I pretty much had my bags packed. Psychologically anyway. It was just a matter of finding a job in a new city. That would be difficult enough in a normal economy. It would be difficult enough finding a job in a city where I’m not even networked the way that I am here, in Paradise City. It didn’t matter. I pretty much had my bags packed. Psychologically anyway.
I’d been looking for a job (and a sense of purpose) in Paradise City for months. I’d lost hope and faith. Hope in surviving and faith in the people of my hometown.
There is a new email on my computer screen from an address which I’m not familiar with. But the preview asks if I’m interested in coming in for- I click on OPEN and smile: I’m being asked if I’m interested in coming in for an interview. All the doors knocked on and all the contacts exhausted have come down to this. Not only am I finally getting an invitation for an interview (finally) but it happens to be for my dream job. It’s no secret that I’m obsessed with widgets and widget production. Here is an agency whose job it is to promote widget production in Paradise City. The job is the perfect combination of marketing, tourism and widgets; my three areas of expertise.
The interview goes swimmingly. We review my marketing portfolio and all the great marketing projects I’ve headed. In the morning I get a call to come in and get started on Monday. On Monday I’m at the office, in my office, gazing out at my ridiculous 30th floor view of the downtown skyline. I immediately sit down and work up a priority task list.
My coworkers are a motley crew of personalities. Duke, the tall, handsome widget wiz and traveled widget expert in his late 40s.. Michael: Young, fashionable, Duke’s apprentice. Lily, the 40something lefty left-brainer with organic tastes, bohemian style and VIP membership to the Trader Joe’s mailing list. Bambi, the 33 year old executive assistant. And, of course, the personality and local force to be reckoned with, Barbra. At around 60 years of age, she’s survived many a local political upheaval. The rest of the employees work offsite. The 30th floor is our domain. We’re the brains of the operation, if this could be considered a brains kind of operation.
I’m reviewing my priority list when Bambi pops her head in through the door. “So, you’re pretty free over here. There isn’t much supervision. You make your own schedule, though you’re expected to keep 40 hours. You’ll be reporting to me-“ She chuckles at this. “Well, not really reporting to me, Barbra is the boss. You just check in with me if you’re taking off or anything like that.” I smile, we joke around and she returns to her office. I stare out the window some more. Now what do I do?
It’s Tuesday and I’m in at 8:30 am. I wonder around the halls, alone. There is no one else here. Around 11 am I end up in sitting in Bambi’s office with Lily. We’re chatting and joking around. “Oh, these halls are pretty damn quiet before 10:30!” We laugh at this concept.
It’s Wednesday and I’m in around 9:00 am. It’s lonely in the office. I walk across the street and get some breakfast to go. I eat alone in the office and then work on my priority list, working off some notes that I’d taken the night before, at home.
Barbara is walking by my office and I ask her in. I begin to tell her that I’d like to review my priority list with her. She nods furiously, cuts me off and communicates to me that she trusts me to supervise myself. She leaves. I sit in my office, a bit perplexed. How do I work for a director who refuses to give me direction?
As the days go by, a routine develops. I come in around 9:15 am, wander the halls alone, eat breakfast and work on my priority list & project plans. I approach Barbara several more times. Every time I do, she nods furiously and cuts me off, not wanting to hear the rest of what I have to say. I try not to think of her as a bobble head as I desperately attempt to decode her codes. “You need to be ready for sudden changes around here,” she keeps telling me. I bite my tongue, fearing that I’ll come off as a pretentious little shit if I try to explain the importance of a priority list - as I try desperately to get some kind of direction from my boss.
Everyday I come in to work, I take the same elevator which is decorated with a peculiar smell. Is it urine? Kinda smells like urine. Or homeless people. I can’t tell.
