock the back door. I run around the building in my 3 inch heels, sweating profusely (insert your favorite sweating like phrase here....) tug on the front door and you guessed it....locked. Motherfucker. First, I question myself. Did I get the my first day right? Yes, the Mortgage Devil insisted I start today and that we meet here, get me settled in and then go have lunch. Is the time right? Check.

Down the list I go, but now 5 torturous minutes have passed and I am HOT!!!!!!! I'm wearing long sleeves because I rationalized that banks are always really well air-conditioned. Take it from my tenure at the Bank of Hell, seriously, it is hot as balls in Hell.

Finally, I call the Mortgage Devil, the man who took every one of my phone calls when he was wooing me and promised to take care of my every need once I came to Hell. Voicemail. I leave a message, get into my car and head to get some water. On the way I call the other branch of Bank of Hell. I ask for the Mortgage Devil and an incredibly bitchy voice informs me he is on the phone. I'm explaining that I'm the new loan officer and am starting today and he is supposed to let me into my office at which point she cuts me off and tells me there are five calls holding for him and she will have him call me as soon as he can. Fuck, if he is in that office he is at least 40 minutes away which means I'm faced with the choice of a very hot Volvo (this is when leather seats suck) or killing time somewhere. Unfortunately everywhere I know to kill time in the area is a bar, probably not a good idea on my first day as a grown up banker. So, sensibly, I choose to drive the beach highway until he calls me which I'm expecting will just be a few minutes.

So now an hour has passed, I have had to put fuel in my car and I am supremely jealous of all the people in their swimsuits headed to the ocean. I finally get the call from the Mortgage Devil. Of course he apologizes, he got hung up and blah blah blah. He tells me it was a bad idea to have my first day at that office anyway, I should just come to the other branch where he is and meet the staff who were excited to meet me anyway. Like a good salesman, the Mortgage Devil is trying to convince me his fuckup would actually be better for me than his original plan. This is a tactic all loan officers use, usually on their customers though, not on other loan officers. It's like my father always said, "Never try and bullshit a bullshitter, they know what you're up to."

I show up at the office where everyone is excited to meet me to find no one knows I am coming or who I am. No one looks excited. In fact, all the women there look pissed and bitchy. I am getting my first tinge of regret. I was not envisioning a bunch of dowdy, middle-aged, scowling bitches when I heard "excited to meet you". Finally, the bitchy receptionist lets out a huge sigh...."I guess we will have to find somewhere to put you, he will be on the phone for a few minutes." Find somewhere to put me, what the fuck? I feel like one of those crappy decorations someone gives you that you are entitled to display when they come to your house and then you eventually sell at a garage sale and pretend it was broken.

Here is something I learned that day. When normal people say they will be on the phone a few minutes, they usually mean between 3 and 5 minutes. The really poor estimators among us might actually mean 10 minutes. The Mortgage Devil's definition of a few minutes ranges from hours to weeks.

The bitchy receptionist, who looks like she got drunk on an I.V. of Everclear and fell asleep in a tanning bed for 20 years, sticks me at a desk. The Mortgage Devil looking dapper in his Top Producer and Vice President getup is pacing by me having a conversation on a headset, giving me the universal signal for one minute (index finger up), and simultaneously fielding calls on his cell phone while throwing files and paper on his assistant's desks. The best part is that every time he leaves the room his assistants shoot him dirty looks and swear like sailors about what a fucker he is. No one acknowledges me. I start unloading some of my files on a desk and after more than an hour of the weirdest fucking scene of my professional life, the Mortgage Devil gets off the phone. Yippee, now my new mentor will take me under his wing and make me feel welcome here. Yeah, not so much.

He introduces me to the bitches in the office. Now to be fair, a few of them are nice and decent people, but they are outnumbered and therefore I will refer to all of them as bitches. No one really even smiles, they just look annoyed. After two minutes of awkward introductions he gives me a two minute tour and returns me back to my desk which really isn't even my desk and is covered with his self promoting marketing shit. I'm informed they don't have a computer for me yet, it seems they don't have a user name or password for me to get on the computer network either. Oddly enough, it seems that the entire corporate structure of Bank of Hell, and the local management to include the Mortgage Devil, was largely unaware that I was coming to work there. How could this be I wonder, I was his top recruit?

He basically dismisses me and tells me to come back tomorrow, when they are better organized. Our whole exchange (where he is off the phone) takes approximately 5 minutes. Then he is signaling for the bitchy receptionist to send another call through to his headset and he is off, maniacally pacing the halls again.

The reality hits me pretty quickly on my way home in the blistering hot Volvo. I was treated like a drunken college girl...The Mortgage Devil got me into bed but is never going to call me again. I feel dirty from the realization I have been played, oh, and also the profuse sweating of the morning. I wish I could say it was the last time the Mortgage Devil made me feel like I needed a shower.....