Cold Comfort (with salt)

Well. That was interesting.

So here's the thing: I work for a small company. What we do is immaterial - let's just say we specialize in making seal-clubbing equipment, and leave it at that - but we've had a pretty good run over the past few years. What started up as two guys with a stupid dream and me as an unpaid consultant stopping in for a beer once a week (ah, the glory days of the post-dotcom bust) has miraculously transformed into a somewhat viable business model. A start-up that started up in the worst possible business environment... but that actually translated into something real.

Go figure.

One of the best things about my experience has been that, as guy #3 in the company, not only have I had the opportunity to get in on the ground floor of something worthwhile (and honestly... our seal-clubbing equipment is pretty badass) and build a business, but I've also been able to help shape a corporate culture. Over the years, that's meant we've grown by bringing in people who don't just get the job done, but who we actually enjoy hanging out with as well.

We've all worked at jobs that suck. (God knows I have.) But this was a chance to build something different -- a place where we feel good about what we do (usually), where we're respected for what we bring to the table, where a summer day where TheCEO walks in wearing something other than paint-splattered shorts and an old concert t-shirt (both of which are usually well-ventilated with assorted tears and holes) is extremely unusual, and where if you need to bring in a kid or a dog - or leave early to take care of the same - it's generally not a big deal.

Plus, we get our drink on. A lot. It's all very sociable, and we generally have a good time.

But.

Nothing stays good forever. Especially in business. Sometimes... things don't go the way you planned. Sometimes, you plan and anticipate and prepare for good things to happen... and they don't. And there are consequences.

On Friday, after we finished up an internal meeting, I stayed behind to talk to TheCEO, El Presidente and the NewVP to talk more about what we'd just finished talking about (because what's a meeting without a good post-meeting?) when they suddenly closed the door and said, "We're having layoffs on Monday."

Fuck.

I guess there's a first time for everything. And to be clear, this isn't the first time I've been involved in layoffs. The thing is that every other time I've been in a layoff situation, I've been on the other side of the table -- one of the helpless victims, left dumbstruck as I suddenly tried to envision my life without a paycheck. And... well, it sucks. It really, truly does. You understand that it's a business decision, but at the same time it's hard not to take it personally -- because, clearly, the effect on your life as an individual is profound.

But I've never been the one to drop the axe. I've never had a pleasant conversation with someone, watched them walk away, and then had to say, "And tomorrow, I'll destroy your hopes and dreams."

We're not a big company. And in the grand scheme of things, three people isn't a lot. But that's 10% of our workforce -- three people I've seen and known and worked with and had beers with and laughed with and laughed at and been laughed at by over the years. Three people I thought of as friends, as much as colleagues or - god help me - employees.

We were letting three people go. One of them - Eeyore - worked upstairs, helping to manage some of our larger seal clubbing accounts. Two of them worked in the pits with me, designing and producing our customized clubs. There was Barbarino, a guy with the self-confidence to wear a Yankees jersey around the office... and the sense of humor not to take any of the crap we gave him about it personally. And then... there was Sporty.

Sporty. Christ. Someone I'd personally hunted down, interviewed, and offered the job to a year and a half ago. The first person who'd ever called me "boss" and actually meant it as anything other than pure sarcasm. Someone who'd alternately made me laugh as hard as anyone has ever made me laugh... and who, sometimes, I just wanted to kill. (Working with me is fun.) Someone who'd gone through a troubled time late last year - to the point that we actually had to do the sit-down, "written warning" thing earlier this winter - but who was rebounding admirably and I thought was actually going to pull off a real comeback.

Fuck.

I walked out of that brief discussion and returned to my office. Two minutes later, Sporty popped her head in. "D'you wanna come grab some lunch with us?" she asked. I just started cackling... it was like my brain short-circuited and I just didn't know what to do. Finally, I gathered myself to the point where I could drop my head into my hands and say, "Uh... no, thanks. I've got some errands to run." I'm sure it was very convincing.

(On a peripheral note: I did actually run an errand. Suddenly feeling a pronounced need for more wall-of-sound-shoegaze-doom metal (to match the roar of white noise in my skull), I ran out to Newbury Comics and picked up a copy of Nadja's The Radiance of Shadows. Subsequently, my kids have really enjoyed the past few days in the car with me... especially all 23:26 of Now I Am Become Death, The Destroyer of Worlds. You can dance to it, too.)

Anyhow. I spent the rest of the day in a daze, trying not to make direct eye contact with any of the damned -- lest they see the conflicted guilt in my eyes and use one of our finely crafted clubs on my skull before I could harm them first.

(Conflict = feeling wrenchingly awful about laying people off vs. trying to keep the company afloat, 20+ other people employed, my mortgage paid and my kids fed.)

