My boss came to the door one afternoon three years ago this week and I immediately knew my time was up. Management had carefully leaked the day and the number of people who would have to go. The previous year, the CEO had been burned by sudden massive pre-holiday firings. She was smarter this time.
I had just hung up on a colleague who had called to see if I was still there, when my bosses' head showed above the frosted glass on the door. I knew because this boss never visited me. He didn't need to do so, according to him, since all of my areas ran smoothly. That didn't matter anymore. Numbers mattered. I had already figured that out: if they didn't get this same boss, they might very well get me. They did.
He talked a long time and I only heard some of it. It was a classic "this may be harder for me than you" speech. You've done a great job, lived up to the challenge of a new promotion four years ago, he went on. It wasn't about performance and it wasn't personal; the magazine business just stinks is all, he said. It's always personal, I said. Finally, I had to kick him out, call my wife, lawyer, the woman from HR.
When you are fifty-eight and a half and get blown away in corporate America from a company where you have worked for seventeen plus years, it hurts. Don't let anyone tell you something different. If it doesn't sink in right away, it will when you tell your wife, spouse, partner.
I told direct reports one by one: saw the fear in their own eyes. What about us? My job was being split three ways: Finance, Procurement, IT; they would be fine as far as I knew. Why you, they said, it doesn't make sense. Then, I got in the HR queue with 999 others that day.
The HR rep, whom I knew a little, said that she had been surprised to see my name on the list. It hadn't been on the original list. How about taking it off then, I said. Sorry, she said, but with your talents you'll do really well, and we can do some things for you. I didn't really hear much else and couldn't make much sense of the paper in my hand, which was mainly about this having nothing to do with my age. This was, of course, a lie, but I knew all about this stuff and they would be squeaky clean. I told her I wanted a bridge to twenty years' retirement, and she said she'd look into it.
I knew she already had. My duties had taken me literally from the mailroom and the kitchens to the board room and the corporate jets. I knew how it all worked.
I had little need to sneak out of the building. Word had spread quickly, everyone gave me a wide berth. That you were out and they were still in was all that mattered. I went out the door one last time and hit the street, as if from a long jump. The physical and spiritual vertigo set in. I just put one foot in front of the other.
I went to meet an old, old boss for a drink and he offered a free office. My sometimes lawyer, a high school class mate, gave free advice and an intro to the lawyer "who wrote the book" on this kind of thing, although his name was not Stephen King.
The next day, I got into my little red boat with my mates, Fear and Hope, and headed out to sea. No Pinta or Santa Maria to port or starboard. Just a single oar, a small sail, no breeze yet, and a horizon. I began to row.
I'm still rowing, with family, friends and a network trying to blow some wind in the sail. The horizon is still there. Some days it looks closer and like a land mass. Other days it's just a distant line. When I look around now, I see thousands of other small boats.
Even Columbus didn't get where he was meant to go. But he got somewhere pretty good. So will I. In some as yet indefinable way, I already have.
Note: Thirdgarage is a long time supporter of Dr. Paul Farmer's Partners In Health, which specializes in helping Haitians. These are people in real need. Please try to help at: http://www.standwithhaiti.org/haiti Thank you.
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