Promptly at 8:00, I call Andy back and accept. While we're
talking, the phone beeps: it's Michelle, calling back too. We're back in
business.
At 8:15, I call The Magazine back to cancel my appointment. I
leave a message for the Editor-in-Chief. She calls back as I'm struggling
with my Reeboks, preparing to go to the park. She thanks me for calling
about the appointment and congratulates me on my new job. She's a little
too curious about it for my taste, but that's okay, and I lay it out
according to her questions: I'll be writing full-time, our old department
is reuniting, new positions are being created. I tell her it's been a
tough decision for me, and that I really am sorry I had to withdraw my
interest. I was eager to meet her and discuss the magazine. I read the
on-line edition and thought it was "righteous." I thought it would be a
good fit for me, but I have to take this opportunity right now. She seems
very understanding and tells me she'll be hiring editorial staff, including
a senior editor and a managing editor, in 90 days. She's going to hang on
to my résumé and will give me a call when a more senior position becomes
available. I tell her I'd like that, and that I'll keep her number. I
wish her luck, and I mean that.
I'm elated as I hang up. I'm on fire! What happened this week?
Last week, I was a piece of dog shit. I am en fuego!
I visualize each scenario as I walk. I feel weirdly serene.
Either eventuality could work out fine. Either one could be great. With
Andy, I get my old work group, I can work from home, I get what I can only
assume would be a lot more money. I could come on, transition the group,
and call the Magazine back in three months. Or not. Or so.
I like my old co-workers, and I liked our situation. We operated
on consensus. We had control over our writing and collaborated well. We
wore shorts and had flexible hours. We were friends. We were committed to
our product and felt it belonged to us, not to Tito. We had a mascot. We
worked late when we had to. We left early other times. We ate doughnuts.
We were a team in the real sense, not in the Management Theory sense. We
complemented one another. We had synergy and all that. We didn't need
contrived office picnics and pre-planned games to give us a sense of
solidarity. It just originated from our shared responsibilities and our
respect for each other.
This, more than the money and the telecommuting aspect, are what
lead me to my decision. I'm on board with the Competitor now. And if this
falls through, I'm going to kick Andy's ass into butt jelly. But I'm
grateful for the magazine's interest, so I write a dorky but heartfelt
letter thanking the editor for her consideration. I tell her that I while
I have elected to go with a full-time writing job at this time, I've taken
the liberty of acquainting myself with the magazine's submission guidelines
and would be honored to be kept in mind for future editorial opportunities.
I mean it. I also tell her I enjoyed reading her publication, and I mean
that, too.
While eating my lunch of meatloaf sandwich, I find myself compelled
to watch back-to-back episodes of "Who's the Boss?" I can't explain this.
I suppose I'm just really turning into an unemployed person. In the first
episode, Angela's college friend comes back for the important class reunion
and is up to her old tricks: making Angela feel inadequate and seducing
Tony. Her dissembling is periodically interrupted by commercials for auto
insurance, technical school programs, weight loss methods, and even the old
standby--personal injury attorneys. This gives me a good sense of who's
watching with me.
Studying for my Farty Extension Class final consists of looking
over my notes and making a list of what's in there. It's open-book, but I
need a Blue Book, so I drive over to campus a half hour early and wander
around in search of the bookstore. The Large State University is bigger
than any campus at which I've been enrolled, and the bookstore is part of a
giant, semicircular concrete mall with a recessed center area. I saw Soul
Coughing there for free when Brett and I first moved here. Bart was with
us, and he spent the whole show chasing around a woman who was recording a
bootleg. He was yelling into her microphone.
Today, there are only a handful of studenty types milling around.
Summer school apparently isn't a big draw; the biggest group of people
I've seen on campus so far were the enrollees of a fat camp for kids that's
stationed in an empty dorm. Today, I walk several paces behind a couple of
older, professorial-type guys speaking Russian. People sit in pairs at the
white wire tables of the obligatory campus coffeehouse; this one is all
glass with a pink neon sign. I feel studenty myself. I'm not that old. I
could pass. In fact, as I purchase my Blue Book, the cheerful work-study
guy at the checkstand wishes me luck on my exam.
I wander back to our classroom and buy a newspaper on the way,
since it's still early. I park it on a bench and peruse the food section.
It's all about Asian vegetables this week. I've always been curious about
bok choy. If this job comes through--or, I should say, when this job comes
through--I think I'll buy some.
My classmates gradually begin arriving. The woman with the
Enneagram presentation and I talk at length about the food section. She
knows the person who edits the "Cook It Light!" column. "Would you be
interested in that?" she asks. I tell her sure, it's one of my favorites,
and then I realize she means professional interest. There could be worse
things than being a food editor. I've never worked on a daily, but I guess
it wouldn't be so bad if your section only came out once a week.
The pompous Situational Leadership-trained guy also joins us. I
feel guilty for being so snide to him. He's actually very nice and is
solicitous toward me about my job search. I tell him I got two offers
today, which isn't exactly the truth; however, I feel so strongly about my
communication with the women's magazine that I think I would have gotten an
offer if I'd interviewed. This is too complicated to introduce into small
talk. But he and the Enneagram woman prompt me with all sorts of
questions, so I explain it all: the telecommuting, the circumstances of my
layoff, Brett's job, all that.
Situational Leadership Guy also volunteers how much he hates this
class, and I'm surprised. Sure, it's a total waste of time, but I'm
relieved to hear someone else say that out loud.
We take the final and do class evaluations. My response to the
instructor's prompt is to essentially regurgitate all of his leadership and
communication paradigms. Surely this is good enough.
I come home to Brett, who is perched on the couch with the last of
the Yves Veggie Wieners, and a gin and tonic. A stiff one. It's been a
concentrated day. Brett's had lunch with his business friend Pete, who is
pushing him for this job at Pete's company. Their lunch was stage one, the
first interview. Brett's cranky. He wants the process to move more
quickly. I understand that feeling.
The answering machine is blinking. It's another employer,
wanting--guess what--to schedule an interview. It's too late to call back
and tell them. Why does this happen? I can't even remember who these
people are--it's a blur to me now, mostly because juggling offers, taking a
final, and drinking a gin and tonic have scrambled my brains up. I'm
tired. I face-plant on the creaky futon. Andy's toast if this fucks up,
because I am on fire.
The funniest part of this--and I can't help thinking about it--is
something Andy said when he was calling with my offer. He said he still
has spies at The Company, and that they're reporting total pandemonium.
The Company is considering dropping our whole division since nobody knows
what to do. Routine tasks are confounding the new staff. Major clients
are complaining loudly.
I think I know who his spies are. They deserve better than to be there.
