Cleanin out the office! YAY!

After some consoling words from my manager, I ambled from the conference room and back to my office.

I stood, staring at the desk where I had spent the greater portion of two years. The desk where I hung various photos, postcards and pieces of memorabilia. A Yankees ticket. A stub from a Broken Social Scene show in Brooklyn. A photo of my parents and brother. A photo of the family dog wearing a straw hat. A pile of media passes hanging from lanyards on a push pin (hint to what field I'm in).

My desk was also disorganized as hell. My work laptop was half buried in papers, folders and tapes. DVDs in and out of their cases were strewn about.

I remember taking a deep breath and sitting down in the rolly work chair, attempting to process the fact that I had to "move out."

I wasn't angry (yet), I was shell shocked. I attempted to apply some logic.

"Well" I thought "This is happening everywhere."

I began to wax philosophic, considering the myth of permanence and the acceptance of life in constant stasis.

"Our body's cells die and experience a rebirth on a constant basis. Our molecules are always moving. Bouncing and changing. Permanence is the great myth. Comfort is a false premise. Stability is an idea, built on a foundation of cloud matter."

And so, as I took down my office decor, I allowed myself to see the big picture and find some solace in that.

My officemate/friend returned a short while later. He was not totally surprised, but he seemed genuinely bummed out.

"They came to get you?" he said "While I was taking a piss??? That's not cool!"

"Yeah" I replied "Don't think they were taking your whereabouts into consideration."

Several employees who I thought could care less about my being laid off appeared in my office, tears welling. Others, who joked around with me on a daily basis and seemed to enjoy working with me, were nonchalant and seemingly apathetic about the whole affair. I think they were just glad it wasn't them.

And so, instead of a box, I opted for a bag (a couple of bags, actually). I had to leave the work laptop and various other items that I used at work and home. Not only do they take your job, your pay and your benefits away from you, but they also take anything you used that they paid for.

I would not have been surprised if they had torn my clothes from me, hosed me off with a jet of ice cold water and tossed me out in the street. I mean, they indirectly paid for my clothes.

Instead, like some twisted anti-Santa, I lugged my bulky sacks out into the main office area, said quick goodbyes to those I liked and exited.

Next stop: Vodka-ville!

Superfun Activity for the UnEmployed: #1 Start a Swedish Dance Band with Other Unemployed Friends!!!

The only two prerequisites are you must be:

1. Ugly
2. Unaware
2a) Possibly asexual

The PITfalls of COBRA insurance (and the conclusion of "The Den of the Cat Lady")

So, the lovely Enis missed my wry attempt at humor, plowing ahead at a steady clip.

"Perseus" she said, startling me with her informal address "Now you can go back to your office, collect your things and head home. You do not have to finish the work day."

"What a glorious assertion!" I thought "This will allow me to beat the crowds to happy hour!"

I looked to my manager, who was jotting down some notes on a piece of paper. Most likely a list for the grocery store or potential names for his unborn children. Eggplant. Radishes. Cheerios. Donald. Tyler. Taylor. Tommy. Tunsis.

He paused and turned to me "Perseus. There is no rush. You don't have to leave this instant."

"I'm actually in the middle of a project right now, what happens to that?" I inquired, not realizing how naive I probably sounded.

"You can finish it, but you don't have to" my manager stated, injecting as much forced empathy into his words as he could muster "Whatever you would like to do, Perseus."

Enis, the HR hag, had a cold smirk forming on her face. Her job was done. Time for me to get my ass up so that they could drag in the next poor bastard.

I then realized "What about my health insurance?"

Enis' smirk flattened and flirted with devolving into a grimace. She recovered quickly, however, employing the skills she honed at the Devry School for Hatchetwomen.

"Your health benefits will be up at the end of this month. Then you will be eligible for Cobra insurance" she said.

"Cobra Insurance" I thought "That sounds dangerous!"

