|Mike Farragher "Will write for food"|
With seven words uttered during a hastily arranged conference call from the corporate office, your life has detoured into the dark neighborhoods of one of your worst nightmares.
I’m afraid your position has been eliminated.
This is communicated to you in a heavy German accent, which makes the word “eliminated” sound like it was dug from the plot of a James Bond novel. You half expect your home office chair to drop when the trap door springs open below you, a maniacal laughter echoing as the super-villain relishes his upper hand.
But none of that transpires; the conversation shifts to a bloodless business transaction in which a Human Resources representative beeps in with the details of your separation package while the document he is reading from gets dropped in your email box “real-time.” The whole thing takes 15 minutes and ends with the most awkward attempts at well wishes imaginable.
You text your wife who is pacing in the other room: “I am being let go.” The call ends and you hug briefly but your mind is not in the moment. No, the calculator inside your head is whirring on overtime as it attempts to determine just how many months the severance will last before your family of three women and two dogs are forced to live in a discarded shipping container along the New Jersey Turnpike.
It is not until later that evening when you actually have to vocalize your news aloud for the first time (instead of merely texting it) that the emotions come like a torrent of white water through an echoed mountain cavern. A raging current of anger, grief, shock, and anxiety violently rips your boat from the anchors momentarily, leaving your hapless friend on the bar stool nearby to grip your shoulder in an attempt to shield your red-faced blubbering mess from the other patrons.
A stiff drink is called for and the stiff reality sets in.
“Thank God you have this writing career of yours to fall back on,” says the friend. But only your accountant and 90% of published authors know that the royalties from the thousands of books you’ve sold over the last year amount to little more than scotch and vacation money compared to the take-home of your day job.
You decide not to tell your kids or your parents just yet, refusing to build “worry factories” around you at a time when you have to stay positive. Makes sense, though you’re not fooling anyone. Your kids look to you as a hero. Your parents are the architects of your success; their Irish immigrant dreams were the blueprint and the overtime shifts and waitressing tips are the foundation and scaffolding that produced your rise in the corporate ranks. The thought of letting them down is excruciatingly painful. Despite writing two books of essays that profess your new found freedom from the Irish Achilles heel of “worrying about the neighbors think,” you are confronted by the concerns you have about how this layoff stuff will play out inside your family. You muster the courage to speak to them and when your little one shrugs and says, “this will turn out because you are awesome, dad,” the blubbering red faced guy on the bar stool makes an encore appearance.
You are a proud and vain Leo, the elder brother and cousin who swoops in to guide the young’uns from time to time. You are a contributor. You are not someone used to having others contribute to you, which is why those first few phone calls to old bosses and colleagues asking for their help are so difficult. Will they take your layoff to mean that you are no longer good enough? You are bolstered by their responses and your LinkedIn profile is soon stocked with one glowing colleague testimonial after another.