At week two, I manage to schedule a meeting with Barbie and Bambi, hoping that they’re finally ready to shed some light on what I should be working on. I have pretty photocopies made of my outlines & notes and am prepared for a real professional presentation. Barbie is stressed because she committed the agency to a project which none of the staff is responding to. I begin to talk. Bobble head ensues. She cuts me off and informs me that none of my priority lists or projects matter right now. Right now, the only thing that matters is this particular project that the whole staff should be working on (which they aren’t, because everyone thinks it’s retarded) and that if I don’t get my shit together, my job will be in jeopardy come next fiscal year as my job was made possible by a grant from the City of Paradise City. I shut my mouth. Barbie doesn’t seem at all interested in anything I have to say.
I bust my ass on the ridiculous Paradise City promotion project. The same one which everyone else is avoiding like the plague. Barbie and myself are literally the only people working on this project. It occurs to me that Barbie's staff doesn't really respect her. They spend a lot of time making fun of her about an advertisement which her husband designed for the agency, which looks like it was done by a middle school graphic arts student. For reasons too numerous to account for right now, I have an overwhelming drive to please my elders. I work hard to make Barbie happy and to prove my worth. I resist the urge to vent to her about the fact the she and I are the only ones working on this high priority project. It seems to go OK. Members of the community who work with us on the project say great things about me. Barbie smiles big at meetings when others say good things. I have the pat on the head I needed.
I bust my ass on the ridiculous Paradise City promotion project. The same one which everyone else is avoiding like the plague. Barbie and myself are literally the only people working on this project. It occurs to me that Barbie's staff doesn't really respect her. They spend a lot of time making fun of her about an advertisement which her husband designed for the agency, which looks like it was done by a middle school graphic arts student. For reasons too numerous to account for right now, I have an overwhelming drive to please my elders. I work hard to make Barbie happy and to prove my worth. I resist the urge to vent to her about the fact the she and I are the only ones working on this high priority project. It seems to go OK. Members of the community who work with us on the project say great things about me. Barbie smiles big at meetings when others say good things. I have the pat on the head I needed.
Over the next couple of weeks, I decide that getting a direct meeting with my boss is pointless. In fact, no one else seems to ever meet with her either. Everyone sort of does their own thing and everything sort of seems to go smoothly. I guess this is the way this office runs. OK. Maybe I’m just not experienced enough with this style of office. I decide to stop pushing for meetings and just keep my ears open. Every time I run into Barbie in the hallways, she drops snippets of the kinds of things she hopes I’ll be doing for the agency. I run back to my office and write everything she says down. She’s a powerhouse, I figure. I’m not about to try to change the way she runs shit. This must just be how it’s done around here. She spouts off a bunch of things and people get on it. She’s much too busy to sit down and give formal directions. At this agency, you just keep your ear open and Barbie will let you know what you need to do.
Another week goes by and Barbie is singing my praises to a local politician that visits our office. Lily’s contact, a local widget expert, makes it a point to tell me on the phone that she’s hearing wonderful things about me and about how great it is to have this young guy in the office with all these great ideas. Bambi and I joke all the time. I’m always popping into Bambi’s office and asking her how I’m doing on so-and-so task that she asked for help on. She’s pleasant, albeit stressed. Duke and I get along great. I love Duke’s war stories and he is an unintimidating wealth of knowledge. Michael is incredibly pleasant. I help him out with a project and he is impressed at my input and contacts. Lily seems to be my office soul mate. I’m still not sure what the fuck I’m doing here but everyone seems happy so I must be doing something right. Right?
By the end of the month, I’m empowered. The training wheels are off and I’m working an average of 60 hours a week because I LOVE what I do. Barbie had said to me that she wants me to get my face out there and get to know other widgeteers since the rest of the staff is too busy to do PR. I’m out there meeting other widgeteers who tend to respond with great enthusiasm and positivity, delighted at the fact that someone from our office is reaching out to them. I have several projects in the planning stage. Files, notes and folders everywhere. I’m loving my job so much that I get off work around 6pm (an hour late) only to head to a local Starbucks so I can continue working on my ideas and projects. Since I’m working till around 7pm every night, on my own time, I feel less guilt about coming in around the same time everyone else does; 10am.
