As she spoke, my thoughts swirled. Am I going to have to decide who gets fired on my team? Oh god, I don’t want to do this.
“And when there are complaints and threats from our clients to change agencies, we have to take action. Which means, I’m truly sorry, Allison, but we have to let you go.”
The room was silent as blood rushed and roared in my ears.
“I’m fired?” I asked, tentatively.
“Let go. Yes. I’m sorry.” Paige held my gaze as I stared at her in utter disbelief.
“But I’ve been here twelve years. Why didn’t anyone tell me there was a problem? You know I could’ve fixed it.” My hands reflexively gripped my chair to keep me steady, and I couldn’t stand the sound of my tiny voice in that topsy-turvy room.
“I know you could’ve. But, unfortunately, this is purely a business decision. Though, trust me, this was not my decision.” She said this last part with emphasis.
I fought the competing desires to leave with dignity and to grovel for my job back.
“But, Paige, you’re the president.” I knew I sounded accusatory, but I was too confused to care.
“I know,” Paige said, her voice sympathetic but firm, “but this came from above.” I assumed she meant Tim and Allen who are respectively the director and chief public officer of PR Worldwide and above Paige’s position. “I tried, but I couldn’t change their minds on this one.”
“I’m sorry too, Allison,” Darren finally piped up. “I’m going to miss you. It’s days like this that I hate my job.”
I turned to him. “In that case, can I take yours?” Darren recognized my pathetic attempt at gallows humor and gave me a sympathetic smile, which made me feel even more pathetic. I turned back to Paige. “I just don’t understand. Is there anything I can say or do to change this?”
“No.” Paige shook her head sadly again, defeat in her voice. “I did what I could, Allison. I hope you believe me.”
I believed her, but I still couldn’t believe what was happening. In that moment, though, I felt it best to preserve what self-respect I had and tried to leave behind a dignified last impression by accepting my termination. Darren placed some forms in front of me that I signed without reading (probably saying things like I won’t sue the company and I agree I’ve been terminated), but I could barely listen and just did as I was told.
Even worse, Darren had to accompany me back to my desk to ensure I wouldn’t steal anything from the office, such as client lists. He already had a couple boxes ready for me in my office for my personal effects.
I like Darren and I knew this sucked for him too. The whole event was awkward for both of us. Even more awkward was that I needed two boxes, and how the heck was I going to carry two boxes on the El ride home? The reality hit me and I could feel tears stinging at the back of my eyes.
“I’m going to have to call Neil. I don’t know how I can get these boxes home.”
“Sure. Or I can give you a ride,” Darren said. “It’s the least I can do.”
Though I was well aware of the inappropriateness of the HR guy driving me home in such circumstances, over the years Darren and I had become friends, and when I got Neil’s voicemail, I decided to accept his kind offer. I took my time with packing my belongings, hoping I could stretch out my packing to five o’clock, also hoping Neil would call me back. But at about ten to five, I was finished.
“I’m going to need your badge,” Darren said, his face scrunched up in his I-hate-this-too expression, eyebrows simultaneously raised and knit together. In his cardigan and bow tie, he always struck me as someone who would rather be determining the authenticity of a Biedermeier dresser at a dusty auction house than handling employee disputes in a corporate high-rise. I handed over my badge feeling the finality of it all.
We each carried out a box. Thankfully it was someone else’s birthday, too, so most of my coworkers were away from their desks partaking in cake in the conference room, rather than widely witnessing my humiliation or asking me questions on my way out of the building.
On the car ride home, Darren kept apologizing. “If you forgot anything in your office, just let me know and I’ll get it for you,” he added.
“Thanks.” A part of me wished he’d stop being so nice because it was weird to be thanking the person who just helped fire me.
The whole agonizing time in the car I was hoping, praying Neil was already home from work. I needed to tell someone about my surreal day and get sympathy from someone other than HR Darren. Then I could feel the panic rising because, with the wedding coming up, our costs had been exploding. Neil is going to freak out, I thought.
I took a deep breath to calm myself. Neil and I have been together for forever, and we’re getting married; so whatever else happens today, I know we’re solid.
“OR I THOUGHT we were solid,” I say to Jordan, the words tasting as bitter and sour in my mouth as the salt on my margarita glass.
Jordan kept nodding, asking few questions as I recounted the horrible details of being fired. Somehow in between we managed to order another round of drinks, but we haven’t opened our menus yet. Despite this being my “treat” meal of the week, I’m not very hungry.
“Have you talked to Kate yet?” Jordan asks.
“No. I thought I would see her here tonight.”
“And she’s not here,” says Jordan, stating the obvious.
“Nope.”
“That’s kinda shitty.” Jordan shakes her head disapprovingly. I know she’s not the biggest fan of Kate, but I also know that if pressed she’d diplomatically say, “I don’t dislike her.”
I shrug. “She’s sick. I’ll call her tomorrow.”
Jordan harrumphs. “So how did Neil react to the news?”
“I didn’t tell him.”
“You didn’t tell him?” She’s looking at me obviously confused.
“Well, he didn’t really give me the chance during his breakup speech.” I shrug helplessly and then tap my glass. “This is my second drink, so here goes.”
I recount last night’s events, from Neil’s total obliviousness to my I’ve-been-fired boxes to his rapid-fire confession and even hastier escape out the door.
“But what makes his betrayal even worse is that he’s in love with—” The tears are pricking at my eyes again, so I look up at the ceiling and say, “Stacey. He’s in love with Stacey.”
“Stacey? Maid of honor, Stacey?”
“Yes,” I squeak.
I tear my eyes from the ceiling to see Jordan’s reaction. She looks frozen with her back ramrod straight, eyes wide in shock, and right hand gripping her glass.
Her posture melts as she takes a few seconds to process my news; then she releases her death grip on her glass, reaches for my hand again, and says, “Oh, honey. We’re going to need another round.”
Sitting at my kitchen table Sunday morning, I drink coffee to soothe my dull headache while clicking through job listing websites. Nothing jumps out at me, but I try not to let it worry me too much since I’ve only just started my search.
What is worrying me is that I can’t shake the look of Jordan’s horrified face out of my mind. Last night, I’d been hoping for a sign from her that everything would be okay, but I didn’t get one. While she said things like, You’re better off without Neil and You’re worth twenty Staceys and You’ll get a better job, at times her facial expression failed to match her soothing words, which means I’m more of a mess than I thought. I even turned down a last round of drinks with the excuse that I didn’t want to wake up hungover because I needed to finish my resume and start my job hunt in earnest. I know I’m in denial, but for now I just want to focus on moving forward and not “feeling” my feelings—and I was afraid that too many drinks might force me to do just that.