My First Firing

I've had some unpleasant jobs. I'm hard put to decide which was the worst. I did data entry in the collections department of a hospital. I delivered pizza with an unreliable car. I held an 'instructor' position just out of grad school where my co-instructor was my difficult and depressed boss. But the job that has left the worst taste in my mouth was the one that had the nerve to fire me. Dammit! I should have quit first.

This job was quite bizarre, if something so mind-numbing can qualify as bizarre. It was in what was basically a graphic design sweat shop. I was a 'designer,' one of about fifteen. The shop specialized in promotional materials for real estate agents. This was all we did, the uglier the better. In fact, having any visual sensibility was something of a handicap because it slowed you down. (20/20 hindsight mistake number 1)

Real estate agents have a mania for putting their own pictures on everything. I scanned Glamor Shots of women in sequined cowboy hats and purple satin, of jowly middle-aged men in too-tight navy blue suits, of greasy guys who looked like they just walked off the set of Glengarry Glen Ross. Pictures of houses were secondary to those unlovely, questionably trustworthy faces.

This took place about 11 years ago, before the original internet bubble burst. Rumors of the good life to be had working for one of the new .coms were everywhere (office masseuses, nap rooms, free food delivery, indoor frisbee, huge salaries). The owners of the graphic design hell where I worked imagined themselves to be some sort of minor Netscape. Unfortunately they did little to back up this fantasy beyond allowing dogs in the office (they were dog owners), occasionally bringing in free bagels, and, when the weather was nice, opening the giant garage doors to let in a little light. Did I mention that this sweatshop was in an old metal warehouse? No windows, only big, weird, usually-locked doors. Oil stains from trucks and tractors decorated my cubicle floor.

extreme fun within

I had been hired during an increase in sales by a sort of hippie dude whom I'll call Clive. Clive was skinny and bearded, with a ponytail and lots of leather biker gear. He liked to dangle dream catchers from his clothing. He had a story he liked to tell about guys doing lines off the hood of an old Chevy.

Clive told me when I was hired that it didn't really matter when I got to work, as long as I put in eight hours before I left again. I believed him. Since my commute was a full hour on the highway, I frequently got in past 8:30 am due to traffic, and I dutifully stayed past 5:30 to make up the time. When Clive mysteriously disappeared I didn't revise my arrival time, or ask anyone about it. (20/20 hindsight mistake number 2)

About two weeks after Clive disappeared there was suddenly hoopla about how, since the company was growing so quickly, they had decided to hire someone away from Canon to be the manager of operations (previously Clive's job). I thought this was odd, since work had obviously fallen off in the past months, and we were sitting around waiting for more orders for ugly stuff.

Mr. Fancy Canon arrived on a Friday, gave us an unmemorable speech across the bagel table and then left us to our cavern of cubicles. The following Monday I arrived, at 8:45, to an entirely empty cubicle. I was informed that I was wanted in Mr. Fancy Canon's office. When I got there, he handed me my stuff in a box and told me I was to leave the building immediately. Why? Because I didn't get to work on time. But what about what Clive had said? He didn't know about any Clive and I had already been spoken to once me about my lateness. No, in fact I hadn't. Shut up and get out of my office. Oooooookaaay.

Later, home quite early for a Monday, I opened my final pay check which had been sitting on my table since the previous Friday. In it was a little passive aggressive hand written note from the owner's partner about how I was wasting the company's time and resources by arriving fifteen minutes late everyday and I was to stop this practice immediately.

Right. Mr. UnNetscape, I still have a few things I want to say to you. First, bagels in a butler barn don't qualify as fun. Second, you should be ashamed to make your living by filling other people's mailboxes with ugly dreck. Third, it is utterly ridiculous that you were afraid to talk to me in person at any point before asking me to leave your pathetic establishment. If you run the rest of your life like that, it must suck. I hope it does.