“Got fired . . . ,” I e-mailed my family. Mother. Three sisters and two brothers. They will hold you up. Not cheerleading so much. Rather, an edifying heads-up to me: I am still a nice person with a lot going for me.
“People are fired every day, good employees, just because there’s some sort of personal/ego thing,” my brother says, pragmatic, nailing it. Gives me a little something to think about — alongside the wrecking ball of, “You’re just not working out, and we have to let you go.”
And there we are, the man who calls the shots, the blond assistant and me. I am sitting at my desk, my hands still keyboard poised, writing a happy column for the quarterly newsletter, extolling virtues of the organization and the persons therein, when, single file, they march in.
The assistant, costume jewelry clinking slightly — neck, fingers, wrists, ears, hair, ornamented to the nth — sits ramrod straight, watching her superior ply his way through an interesting surgical procedure. It could go either way, her demeanor suggests, and if there’s suffering, oh well.
Genuine friendships are here at this workplace. One colleague, a young guy, calls me “dude.” He hates Mondays, he says — because it happens to be my day off! Another associate visits every day, plops down, takes a deep breath and rests companionably with me for a minute. There are a few of us who look after one another in the way people can do at their best — maybe just a quick “You OK . . .?” It’s enough for me.
Calendars, charts, Rolodex, file folders, letters, “while you were out” slips, to-do lists amass between me and two sizable egos aiming to dismantle and topple me and my surroundings — things, friendships and the work itself. A fresh spiral notebook is filling with names, numbers, notes jotted down from dozens of daily voice mails, e-mails, reminders. Every name has a check mark, meaning, yep — called ’em back.
I’ve never been fired before, so, true, my stride is checked. Feeling a little respiratory difficulty, I get out five words: “Could you (pause) expand on that?” And he says, “Whad daya mean?” I say, “Information.” (breath) “Facts.” (breath) “Your basis for drawing (breath) this conclusion that I am (breath) not working out.”
We have locked eyes; who will blink? Not me. Finally, his eyelids flutter, eyes skim the ceiling, the floor. Steering clear of my gaze, he says, “People don’t like you.” He looks at his hands, he balls them, he looks around the room, he says, “You’re not nice.”
I know impervious when I see it. I might as well tell it all to a brick wall. But I just go on anyhow. “These surveys,” I say, laying my hand on a stack of surveys written by my colleagues. “Did you read them?” He eyeballs the stack. He squirms in his seat. He scoots his body, sideways, addressing me with his right shoulder, slinging the other arm over the back of the chair. “Yes, I did. They’re all very nice and say some nice things.”
Stymied, I calmly study this man, the jarring disparity between his kitschy red, orange and yellow sweater and his agedness, and the vacant eyes devoid of the portent of his words. His talking parts the stagnant air with details like: Here’s your check, includes a week of severance, 17 hours of vacation. Turn in your keys. Remove all your belongings.
Did they exit, symbolically dusting off their hands from the dirty work as they made their way from my office, and into their inner sanctum to debrief? No, it was just my mind trying to find footing, set myself aright.
I pack up. Mechanically. Where to reach? What to hold on to? I could walk out to the hall and motion in my “dude” friend. I could give vent to the judgment I have just endured.
Instead, I read through a handful of surveys from the 200 or so that make up the stack — the page from a left- hander’s sloping scrawl; next, a neat, diminutive cursive; and then, one with blocky, bold print: “. . . is clear and articulate . . . a great role model . . . compassionate and hospitable . . . wonderful leadership skills . . . very smart nice down to earth . . . great, just a gem . . . very nice to be around . . .” each and all, a preface to my sister’s cut-to-the-chase insight:
“I think you’re lucky to have gotten the quicker kind of wrecking ball,” getting moved out before long-term on-the-job agony. Like a gift she goes on to wrap up: “Power people come along and make life and work impossible for good people and accuse them of vague and nameless offenses.”
True, that wrecking ball dented me up some. As I close my office door for the last time, I take those surveys with me. I’ll read them out loud, if I need an opinion, 200 opinions. They like me. They really like me.
Linda King is a writer, a mother of three boys and currently between jobs. Reach her at lindaking33@comcast.net.
