Playing ‘Good Cop, Bad Cop’ Will Not Only Ruin Your Work Experience But Leave a Bad Taste in Your Mouth
Make you wanna holler
There are fewer things I detest more than working with people who are dishonest. Tell me anything but tell me the truth. If you‘ve lived long enough, you’ve seen a version of good cop, bad cop, play out on the job.
Some think it’s a viable workplace strategy — hidden agenda to attain a certain outcome. Others play knowingly or unknowingly. If, in my case, manipulated into playing, then it’s another ballgame altogether.
Ever waltz into a new job shiny and hopeful on your first day — instantly feel you’ve made a huge mistake? You can’t put your finger on it, but something’s awry. Fifteen years ago, my gut instinct tried to tell me. Instead of bolting out the sliding glass door, I stayed a year too long — committed a cardinal sin in my grandmother’s play book by not following my first mind.
Money has a way of clouding better judgement
I took the advice of my then General Manager. He had moved on with the same management company to a different hotel, advised me to do the same. The one where we worked had turned into a shit show — for lack of a better description.
Two months after the new owners bought the property at a premium, the first wave of the tech bubble burst, shrinking their profits and dreams of making fast money in Silicon Valley. Inflation followed. They refused to spend money for a much-needed renovation. Clients were complaining about everything: rooms weren’t as clean, restaurant understaffed — running out of food, hallways dusty and dim, creepy crawlers — a hot mess.
I’ve been in this business long enough to know, contrary to widespread belief, the customer isn’t always right, but this time they were right as rain.
We had warned owners months before it was only a matter of time when the hotel would begin a slow crumble into the ground, suffer severed business ties, and its worse online client reviews. My GM left. The decline felt like I was drowning in quicksand — no one else threw me a line.
A Black woman in a leadership position can’t afford attachment to a losing proposition or a poor reputation. I knew it would be a long road to travel when I began in this career. Hotel management is the oldest good ole boy network in the entire world.
At first, I balked at my previous GM’s suggestion. I didn’t want to trade the comfort of a 15-minute commute for an hour and a half. The hotel worsened each day. The prospective 20K salary bump opened more than my mind — the traffic barrier lifted — a reverse commute and opinion.
The interview went well with the skinny big blue-eyed blond GM. She seemed down to earth with a sense of humor. Her entire staff comprised POC — Hispanic, with three Blacks in administrative assistant roles. I learned she held my position as director of sales prior and didn’t foresee her inability to let go or her madness behind the wide paper thin-lipped grin — although her whiteness did cast a subtle air of darkness.
My first week, she gave me a list of accounts — warned me about the top revenue generating account she would continue to manage until I was ready.
“Their travel manager is a bitch, she said. For two years, we’ve given them the same low guest room rate for business volume. We’re increasing their rate this year.”
Two months in, I noticed her condescending tone when speaking to her front office staff. I witnessed one girl diminished to tears after a verbal lashing for making a mistake. People confided in me. I encouraged them to report her behavior to HR anonymously.
Then one day in our morning sales meeting, we could see the declining productivity within our top client’s account headquartered next door. New competition invading the area didn’t help — there were five big brand hotels within a three-mile radius. A new hotel had broken ground around the same corner the second wave of the tech bust was lurking.
New choices in the marketplace will bleed your account productivity faster than a bullet wound to a major artery.
“So, what the fuck are you going to do?” she asked in front of my team of five. I wondered why she felt comfortable speaking to me in threatening street lingo. We didn’t know each other well. Or was she trying to invoke the spirit of an angry Black woman to satisfy her curiosity? She hadn’t quite figured out why everyone liked me in such a brief time. Did she really think I’d banish my professionalism for a gutter exchange?
Whatever she thought, she was wrong. I was livid, but remained calm. If looks could kill, she would have dropped dead on the dingy gray carpet in our sales office. The energy in the room froze. She turned in a huff and left me with a bewildered sales team. I opened the door to leave after her, not sure what I was going to say — one of my sales managers followed.
As we speed walked down the hall I said, “is she always like this?”
“Well, she has a tendency to go off, but she’ll calm down.”
“I don’t roll like that — I’m not the one, honey.” She chuckled.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay; I could see the daggers in your eyes.”
“I’m fine. I’m going to the bathroom.”
As I washed my hands, contemplating my next move, Cruella Deville enters. I looked at her square in her big baby blues and said, “I didn’t appreciate what you said to me. I thought it disrespectful in front of my team. You owe me and the team an apology.” She flashed the wide, thin-lipped grin. I walked out — pent up steam pushing me out the door.
She apologized, but the harassment continued. A nice nasty bully, her behavior became pervasive — with my encouragement, employees began complaining to upper management anonymously. I grew into her nemesis. The only one who dared speak up to her without a hint of emotion.
I preserve my emotions for those of whom I care and respect.
Little did I know six months later I’d be the bad cop delivering the blow to the travel manager who wasn’t crazy about my melanated skin tone — spoke to me on the phone like I was the hired help. No sooner than I told her about the rate increase, she slammed the phone down, called good cop Cruella who honored the same rate, ensuring I’d never have an amicable relationship with our top client.
Boom.
Afterward, it all slid downhill. She did everything she could to malign my efforts. Questioned me aggressively during ownership meetings — they even cautioned her for talking to me in the manner in which she spoke. She wiped my computer of certain documents over a weekend and didn’t think I’d notice, wrote sales actions plans impossible for me to achieve within a week. Blamed me for the downward economic spiral — drew declining numbers on reports in red, posted them for everyone to see.
When I had my fill, I wrote a scathing letter to HR detailing her harassment. I bought myself two weeks. The indignities prompted me to seek legal counsel. I learned you can’t sue anybody for being an asshole.
A month after I left, the bottom dropped out of the economy in 2008 — the hotel was the first to file bankruptcy within the brand. Cruella had a nervous breakdown — forced to take a leave of absence. I got a call from her right hand telling me it wasn’t my fault — it was the economy.
It didn’t take long to find another job. My first week, management asked me to tell the sales manager I agreed to keep — she needed to take care of her halitosis and body odor. Seriously?
They had already paid for her to have a dental hygiene cleaning. It was my duty to tell her she needed to further clean up her act, yet she had been there for three years.
I flat out refused at the risk of insubordination — I didn’t care. I would be the one sitting with this woman in the same office. What if she was a closet serial killer or felt inclined to slash my tires? Or worse, try to throw me under the bus with clients I didn’t know yet.
At least they asked my permission to play good cop, bad cop — that I can respect. The lingering sour taste in my mouth finally dissipated — I guess time really heals all wounds.