Chapter 3: Kickbacks and Karma

I’d barely settled into my new role in Admin when the Product Manager stormed in.

"Jason changed all the suppliers for our main product’s BOM materials."

I already knew. A few days earlier, suppliers had called me, nearly in tears. Jason had demanded they drop prices by 20% and hand over a 10% kickback, or he’d cancel their orders. I flashed back to the time I’d stood up for quality, arguing with the boss that cutting corners would bite us, only to get shut down with, "Just make it work, Mike."

"Manager Mike, you know our costs. We export to Europe—the quality standards are sky-high. Our profit margin is maybe 10%. We can’t do it."

There was nothing I could do; I watched Jason pull the trigger and cancel their orders. I felt a twisted mix of anger and relief—angry for the suppliers, relieved it wasn’t my problem for once.

Then Jason found some Texas workshops. Sure, the prices were rock-bottom.

I told the Product Manager, "Costs are down, our products will be more competitive. That’s a good thing, right?"

I kept my voice flat, like I was just another bystander. It was the kind of corporate logic everyone used—"cost leadership," "agility." Never mind the landmines ahead.

"But the quality’s unreliable! I went to the boss, and he just said as long as it works, it’s fine—saving 10% is what matters."

The Product Manager forced a smile, sighed, and left.

Watching him go, I felt a secret relief that Jason’s mess wasn’t my cross to bear—at least, not yet.

I spun in my creaky chair, staring at the drop ceiling, the hum of the AC and the faint smell of reheated pizza hanging in the air. The boss’s mantra rang in my head: "If it’s cheaper, it’s better." No one cared who got chewed up in the process.

Before I could enjoy the peace, Melissa from the front desk poked her head in. "Manager Mike, someone from Purchasing says Jason wants to switch the property management company back to the old one."

I nearly spit out my coffee.

Melissa whispered like she was passing along the latest fantasy football results. I gripped my mug, knuckles white.

Jason had fought to take over property management, found some bizarre company, and within months, there were incidents—security guards roughing up customers, cleaners swiping office supplies.

The boss blew up, gave property management back to Purchasing, and I picked an industry leader.

But here’s the kicker: Purchasing picks the property company, Admin manages it. Now Jason wanted to bring back that trainwreck company. No way this would end well.

It was like trying to steer a train off the rails onto a gravel road. The system was built to fail—by accident or by design, who knew?

I stood up, ready to confront Jason, but the Product Manager’s bitter smile flashed in my mind.

So I told Melissa, "Let’s do a thorough evaluation. Keep your eyes open and let me know if anything weird pops up."

Why stick my neck out? If this place taught me anything, it’s to keep your head down and your email trail clean.

I wasn’t alone. Later, Bob from Logistics told me the freight forwarder had been switched. Sarah from HR said our headhunter and temp agencies were swapped out too.

You had to hand it to Jason—he changed nearly everything that wasn’t nailed down in just a few weeks.

He was like a kid on a sugar rush, swapping out every cog and wheel, convinced he was building something new—never mind if the engine burst into flames.

Next, maybe he’d swap out the boss.

The thought almost made me laugh. Almost.

At the next management meeting, Jason was the star.

The boss beamed. "We should all learn from Jason. In just over a month, he’s re-screened all suppliers. This year, we’ll save about five hundred thousand."

Everyone applauded. It was the kind of slow, fake applause you get at a pep rally no one wants to attend. The conference room was thick with forced grins and darting eyes.

Jason launched into a speech: managers are lazy, only care about themselves, sacrifice the company’s interests. He shot me a look.

He stood there like a reality TV villain, soaking up the awkward silence. I could almost hear the dramatic soundtrack: dun-dun-dunnn.

I overheard Sarah and Bob whispering:

"Half a million a year—Mike must have pocketed a lot over the years."

Bob shushed her, since I was right there.

I pretended not to hear. Even if I explained, it wouldn’t matter.

Now Jason was the boss’s golden boy. On supplier changes, he had the final word; Product and other departments didn’t get a say.

I was invisible—just another outdated office chair nobody wanted to throw out. That was the new normal.

Back when I ran Purchasing, I always discussed BOM needs with Product and Tech, mostly following their leads. I knew those suppliers gave them plenty of perks, but at least the sources were reliable.

Now, Jason treated them like air.

That night, the boss took us to a steakhouse. The sizzle of steaks, clink of glasses, and the waitress refilling water with forced cheer made it feel all-American—and painfully fake.

Jason held court at the far end, telling stories and making everyone laugh—except me, poking at my overcooked ribeye.

Once everyone was tipsy, the boss leaned over to me.

"Mike, you’ve done well these past years."

I kept my voice flat. "Boss, if you’ve got something to say, just say it."

He grinned, whiskey breath thick. "Come on, it’s been seven years. I never gave you a raise and you never left. Salary must not matter to you, huh?"

That set me off. "Boss, I’ve worked hard for seven years and never taken a penny I shouldn’t."

He gave me a crooked smile. "You expect me to believe that? Jason’s saved us half a million this year. Where’d that money go last year?"

He patted my shoulder, flashed a sly grin, and walked away.

What was the point in arguing? No matter what I said, it would sound like I was just making excuses.

The boss only saw this year’s savings. Anything else sounded like a cover-up.

So I slipped out before the party ended, walking alone to the parking lot, the cold orange streetlights painting long shadows. As I drove home, the nickname "Mike the Millionaire" rattled in my head—proof that in this company, the truth never mattered.

Oh, and that nickname? Jason started it, telling everyone I pocketed hundreds of thousands a year in kickbacks. By the next afternoon, Melissa at the front desk—the company’s unofficial intelligence center—had already given me the scoop.

She passed the gossip with a wink, like she was sharing last night’s fantasy football results. Secrets never lasted long around here.