Monday of week four, I get an email from Barbie: “It’s important that you’re here at 8:30 am every day. The rest of the production staff is on call 24/7 so they get leeway. Thank you.” I’m tempted to respond with the fact that Bambie is in around 10:30am everyday and that she is not production staff. I passive aggressively follow orders, without hesitation, but don’t respond to her email. Actions speak louder than words, I tell myself.
I pop in to Bambie’s office for the 6th time with the same question. “When does my health insurance kick in,” I keep asking her. “Soon. It’s weird, with our insurance, you have to wait till you get the paperwork or something. This week.”
When Barbie speaks, 95% of what comes out of her mouth is trash talk about other agencies in town. She has nothing positive to say about anyone unless they’ve directly and specifically helped her out. I keep my mouth shut though I have a difficult time disguising my disdain. I choose to simply not join in on the “conversation.”
Another week goes by. I’m in at 8:30 am, usually an hour and a half to two hours before everyone else in the office (including Bambie) and I just swallow my pride. Days are filled with meetings, projects which I’ve managed to throw together based on Barbie’s passing directions (comments) and bonding with the staff, learning about the business.
Monday of week six, I have an email which reads: “Meeting with Barbie and Bambie at 3pm. Location, Barbie’s office.” I respond that I have a meeting at 3pm with another widget office. At 2pm, I’m grabbing a quick bite across town when I get a voicemail from Bambie telling me that I have to cancel my meeting and come meet with her and Barbie. It sounds ominous. I race back to the building, up the uriney elevator to the 30th floor and into Barbie’s office. The instant I walk in, I know something is off.
Bambie is sitting at a chair facing Barbie. They’ve been chatting and abruptly stop when I walk in. “I’m so sorry, I just got your voicemail and came back. What’s going on?”
In terms of physical anthropology, many would say that the definition of beauty in human beings comes down to one thing: Symmetry. Bambi is –shall we say- asymmetric. Her lack of symmetry never struck me with such intensity as it did at this particular moment, as she sits next to me, scowling.
Barbie sits at her massive, messy desk facing the door, her outline interrupting a backdrop of floor to ceiling windows which invite in intense sunlight over the downtown skyline. As I walk in, she smiles big and waives me in, as she always does, communicating an openness to her office.
“Come in, come in,” she invitingly demands. Her voice does not shift as she continues speaking while I take my seat. “I just wanted to let you know that today will be your last day with our agency…” I don’t hear the rest of what she’s saying. My heart sinks to my stomach. I look over at asymmetric, scowling, Bambie who sits silently watching me. I’m being fired. Barbie is saying something about me not fitting in. Suddenly, I’m 12 years old and my mother is expressing her disappointment in me for letting her down. I’m nine years old and my dad is angry that I’m not being productive. I’m 25 years old and my dad is disappointed in me and telling me I should just give up school. I’m 8 years old, at the beach in northern Iran, and my mother is ripping my kite apart, because I keep crying that the kite won’t fly. I’m 22 years old and I’m leaving my first out-of-high school job and my brother is deeply disappointed in me. I’m six years old and my dad is whipping me with a belt for stealing money. My boss from my night job is standing over me, disappointed, that I’m not producing. Barbie is still talking. I fixate on her scalp. Her hair is thinning. There is a ringing in my ear. Tears are welling up in my eyes. I’m being fired from my dream job. I’m being fired from the job I stayed in Paradise City for. I’m being fired from the job which the obtaining of caused problems in my relationship at home. I’m being fired from the job I’m working 60 hours a week on, much to others' ridicule. I'm being fired from the job which I was convinced, on an existential level, was going to be the next major milestone in my life. I'm being fired after six weeks.
