Common Sense (Catch-Up Part 3)

Also in November:

Overall, the new job was going well.  In less than 90 days, provided I didn’t screw up majorly, my trial period would be over and I’d have benefits and would start earning vacation days.  I memorized the names of all the different products. I chatted with co-workers on the bus-and-train commute.  I car-pooled with others.  I got invited to the office holiday party.  We drew for Secret Santa.

There was a learning curve, of course.  After 3 weeks or so, I could work up the quotes and the shipping documents, but there were flaws.  Beginner’s mistakes.  My supervisor would send the proofs back to me, curtly advising me that the solutions to my mistakes were in The Binder.

The Binder?

I had found an unlabeled, disorganized ring binder in my desk on my first week, but the documents had made little sense since I had no context for them at the time.  And most of them looked like marketing collateral printed off as references for field salespeople, so I’d put it to the side, thinking it’d been left in my desk on accident.

Now I was being told, for the first time, that The Binder was my training manual, that I should have been organizing it and learning it.  It was like being told, 3 weeks into a college class, that I had forgotten to buy and read one of the textbooks.

One day I was told, “Please help us start answering the phones,” and that was it.  No further instructions, such as “When a designer calls, do this, versus when a showroom manager calls, do that.”  Nope.

I had to put people on hold for long periods while I asked around for the answer to their questions (I knew what the product was made of, but not how it would react in certain temperatures or moisture conditions).  Also, I was still painfully slow at the complex process of double- and triple-checking inventory against multiple orders and reserves in the computer system. I’d take notes, resolve to ask more questions and do it quicker “the next time,” but it seemed the same situation never quite occurred twice, and I would sometimes get conflicting instructions on top of that.

And there was a lot more to learn.  But some of my co-workers reassured me that it was, truly, a lot of information to handle, that they had struggled too, and I would “get it” soon.

The Tuesday after Thanksgiving, a co-worker with a position similar to mine was talking me through a phone call with a designer who was getting irate at being put on hold so much.  We made it through the call, but then the co-worker sat and instructed me for several minutes, talking in circles, often directly contradicting something she’d said two sentences before, before finally turning to argue with another employee about the best way to handle the situation in the future.  It felt like “the blind leading the blind,” as one of my carpool buddies had described my training.  Still somewhat sleep-deprived from the weekend’s travels, I could feel myself getting frustrated and overwhelmed.  So while she argued over the cubicle wall, I excused myself to the bathroom.

I pulled myself together and returned to my desk inside of 10 minutes.  A few moments later, an email popped into my inbox.

“Can I see you at my desk now?”  From my boss.

Shit.

She led me into the conference room and closed the door.  Less than two weeks ago, she’d sat in this very room with the other woman who’d hired me, and told me I was doing well.

“What’s going on with you?”

Being cornered upset me again.  (And I hate, hate, hate crying in front of people.  It’s emotional blackmail and it’s so unprofessional.)  But I wiped my face quickly and stayed composed, working to calmly articulate why I was stressed and confused, and to emphasize that I liked my work and wasn’t angry at anybody.

“What I don’t understand,” she said at one point, “is how you explained the big XYZ custom project to a member of management last week – you knew it! – but you didn’t think to ask for A, B and C during that phone call.  I didn’t think I needed to train you on that.  To me, that’s just common sense. ”

This woman started working in the factory when she was 15.  She’s moved up the ladder, step by step, learning everything there is to know, over the course of half her lifetime.  I’d never worked in such an environment, and had only been there 4 weeks.  If we were in a play together and she didn’t check her distance before stage-punching me, would it be right for me to tell her she wasn’t using “common sense”?

But this argument didn’t come to me at the time.  What did come to mind was an all-to-familiar male voice:

“Come ON, Megan!  Use some God-given common sense!”

Childhood insecurities:  Not helpful for drying up the waterworks.  But I did, and I smiled.  I offered to stay late that night and come in early the next day.  She encouraged me to take my lunch, take a walk, and write up a list of my strengths and weaknesses, which I did.   We went over the list the next day (Wednesday.)  She also asked me to show more initiative, and not get so stressed out.

Wednesday and Thursday were good days.  I organized and read The Binder.  I snatched up an email from the communal inbox and started writing the Quotes the designer needed.  I investigated a discontinued item for a housewife in upstate New York without being told to do so.  I stayed positive, and did not get upset again.

And on Friday morning, at about 9:30 AM, I was called into the same conference room and fired.

“We have decided to terminate your employment here, effective immediately.”

Ha.  This is a joke.  She’s going to grin and snicker here any second and say “Just kidding, Christmas-fools.  But moving forward, make sure you do better on such-and-so.”

“We have your final paycheck here.  You’ll also need to sign this document saying that you sat your Exit Interview.”

Oh God.  Oh God.  Oh no. No no no no no, this cannot be happening to me again already. No, this is a nightmare.  Wake up wake up . . .

