In the first chapter of Should I Stay or Should I Go? Surreptitious Tips for an MBA, Efraín Ochoa takes us on a relatable journey of career burnout, self-discovery, and the pursuit of an MBA. Written with humor and vivid storytelling, the chapter incorporates advanced vocabulary that’s indispensable for the GRE, making it a dual resource for those preparing for the test. Ochoa recounts the grind of consulting, the spark of hope ignited by a GMAT course, and the unforgettable character of "El Brujo," whose unconventional methods challenge and inspire. Follow along as we dive into this captivating chapter and explore the rollercoaster ride of chasing big dreams—one week at a time.

Disclaimer

• All characters and events in this chapter —even those based on real people—are entirely fictional.
• The following chapters contain coarse language and situations and due to its content it should not be read by anyone.

Chapter 1 “Finding a GMAT Course”

IIt was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of drinking every weekend, it was the age of working 80 hours a week, it was the epoch of concerts, it was the epoch of traveling to Brazil for the weekend for a meeting, it was the season of changing careers, it was the season of getting awful offers, it was the spring of MBA, it was the winter of my “Godinez” life.

As I languished in the sterile offices of the consulting firm, a palpable sense of ennui washed over me. The work was soporific, the hours interminable, and the incessant travel left me in a perpetual state of discombobulation. Brazil, in particular, had become my bugbear, a frequently visited destination that I had lost count of the times I had traversed the equator.

Initially, the job felt like the apotheosis of career success. I was earning a trifling sum that happened to be triple my previous salary at AC Nielsen, and the frequent trips to Brazil lent an air of excitement. The work was captivating, and collaborating with individuals from diverse backgrounds created bonds I imagined would endure a lifetime.

My bosses (two out of three, as the third was universally disliked) were paragons of excellence, embodying a rare confluence of intellect and charm. Our conversations often veered toward career aspirations, and the consensus was clear—an MBA was the sine qua non for advancement. While not de rigueur at our company, unlike McKinsey or BCG, the prospect of studying in the US or Europe loomed large in the collective imagination of my colleagues.

Yet the work, for all its initial allure, gradually revealed itself to be ephemeral busywork—tasks imbued with an artificial sense of urgency that ultimately amounted to little more than wasted time. A hunger for purpose gnawed at me, compelling me to devise an exit strategy. The treadmill of consulting was no longer tenable; I yearned for a path imbued with greater meaning.

Esteban, my coworker, was the first to broach the subject of the GMAT. "I've heard of a great course," he said, scrawling a number on a scrap of paper. "Intense, but it'll prepare you well." I called the next day, expecting an automated response or a curt receptionist. Instead, a cheerful American voice tinged with a Midwestern accent, answered.

"Hi there! We're offering a Christmas break course—ten sessions covering everything you need for the test." Intrigued, I listened intently as she elaborated on the program details.

I approached my boss the following day with a curious mix of trepidation and resolve. "I need time off," I said nonchalantly. "I've found a GMAT course I want to take. It's during the winter break." To my surprise, he nodded graciously. "No problem. It's the slow season. Just be back by the new year."

Relief cascaded over me, and anticipation bubbled beneath the surface. The course would be demanding, but I felt ready.

Driving to the house on Veracruz Street in Condesa, I felt a flicker of apprehension. The Condesa DF hotel loomed nearby, a sentinel over the quiet residential enclave. Stepping onto the sidewalk, I inhaled deeply before crossing the threshold.

Inside, Steve—known to many as "El Brujo"—greeted me. His shaved head and muscular build belied his warmth. "Take a seat in the dining room," he instructed, flashing a disarming smile. He wore a business school T-shirt, a token of gratitude from a former student who had conquered the GMAT under his tutelage.

I settled into the dining room, joining a handful of students sipping coffee and exchanging hushed pleasantries. One by one, more students filtered in, until over thirty of us crowded the space, with some relegated to the patio, craning to glimpse the blackboard through the window.

Steve began with a sprawling, tangential preamble—forty-five minutes of meandering monologues about politics, current events, and anecdotes from his life. El Brujo was an innate raconteur, one of preternatural abilities to keep us amazed and inspired. It was a daily ritual we soon came to expect and some of us enjoyed it. There were exceptions, mainly when it was midnight and we had 10 math problems to go and he was still rambling on about current politics. You could see the faces of some students begging God to kill them.

Beneath the digressions lay a rigorous structure. Stragglers were afforded thirty minutes of grace, during which Steve regaled us with stories. Thereafter, we plunged into the GMAT material with frenetic intensity, dissecting math and verbal problems. A brief respite followed—thirty minutes to an hour—before the final two-hour onslaught. By midnight, we emerged from Steve’s house, bleary-eyed yet invigorated.

During breaks, we congregated on the patio, exchanging stories and aspirations. One idea that caught my ear was “Some schools prefer to get couples into their programs”, a few months later a female friend of mine proposed we apply as one. We didn´t as the schools we were applying didn´t match.

Steve's enigmatic past surfaced in fragments. He had once been a pediatrician in New Orleans, working in the ER and amassing a trove of improbable tales. One story stood out—a young man presenting with a knife embedded in his skull.

"Why didn’t you pull it out?" Steve had asked, incredulous.

The patient’s response was quintessentially human: "I don't know. It hurt."

His decision, it turned out, had saved his life. It was a narrative emblematic of Steve’s eclectic journey.

Steve was more than an instructor; he was a wellspring of generosity. "Come back anytime," he’d say. "I’ll give you new exercises or let you sit in on classes." He even offered to review our essays and counsel us on scholarship negotiations—gratis.

I took him up on it, returning on weekends to fortify weak spots. On Super Bowl Sunday, we faced a collective dilemma. We yearned to leave early to catch the halftime show, headlined by Madonna.

"Steve, we have a problem," a student began, feigning solemnity. "Madonna is performing. We can’t miss it."

Steve's eyes lit up. "Well, in that case, we’ll make an exception!"

And just like that, we were dismissed early.