I loose control of what’s coming out of my mouth. I’m crying and telling Barbie and Bambi about how hard I’ve been working. About how passionate I am. About how I didn’t throw Bambie under the bus for the coming-in-late thing. Bambie starts to talk. The subject I started to brush on hit a nerve with her. Bambi confidently proclaims, “you knew this was coming.” How the fuck could I have possibly known this was coming? I’m ranting. Bambi is jumping at me, in a pitbull like manner I've never seen from her before. She's trying to keep me from talking too much. Everything she says sounds as if they are things she'd been warning me about for weeks and weeks, when in reality, she hasn't. There is sudden moment of clarity. Barbie never flinches. She is calm the entire time. I’m an ant. She has stepped on many ants. “Are you just humoring me right now,” I ask. “The decision has been made,” Bambie replies. I fall into an accepting silence. I feel so silly. I feel angry. I feel angry at myself for letting them have this vulnerable piece of me. I should not have shown these whores my tears. There is talk of a severance package. Barbie tells me I’m not following directions. There is a little me sitting inside of my head, telling the full sized me to scream at her, to call her out on her inability to provide direction. It occurs to me that Bambi was supposed to be my “supervisor.” Through my tear covered vision, it becomes clear: Bambi has been throwing me under the bus. Barbie may have been directing Bambie to direct me. The messages were getting lost. Bambie has no business managing an ant farm, much less a living, breathing human being. Bambie is protecting her own ass. Now, after I've given up, Bambie speaks in this mock sweet voice again, the fakeness of which ads oh so much more insult to injury.
I walk to my former office and get on packing my things. I call my brother and tell him what has happened. He is outraged and can’t put together how someone can get fired, after only six weeks, without any sort of warning. No letter, no official meeting, no email, nothing. The only justification for this rapid a dismissal, he tells me, would be if I was stealing.
I break the news, still in tears, to Duke, Lily and Michael. They are speechless. No one was consulted. Not even Duke who is supposed to be the second in command.
Outside the office, down the urine smelling elevator, my girlfriend meets me with her SUV. Everything from my office is now on the sidewalk. Humiliating. Barbie comes down to retrieve the office cart, not making eye contact with me or showing any sort of emotion. I’m an ant. She’s just walking along and I should not have been in her way.
Getting fired feels, in almost everyway, like getting dumped. The confusion, the anger, the frustration.
Over the next few days, I discover a new emotion. It is a jarring thing, to discover that at the age of 27, there are emotions you have not yet experienced. This new feeling is frightening and liberating in the same breath. Pure, unadulterated, unapologetic hatred. I want horrible things to happen to Barbie and Bambie. I want Barbie to have a car accident. I want Bambie to develop pancreatic cancer. I want to read about it in a newspaper. I consider using my network to spread the dirt I learned at the agency. I consider using my PR knowledge to bring them down. I reconsider when I remember Duke, Lily and Michael. I don’t want to hurt them. I want Barbra and Bambie to hurt. But if it comes from me, the looser who got fired, it can only reek of pettiness.
I call the health insurance company about the coverage which I'm supposed to have till the end of the month. They have no record of me. Bambie never turned in my paperwork. This, along with several other coincidences, brings me to the following conclusion... Best case scenario: I was fired because my "supervisor" was a gutless vulture who dropped the ball (continuously) and blamed me for it to a boss who didn't seem too crazy about me from day one. Worst case scenario: The struggling agency needed any grant they could get and to get this particular grant, which was supposed to pay my salary, they needed a warm body to fill the office until the check was signed. After it was cashed, the warm body was no longer necessary.
I conclude that I’m not made for office politics. I conclude I don’t even want to be good at office politics. People smile in your face while slowly inserting the dagger in your rib cage. People, whom you might know outside of the office, become totally different people when inserted into those hallways.
I decide to label myself as an artist. Good riddance. I'll gladly take the delusion that I'm the future Diego Rivera over the delusion that I'm the future Richard Branson.
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