“This is your opportunity to tell us about your experience and let us know how you think we can improve training procedures.”

Silence. I could feel my mouth hanging open slightly, my throat drying out.

“I would say, overall, my experience here has been very pleasant,” I croaked, in a very small voice that didn’t sound like mine.  “I would suggest, for future candidates, maybe more phone training?”

“Okay.  We’ll make note of that.”

Silence.

“Do you have any questions?”

I should’ve had questions, but they wouldn’t come.  She slid the document and a pen toward me.  Another childhood image, illogical and unbidden:  Mermaid signing her voice away to the evil sea witch.  Poor unfortunate soul.  Except I was now poor, unemployable, unhireable, inadequate, disposable . . .

Run.  Run run run, get out get out get out before you burst into tears and make a scene . . .

The words on the paper swam and blurred.  I tried three times to read it and couldn’t, had to make my hands stop shaking in order to sign my name.

“We’ll need you to collect your things immediately, and I’ll show you out the front door.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I peeped.

You would think I’d been caught surfing porn on a company computer, or defacing the bathroom mirror with crude pictures drawn in lipstick.  At least that would’ve made for a fun story.

I stood and shook hands.  Dry-eyed, I walked back to my desk, not making eye contact with anyone.

 

Wake up.  Wake up, wake up, wake up.  You’re having a nightmare.  In a second, you’re  going to wake up in your bed and you can start this day over again.

I carefully put things in my tote bag while my boss hovered behind me, as if I was liable to steal something or start trouble.  The small physical action gave me something to focus on while the rest of the room spun.

“Can I go to the break room and get my lunch?”

“That’s fine.”  And she followed.  And waited while I put on my coat.  Then and only then did it occur to me to beg, to plead.  I promise I can do better, I heard myself say.  Maybe it wasn’t too late.  Please, I need this job.  Please give me another chance, I’ll do whatever it takes.  Please let me stay.

No.  One glance at her body language told me it would only make things worse.  If I didn’t stay in control, if I got hysterical, I wouldn't have put it past her to call some men in from the office to physically remove me.  Then, not only would I be the Girl Who Got Fired After a Month, I’d be the Psycho-Girl too.

She walked me out into the foyer.  I had JUST been here, waiting to be buzzed in, waiting for my job interview.  Full of confidence and optimism that I could belong here.

“Thank you for the work you’ve put in here.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “I’m sure the time for questions was back in the meeting room.”

“Yeah,” she said cooly.

“If it’s not appropriate now, I guess I shouldn’t ask . . I was just so surprised, I couldn’t get it out . .”

Silence.  I blundered on.

 “Is this because of my behavior on Wednesday?”

She shook her head no.

I wracked my brain.  My work dress had been on par with or better than everyone else's.  I had only used one sick day.  I felt I was starting to make friends and fit in with the other staff.  When an expectant mother in the office pool headed up a lunchtime conversation about stretch marks and conception and afterbirth and breastmilk pumping, perhaps I’d inadvertently made a face while trying not to gag on my sandwich.  But after the company had paid and trained me for a month, were these salient reasons to throw me out like garbage? 

“Was this decision based on appearance or attitude or attendance . . . ?” I ventured.

She shook her head again.  “This was based strictly on job performance.”

“Job performance,” I repeated, hoping she might clarify.

She only nodded.

“Oh.  Okay.  Um, have a Merry Christmas, then.”

“Merry Christmas, Megan.”  Did she sound a little sad?  The door opened and closed, and I was out in the cold, walking down the sidewalk in the wrong direction from the bus stop.  I didn’t care.  I got out of eyesight of all of the office windows, put my face in my hands and lost it.

I had just done this after being laid off from the restaurant.  I had just done this!  Here I was again, crying at the bus stop. Someone even pulled over and asked if I needed help, just like the woman on the bus outside the restaurant in October.  She’d offered me a tissue.  God love Chicagoans.  Well, you know.  Until they fire or dump me.

A part of me knows there’s nothing to do except to keep job hunting.  Try to research companies, try to make connections, try to write good cover letters, try, try, try.  The other part of me just wants to sit around, mope, eat chocolate and introspect:  What is it about me -- my personality, my actions -- that is making me so disposable, so un-worthwhile, to employers and the men I’m attracted to?  It’s silly to lump them together, I suppose.  But as I’ve pointed out in the past, job hunting and dating are almost identical, and equally draining on one’s self-confidence.

 

And unless somebody used some “common sense” and kept track of the results of the Secret Santa drawing, then some poor shmuck showed up to the company holiday party and didn’t get a present.  Or maybe he got my present.  The thought of some factory worker walking out of the restaurant with girly, WalMart body splash or a Victoria’s Secret gift card amuses me.  Not as much as burning the employee manual in my kitchen sink and doing a dance around it, but still.