Allow me to digress for a moment. Not sure what acronym wiz kid came up with "Cobra" as a form of health insurance you can buy after bad shit happens, but he should be dragged out of his home and thrown into a pit of ,yes, COBRAS! Writhing, biting, venomous cobras! A brimming pit of deadly, hooded snakes ready to paralyze him with their venom and devour his flesh.

After initially recoiling at Enis' mentioning of "Cobra" insurance, I asked "How much does it cost?"

Here's the kicker folks, its really expensive.

So, basically, your employer stops paying you and covering your health benefits and then, to make themselves feel better, they offer you SLIGHTLY cheaper insurance that you can pay for with the money that...wait, you don't have any money....so you pay for the insurance with....hold on...something doesn't add up here........

And, to top off that gorgeous mountain of shit, the insurance is called COBRA.

"Enis, would you give Perseus and I a moment alone?" asked my manager.

Enis nodded knowingly, attempting to project the image of a despondent grandmother or consoling nun.

"Of course" she said.

Upon the hatchetwoman's ninja like exit, my manager turned to me and put his hand on my arm.

I prayed for a sexual harassment suit. Unfortunately, his hand rested on my arm and did not wander to regions that would help sate my litigious hunger.

"Perseus. I hope you know that you will be missed and that it has nothing to do with eliminating you, its just your position" he said, all sad eyed.

I felt I had heard this before. These words, but I couldn't quite place them.

"If there is anything I can do for you, Perseus, please, let me know" he offered, giving my arm a friendly squeeze.

"Yes" I thought "You could GIVE ME A JOB!"

Or, you could inappropriately fondle me so that I would have grounds to sue the company.

Either way.

In Response to John's Inquiry in the Comment Section

Here's what Wiki says about the ol pink slip>

Pink slip refers to the American practice, by a personnel department, of including a discharge notice (printed on pink paper) in an employee's pay envelope to notify the worker of his or her termination of employment or layoff.[1] According to an article in The New York Times, the editors of the Random House Dictionary dated the term to at least 1910.[1] Originally the color of the paper had no particular significance. In the UK and Ireland the equivalent of a pink slip is a P45, in Belgium the equivalent is known as a C4. - Wikipedia

-It seems the pink slip dates back to a time before people like "Enis" and "sensitivity training" existed. A time when men drank whiskey in the office and women prepared a sumptuous roast, while chain smoking and fantasizing about the latest blender to hit the market. ~P

In the conference room (or "The Den of the Cat Lady") part 2

And so, the HR specialist I have aptly dubbed "Enis" continued speaking to me. She was very calm and succinct, describing exactly what was happening and why.

It was similar to a mother describing to her son what happens to his pet hamster after it dies.

"So, Jimmy, Mr.Funkychunks isn't dead. He is just on a big hamster wheel in the sky, running with all of the other hamsters in hamster heaven."

And, just like Jimmy, I was too overwhelmed by what was actually occurring to listen to the explanation being delivered.

Instead I just heard my internal voice repeating "I'm being laid off. I'm being laid off. Holy fuck. I'm actually being laid off."

Enis continued explaining, the words melding together into an amorphous din. "Blah Blah - turn in your key card - Blah Blah - health insurance is up at the end of the month - Blah Blah - Cobra - Blah Blah - you must sign this, acknowledging that we spoke - Blah Blah - an empty box will be provided for your personal effects."

This last part caught my attention.

"An empty box?" I asked.

Enis stopped speaking, surprised that she had jarred me out of my layoff induced stupor.

"Yes" she replied "An empty box for your things. In your office."

I laughed. The thought of riding the NYC subway home after being laid off, in the midst of massive citywide lay offs, holding a box with all of the shit from my office clinking around in it was absurdly amusing.

Could they possibly be any more insensitive? Do I want an empty box. Jesus-tap-dancing Christ.

I responded to Enis with a sarcastic inquiry "Do I get a t shirt that says 'Just Been Laid Off' in addition to the empty box?"

She was dumbfounded, or at least appeared so.

Her brow furrowed. She adjusted her glasses and cocked her head, as if to say "Well, I've never been asked that question before. And I've been telling people they are being laid off for several decades now."

