This from James Lileks, one of my favorite columnists of all time, on getting fired from a job:
I was fired today. It was, as the Native Americans say, a good day to die. (Also said by Klingons, and Keifer Sutherland in "Flatliners.") Mid-40s, sunshine, melting water tapping on the porch roof. Warm enough to stand outside and shout into the cordless phone, instead of pacing inside. Because I can smoke outside, and when you're fired, there's nothing better than smoking, pacing and shouting.
Afterwards, though, I went out for errands. I needed to get a pound of overpriced coffee - Fireside Blend, with each bean personally kissed by the Master Roaster - and some groceries. I had a genuinely odd
experience at Byerly's, home of the Exalted Shopping Experience; every item seemed to irritate me. The happy product names irritated me. The 58 varieties of potatoes irritated me. The magazines in the check-out stand irritated me. There was one mag - "Country Wood 'n' Gingham" or some such name - whose cover had the most inane headlines:
The Man who Planted Trees: An inspirational story!
How inspirational can that be? If the man had no arms, dug the holes by chewing through the grass and rolled the tree seeds into the pit with his nose, it would be inspirational.
French Toast - like you've never had it before! You could fill up a magazine with the ways in which I've never had french toast. I've never had French Toast while sitting naked on the Pope's lap. I've never gone to a skeet-shooting range, had them fire the french toast into the sky and then caught it in my mouth as it fell to earth. I could argue that each instance of French Toasting eating is unique, since the date, time, clothing, dining implement, etc., is different from the last time. I was close to pointing this out to the clerk, but caught myself. . .
Yesterday's column was my last. (My parting words to the audience, it now appears, were "enjoy your disasters while you can." Not bad, really.) That does not surprise me, and I can't say I blame them; no point tossing money at me when I'm just going to leave.
But the rest of the conversation was just flat-out jaw-dropping flabbergasting. The reason they made such an underwhelming offer to counter the O.O. was because they were mad at me. If I'd come to them without a competing offer, and said I wanted more $ and some publicity, then we would have had a nice warm confab about my future, and goodness and mercy would have followed me all the days of my life. The act of bringing a competing offer to jump-start the negotiations was seen as blackmail, not leverage.
I can't say I agree. I thought this is how negotiations are done, but what do I know? We parted amicably, even though I thought I would urinate Drano during a few points in the talk. Then I called everyone I knew and vented. (Outside on the porch pacing and smoking. The whole block knows everything now. )There's something fun about being fired; it's like you won the Anti-Lottery. You're full of adrenalin, and when you talk to friends, they're outraged. Everyone is on your side! You're the Martyr of the Hour! And then it wears off, and you feel like slinging a rope over the rafters. Well, I still feel fine. It was just a job, one of many. If the O.O. falls through, I'll make it up elsewhere.
I'll start making money on the Internet! I hear there's a world of opportunity out there, and all I need is a 386 computer, a box of Amway products and ten friends.
Doesn't that perfectly encapsulate the firing experience? I don't know if you can truly appreciate this post if you have never been fired . . . so work on that today, kids. Everybody -- LOSE YOUR JOB!