The day ended. The weekend... largely sleepless. I never - never - dream about work. But I had layoff dreams. Dreams of watching hearts break in slow motion, like Ralph Wiggum at the Crusty Anniversary Special. Dreams of people crying.

This is the first job I've ever had that I don't hate. And with the unnatural number of children I've produced, I actually kinda look forward to most Mondays -- it's a chance for me to get free of tiny, sticky hands and pretend to be clever for a few hours. But this past weekend... I dreaded Monday. (Just ask Jonniker how many e-mails I sent her on the topic, most of them involving energetic and colorful usages of the word "fuck.")

But, as happens almost every week, Monday arrived. So: I took a deep breath, got my game face on, and headed in to the office.

I arrived early. El Presidente had beaten me in, so we talked for a while... mostly, talking around what was going to take place, beyond the heavy sigh and shake of the head we exchanged when I first walked in to his office. A little while later, TheCEO joined us and we talked about... well, really, we talked about nothing at all. Trying to avoid the subject, I guess. Nobody felt anything close to good.

Then I returned to my office, and waited for the carnage to start.

From my office, I face (in part) a glass wall, through which I can see a part of my local cube farm. And as I sat there, looking at the clock, watching the minutes tick away, I saw Kitty walk over to Barbarino's desk, and place a small bag in his chair. Not a plastic bag; one of those nice bags that you put gifts in.

Uh.

I was just starting to feel even more uncomfortable - which I hadn't realized was possible - when my young colleague Bouvier walked into the office. Carrying three mylar balloons. With pictures of cakes with candles on them.

Oh. Sweet. Jesus.

My e-mail exchange with Jonniker, in the moments immediately following:

Me: We just discovered that today is the 40th birthday of Barbarino. Who we're going to lay off.

Jonniker: I just gasped out loud. Oh fuck. FUUUUUCCCCK

So... this was going well. In the minutes following, both Sporty and Barbarino walked in for the day. Both waved me a friendly hello, and Barbarino saw his balloons and the gift and started accepting birthday thanks and talking about the celebratory birthday lunch that apparently had been planned for him for later in the day.

Fantastic! I started looking for blunt objects to bludgeon myself with. My stapler seemed pretty heavy. That might do the job. At worst, I could always just jam a Sharpie in my eye.

I watched them mill around for a bit, talking about their weekends, contemplating the week ahead, completely unaware that today a few of them would be playing the role of innocent, helpless baby seals.

And then it was time! Hooray! Let's destroy some people. So... well, whatever: one by one, we brought them in, gave them the bad news, made it clear there was nothing personal in it, and sent them back to pack up their desks, share the news with their cube-mates, and leave. Forever.

(It sucked. That's all I want to say about it. It. Sucked.)

Since Sporty was under my auspices, I stood by as she packed. I wasn't sure what would happen -- if she'd just throw everything into a box without saying a word and just leave, if she'd lose her mind and start lashing out, if she'd follow my earlier line of thinking and try to brain me with a table lamp... I had no idea. People react to this kind of news in lots of different ways. There's no way to really know ahead of time what will happen.

So. She packed slowly. I sat nearby. We talked. Occasionally she teared up a bit. Mostly, I made her laugh. I made it clear I'd be overjoyed to do whatever I could - references, resume help, whatever - to help her find something else. I mentioned that I'd actually looked online over the weekend, and I'd noticed some jobs available for someone with her seal clubbing experience. I tried to give her a reason not to feel like crap. I think, to some degree, it worked.

Occasionally, I'd walk over to Barbarino's cube and check in on him. At first, he was completely shellshocked. (I can't imagine why.) But then, something else happened.

He decided - we, all of us, decided - to go ahead with taking him out for lunch. Despite the falling axes, we were still friends, and we wanted to do it for him.

So, just past noon on Monday, approximately two hours after we laid them off, about 15 of us went out for Tex-Mex. Sporty, Barbarino and Eeyore were all there.

As soon as we sat down, I ordered three pitchers of margaritas - with Patron - for the table. Fuck it: if we weren't getting loaded at this lunch, what was the point of going on?

I sat next to all three of them. All things considered, they were holding up pretty well. (The margaritas seemed to help.) (As did the next round of margaritas.) (And the next round after that.)

We talked. We laughed. Barbarino made the joke that if TheCEO had joined us - with his long hair and beard - this could be a pretty good recreation of The Last Supper. Only, you know, with more tequila.

In a lot of ways, it felt like many other similarly-lubricated lunches we'd had at this restaurant. For 90 minutes, everything felt normal. And then, when the margaritas were drained and the plates were cleared away, we were left with slowly melting ice in salt-rimmed glasses, and the realization that it was coming to an end. It was all coming to an end.

So. We came back to the office. A few final items were put in boxes, and that was it. We exchanged hugs, and promises to keep in touch. People put on brave faces.

And then they were gone.