She pondered my question for a few moments more. I finished my coffee, smiling at old Enis.

"No" she finally said "We don't have any such t shirts."

In the conference room (or "The Den of the Cat Lady") part 1

During happier times, when one was summoned to the conference room, it was for a surprise birthday celebration. A smile would creep across the birthday boy or girl's face, imagining those decadent cupcakes and soft baked chocolate chip cookies waiting idly upon a platter on the conference room table.

One would quicken one's stride and allow a twinkle to manifest itself in one's eyes, anticipating a cadre of coworkers, all seated around the long table, smiling and twinkling back.

Alas, there were no cupcakes and twinkling co-workers on this dark day. Instead, I was greeted by a stoic, severe woman in her mid to late fifties, grasping a white manila envelope, displaying an expression of forced concern and faux empathy.

She knew I knew why she was there. She also knew I knew that she was being paid specially to carry out this most heinous task.

Her eyes almost whispered "I know this is hard for you, but, my thirty five cats have to eat."

No Whiskas this week. Fancy Feast and caviar were back on the menu.

The woman, whom I shall call Enis for its similarity in sound and spelling to a certain part of the male anatomy, motioned for me to sit down after shaking her ice hold talon, I mean, hand.

I seated myself, crossed my legs and took a long, leisurely sip of my coffee.

I wanted to embody dignity and poise. I wanted to appear relaxed. I wanted my body language to state that while others may have broken down, plead, shivered, or screamed out, they would get no such reaction out of me.

I was a dedicated nationalist captured by the enemy. I would have spit in Enis' face, if I knew it would not have endangered my severance pay. I would have thrown my coffee to the ground and stood upon the table, demanding freedom from tyranny, if it was actually applicable to the situation.

Instead, however, I sat. I sat and I listened to Enis, while my manager sat nearby looking downtrodden.

Enis began with "I do not work for the company, but am here on the company's behalf. I have been hired as an outside representative. The company has decided that the only way to continue to exist and turn a profit is to cut costs. Part of that cost cutting initiative includes reducing the workforce and eliminating various positions."

Translation: "The people who run this place and do the least, but make the most, want to continue making the most and realize that by cutting a large number of those making the least, they can continue to make the most."

2nd Translation: "You are fucked, sonny boy."

I continued to sit, sipping my tall Americano. Then Enis spoke those prophetic words. Words so latent with bullshit, I was surprised they were able to fly so nimbly from her lips:

"Its not you. Its your position."

I think I nodded.

Enis continued "The company has decided to eliminate your position. It has nothing to do with you personally."

"No. Nothing at all, Enis old girl" I thought.

Can I see you in the conference room?

Yes. When your manager or supervisor pops his/her grim visage into your office doorway and utters these words, close out the Smurf porn on your work PC and take a deep breath: you are being laid off.

It happened to me this way. I was minding my own business, sipping coffee, chatting online with a friend who, ironically enough, had been laid off three weeks earlier, when my manager showed up at my office.

There had been a scare moments earlier when my friend mistook my absence due to a coffee run for me being paid a visit by the aptly named "angel of death."

The Google Chat conversation went something like this (I have used the name "John" to protect my friend's dubious identity, and to demonstrate how unoriginal I can be when selecting false names):

John: Dude? You there?

(some time elapses while I meander over to Starbucks for a tall Americano. My G-Chat button turns orange indicating that I am away from my computer)

Upon my return, I see his waiting message. I respond.

Perseus: Hey

John: Phew. You didn't reply and I thought they had come to get you.

Perseus: Ha. No. Just went for some coffee.

At that precise moment, after I hit the return key, my manager arrived, requesting that I join him in the conference room.

My breath caught in my throat as I nodded at the disembodied head in the doorway. I rose from my seat like a lifeless automaton and ambled numbly behind my lumbering manager.

I was paraded out into the main office area for all of my colleagues to gaze upon with a mixture of relief that it wasn't them and pity (more the former than the latter).

A circus act. A sacrificial lamb. A poor bastard being led to his professional demise.