Well, today's the day, which is to say The Day. I had thought that Monday or yesterday were going to be The Day, but no, it's today. It might equally be tomorrow though. Whenever it comes, it will be the occasion on which some of us in my little gang learn that we are not wanted on voyage, the damning legend stamped on seamen's papers when they were put ashore for tinkling into their hammocks or for other offences real or imagined.
In this instance, "real" probably means too old, too inflexible or too expensive, while "imagined" relates to some sort of spurious assessment process, conducted in absentia, in which those being considered for the chop are scored on various grounds - Can He Spell? Does He Smell? Who Can Tell? I don't know yet how the blows, when they fall, will come. Three guys got whacked in a different section yesterday by means of a tap on the shoulder and a quiet word when they arrived. They were then expected to do their jobs, a quite senior job in one case, and will be attending the human resources department later in the week for a one-sided interview over the contents of their long, brown envelopes. By last evening the atmosphere was pretty dreadful with messages flashing around on our PCs along the lines of "Such and such a number are going in your section" (how is this known?) and "So and so and so and so are being got rid of downstairs."
All of this is the finale of four years of mayhem, crookedness, shady dealing, milking the place for cash and idiocy. Actually, I'm wrong: we still have the final act - the dismemberment of a national institution - to get through before the finale. Anyway, along the road many, many old chums have been picked off, gone mad or dropped dead. A few have actually made it to retirement, but I would say they are in the minority. Much as I love what I do and still believe in it passionately, I find myself wondering what the future holds, and when I think about it, I am ambivalent to a degree not to be thought of. Actually, I'd almost welcome the chop: a year's money, 60 per cent of which would be tax free, and the chance to sit around, living mostly on the toot: sex for breakfast, nice lunches and plenty of them, picking up bits of work here and there, calling in favours from old buddies such as Marcel and Mr Bungle. But it's short-term, isn't it? A breathing space bought by throwing away a 10-year track record (and 20 years of experience if this line of country), plus medical cover, pension, holidays, free use of the internet and a warm place to sit down of an afternoon. Even if I could go, I don't suppose they'd let me: the man who knew too much. Hah, the man who knew just enough, was cheap enough, kept his yap shut and did what he was told, more like. If I am spared, the present intermission will continue for a few more weeks, after which we will be transplanted to a new location and given lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of things to do. Maybe the new building is in some sort of hole in spacetime. In the world outside its portals, eight hours will slip silently by at the rate of one second per second; inside, two days' work will be accomplished per shift by each operative, their flashing fingers a blur, and so busy and overtasked that they forget their own names and pray while voiding their bowels (the only legitimate reason for a screenbreak in the brave, new world), for death to come swiftly. I guess that once a week we shall all have to go along to the company doctor and bare our bottoms for an injection, given via means of those airline-driven things stockmen use for administering growth hormone to beefburger herds. These tonics will make us forgot, make us smile obligingly, take away the pains in arms, shoulders, hands. Take away the pains in out heads. My lifelong membership of the Clutching At Straws Club makes me think there is a small chance that it'll all be okay. Just a small chance.
One feels bad for those about to be butchered, whoever they may be, and also for the butcher, in our case a sweet and good man who is a pleasure to work for, though often maddeningly infuriating in his quest for perfection. We have been able to lark about and grumble and let off steam with gallows humour; the loading and pressure on him has been heaped up and heaped up and heaped up. Only rarely has he snapped at us - and that's a measure of the man.
3 comments:
I know what a nasty taste this leaves, it has happened to me, I missed being axed by 1, it was last in, first out. Funnily enough, I've worked for 4 editors who have had the push over the years, I much prefer being my own boss. I hope your colleuges get a good pay out and find new jobs.
I think not being cut is sometimes the worst thing. I survived 3 rounds of redundancy once only to lose my job in the bankruptcy. I should have liked to have gone out in the first round with a big pay out instead of the final one, barely getting my month's salary and not much else.
I recommend getting a headhunter. You might discover there are more options than you think. Going down with the ship doesn't have to be one of them.
Good sense, DG, as so often. Got a couple of things in mind already but feel I want to see this thing through yet a while. Thrills and spills - and a test of one's resourcefulness.
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