Employee of the Month...Not Quite

According to a recent article on the journalistically sound AIM Zones homepage, people who have overly decorated cubicles are usually the ones least committed to their work. After taking a quick survey of my own cubicle, I noted the following:

3 foreign flags, 3 postcards, 2 Indian pillow cases turned tapestries, a decorative tea towel, a poster of The Wonder Years cast (who many co-workers have assumed is my own family, to which I ask, why would I have a glossy giant poster of my family dressed up in 1960’s clothing???), 1 photo-shopped picture of me as a High School Musical cast member, 1 softball displayed on a Loch Ness Monster candy dish, 2 basketball bobble-heads, 1 snow globe, 3 framed pictures, 4 magazine spreads of Ireland, 2 prairie dog magnets, and several quotes that suggest I am living in what I consider to be nothing short of a prison (“If you want to be happy, be,” “Saoirse” aka “freedom” in Gaelic, “You Go Where Life Takes You”…etc.)

Initially concerned that I was barely giving my current position the ol’ college try, I thought back to my last job as a salesman in Ireland. It begged the inevitable question; how much of my heart and soul had I really put into being a Tasty Sandwich Girl?

Some of you may be wondering, what exactly was your role as a Tasty Sandwich Girl??? Well, it depends on who’s asking. If you are a future employer, person of wealth and/or dignified stature, or President Obama, as a Tasty Sandwich Girl, I quickly rose to the top of the sales world by my boot straps, delivering good cheer and delicious products to important international businessmen in Ireland.

If, however, you are of no real importance, I will tell you the truth. My life as a sambo peddler was one of hard knocks, tears, a trip to the local hospital, and questionable dedication.
Some of you may still be plagued with questions. How does one get into the sandwich selling business? Did you wear a uniform? Did you eat your own product?

I’m here to answer all of your questions.

Desperate to return abroad after an amazing semester in England my junior year, I decided last summer that moving to Ireland for five months without a job or place to live would be just the solution. I suppose picking up a newspaper before I flew to Ireland would have been helpful, as I would have had some indication of the economic downturn the land of green was once again taking. Instead, I arrived in Galway with two of my best friends, certain I would find a job the first or second day.

Three weeks later, I had one prospect – faithful employee of the Tasty Sandwich Guy company. I use the term “company” loosely, considering this operation was run by one man who met me for an interview at the local aquarium. He explained that the job was perfect for a competitive go-getter such as myself and assured me the top salesman in his sister “company” made an average of 60 euros a day for only 4 hours of work. Some even made over 100.

I’ve never been a mathematician, but the arithmetic seemed simple enough. For every sandwich (or sambo, as the Irish would say) sold, I made one euro. I was thrilled to have any job at all, and excited at the prospect of getting out there and talking to Irish people everyday.


My first day of work, I waited in the parking lot of a grocery store for my boss to arrive. This should have probably alarmed me, but at the time, a parking lot seemed as natural as any other place for a “company” to kick-off the day. My boss arrived a few minutes later and opened the trunk of the car where all the sandwiches sat, wrapped and stacked in neat piles. Once again, nothing about this situation seemed off to me. He handed me a fanny pack, which was to be my life source and storage container of all the money I would be making. I’ve never been a fan of the fanny pack but who was I to argue with the uniform?

Next came the Little Red Riding Hood-esque baskets where the sandwich would sit. The ad in the newspaper never mentioned heavy lifting, and I was alarmed to find my arm going a bit numb after about half an hour of carrying the basket. After being reprimanded about my footwear (mental note: Nike shoes don’t scream “professional”….only sandwiches that come from car trunks do), I began my route. Looking back, my life was fairly similar to that of a prostitute. Similarities: designated blocks/territories, selling of goods, loss of dignity and personal respect, working of the streets. Differences: I never had sex on the job and I never met Richard Gere.

From the hours of 9 to 12, my job as the Tasty Sandwich Bitch er uh Girl was to trudge up and down a designated route in Galway business parks, knocking on every office door along the way and opening with the phrase “Have you brought your lunch today?’ While most would find this degrading, I saw it as an opportunity. I’ve always been afraid of confrontation and learned this was not helpful in the world of sales. People would start asking questions such as “where are these sandwiches made?,” to which I would reply “ummm a local…factory?”

I’m not one to brag, but initially I was a huge hit. I found particular success in the hardware stores, where I quickly learned to undo a few buttons on my shirt before going in to speak with the older Irish men. Chicken Tikkas and Tuna Sambos were flying off the basket and by the end of my second week, I had made up to 90 euros in a single day. I was sandwiches ahead of my other two fellow peddlers and my boss said he’d never seen anything like it.

The sambos, I might add, really were delicious and I was confident in our product. Sales evened out after that and the next few weeks I reached a comfortable plateau. The job was beginning to take a toll on my body though, and blisters were covering my feet. For the next few months, I made the stylistically-sound decision to wear white socks and black Mary Jane-esque Sketchers to keep my feet from bleeding. This complemented the black fanny pack beautifully. In addition to my poor feet, my lungs were also getting destroyed. Little known fact: it rains in Ireland. A LOT. And as a Tasty Sandwich Girl, you are expected to work, rain or shine. Once again, much like a prostitute. Initially wearing a hooded rain jacket, I decided my sales would probably increase if people felt sorry for me. I stopped wearing my hood and would enter stores dripping wet in the hopes that someone would take pity on my sorry state and decide they did in fact want a salsa wrap. This worked really well until I later developed an infection and was forced to go to the hospital.

About a month into work, the company was suddenly shut down. An evil man on my route claimed we were not following health regulations and mumbled something about a lack of refrigeration. Apparently, sandwiches originating in a BMW trunk before being displayed on a basket in the sun for four hours is not cool with some people. Unsure of whether I’d work again, I was told to be on standby while my boss figured out a new plan.

The next week, I was back on the job. To keep the people pleased, I was now forced to store the sambos in a giant cooler with a shoulder strap. You’d be amazed how heavy 50 sandwiches are. Forced to take multiple breaks on the side of the road and rest my shoulders, I often asked myself, “is this worth it?” My sales were now dropping more and more every week as the novelty of an American girl with an amazing fashion sense wore off. I also started resenting the person I had become. My life on the streets revolved around numbers and I found myself mumbling inappropriate things when customers politely turned me down. Things such as “fuck you.” I began to feel like a joke and would often plop down on the side of the road by 10:30 am, dejected as I ate one of my own sandwiches. Certain businesses began asking me to no longer come around and I was later banned from a large corporate center after roaming around the cubicles with my cooler.

The beginning of the end came when, after a particularly frustrating day on the job, I spent my last hour of work in a pub, drinking a pint of Cider until it was time to meet my boss and dole out the money. This didn’t seem inappropriate to me at the time, a real indication of my mindset.
Fearful I would be fired any day, I began buying my own sandwiches and hiding them in my coat pockets to plump up the sales.

I’m sad to say I only made it three months as a Tasty Sandwich Girl. The day I realized I had actually lost money that week by buying more sandwiches than I had actually sold, I knew I wasn’t meant for this job. A week later I awkwardly returned the cooler and fanny pack to my boss and said farewell.

Sitting here now in my cubicle, there are certain things I miss about my time as a sandwich seller. The freedom of the outdoors, the condescending looks from professionals, the taste of a Chicken Tandoori on wheat. But all great things must come to an end.

Perhaps the AIM Zones article is accurate, and I am not as dedicated as my fellow co-workers. Yours truly may not get employee of the month anytime soon, and I certainly never attained such a status in Ireland. But I've yet to leave work early to get a pint and that has to count for something.

C’est la vie. At least it’s a good story.