My best friend and business manager Jose Bautista, whom I trust implicitly for financial (and also friendship) advice, told me to finally sack up and ask my boss at Quiznos for my fair market value of 12 million dollars per year well into my mid-thirties.
I’m gonna be honest: I was hesitant at first. After all, a million bucks a month was a pretty big raise from my previous salary of working three nights a week at $10.50 per hour.
But the other day, I was wrapping up my final Baja Chicken Sub (no tomatoes!) and it finally hit me. I have been vastly underpaid for my entire six year stint at this particular Suffolk County, NY, franchise location. It was about darn time that I finally asked for what I was worth.
So I walked right up to Jessie, the night manager (who is actually pretty cool, by the way. He smoked me up a few times last summer when I was depressed about getting dumped by my longterm girlfriend.), and I said, “Jessie, I am a good employee. I know my value, and I know the value of other sandwich makers in the area. Here’s my number, and I am not negotiating.”
Jessie, to his credit, did let me finish my sentence before he started cracking up and handed me two filled garbage bags to bring to the dumpster.
The next day, I got a call from corporate that they were raising my pay to $11.15 an hour, and they were considering me for an assistant management position, if one opens up. That really felt good, honestly.
But nothing felt as good as those seven seconds before Jessie laughed me out of the restaurant. For those seven seconds, I was a millionaire.