How I got into the Hall of Shame

A Short Story #3

October’s pleasant autumn air stood in stark contrast to the dread I felt working in public accounting. Every morning, I woke up feeling as though another piece of my soul had been eaten by the corporate-interest machine. My life wasn’t all bad, I got to live in New York City after all, but I needed to escape if I wanted to maintain my sanity.

My firm had just kicked me off an important banking client and demoted me to a team that audited regional gas stations. I wanted to be good, but I couldn’t help it, I was bored as fuck and it showed in my work.

On top of being bad at my job, “Busy Season” was only a few months away, it was the time of year when 12-hour days were expected. I absolutely loathed working 8 hours, so 12 seemed unbearable. But I was broke and in student debt, so I needed another job to jump to if I was going to avoid this giant rolling boulder Indiana Jones-style.

I must have been at the top of LinkedIn’s filter for burned-out and desperate because my inbox was flooded with recruiters. Unfortunately, their spam DMs offered only slightly less terrible versions of the same job I already had.

I worried that if I took one and left after only a few months, the rat-race gods would press a scalding-hot iron into my forehead and brand me JOB HOPPER, forever banishing me to corporate hell where my only remaining career path would be Costco greeter.

So I copy-pasted a response to all of them that said:

“Not interested in this job, but if you have anything in crypto let me know”

Crypto was the only thing that could hold my attention. My naïveté about the world, crypto’s rapid rise, and my urge to bet it all combined into the perfect dopamine cocktail for my 24-year-old male brain.

Of the hundred recruiters I messaged, only 2 replied. Pickings were slim, so I knew I’d have to interview well.

I got on a phone call with one recruiter and after a few pleasantries, he asked, “Say, are you related to Martin Brodeur?”

I got this question a lot, especially from late-20s white guys in the Northeast like this recruiter. Martin Brodeur was a Hall of Fame goalie for the New Jersey Devils. When hockey fans learned my last name is also Brodeur, they were quick to ask.

“Haha, yeah. You mean Uncle Marty?” I joked, despite having no relation to the man whatsoever.

His eyes went wide.

“Oh my God. Dude, that’s insane!”

This is the point I usually tell the recipient that I’m kidding, but this guy was so enthusiastic about, that I didn’t have a chance.

“I had his jersey growing up. His poster was on my wall. I watched every Devils game with my dad.”

I opened my mouth to tell him it was a joke, but he barreled through me.

“Brodeur is literally the reason I played goalie, he was my favorite player.”

Now I felt bad, this guy wasn’t even stopping to breathe and I needed to tell him the truth pronto.

“I can’t wait to tell my dad I met Marty Brodeur’s nephew.”

Shit. Too late.

“hah, yeah,” I said. “...pretty crazy!”

I got on this call wanting a job but now I would have given anything to get off it.

I listened to the recruiter tell me about opportunities I wouldn’t consider for a second out of fear that my parasitic lie would transfer to the people working there. I was stern in expressing my disinterest to justify ghosting him later.

The call went on and I could feel the words to tell him the truth in my chest, but like a 7th grade boy at the school dance, I couldn’t muster the courage to say anything.

“I’ve got this one job over by where your Uncle lives, you ever go over there?”

“Yeah we do Sunday dinners sometimes.” I shot my hand through my hair and grabbed a fist full of it, silently mouthing the words WHAT THE FUCK to tell myself I was mad at me for telling a 2nd lie.

I got off the call as soon as I could and felt some relief. No harm no foul, right?

The next day, my phone buzzed over and over with his calls and texts. I expected a follow-up but this was next level. He really wanted to help Martin Brodeur’s nephew get a job.

A number I didn’t recognize calls and I pick up.

“Hey Dylan, this is So-and-so, I’m the CEO of the recruiting company” My heart sinks, “I heard your story, super awesome that you’re related to Martin Brodeur. How are you doing?”

His seasoned voice intimidated me, never before had important business people wanted to talk to me, “Hah.... yeah.. Doing pretty well.”

“Well hey listen I just got off the phone with a friend, the Chief Accounting Officer at Coinbase. She’s excited about you, I think we can get you a job there with a salary bump and equity.”

My gut did a somersault. Coinbase was the best company I could’ve asked for, an oasis compared to the barren hellscape I was working in. But under no circumstances could I take this job. Surely this was divine punishment for my fabrication.

“Just shoot your resume over and we’ll get you that interview”

“Sure thing”

click

“FUUUUUUUUUCK.”

I lay on my hardwood floor, staring at the ceiling for so long that I began to feel the Earth rotating beneath me. I ruminated for hours on how I could somehow thread the needle between “Sorry I lied” and “Can I still get that job?”

The next day, texts poured in from the CEO. I ignored them, silently begging the devil to free me from his temptation.

I could have told him the truth. I played it out in my head repeatedly. Even if it killed my chance at the Coinbase job, at least my conscience would be clear and I could prevent any future misunderstanding.

Instead, I employed a 3rd lie to end my suffering. I texted him that I would be taking an offer from another company. An offer that, like Uncle Marty, did not exist.

I still wonder what would have happened had I found the strength to call the CEO and tell him the truth. Maybe he would have rightfully felt manipulated. Maybe he would have laughed.

Instead, I kept the lie alive because I felt I couldn’t endure a few minutes of awkwardness. I chose to lie to two men I’d never speak to again in order to protect their opinion of me.

Fortunately, I eventually got a different job in crypto, one that was great to me and opened many doors. I got it through the other recruiter who responded to me on that first day.

Ironically, he also asked me if I was related to Martin Brodeur. Perhaps I hadn’t learned my lesson because I still made my dumb Uncle Marty joke. But this time, after hearing his voice perk up, I quickly cut him off and told him the truth.