And now you do what they told ya

Now you're under control

Like the distinct smell of ozone as a thunderstorm approaches, there is a shift in the office air.

Winds of change blowing in a whiff of more layoffs.

The upstairs folks always try to keep a lid on the boiling pot, but Slack is a leaky ship.

Since COVID, there have been several rounds of layoffs within the company where I work. Although not having enough money is a lifelong fear of mine and getting fired would bring a slew of problems, I experience a brief moment of relief at the possibility of being one of the employees let go.

There is a scene in season 2 of The Morning Show (SPOILER ALERT - although this is years old at this point… But skip the next two paragraphs if you don’t wanna know) starring Jennifer Aniston, Reese Witherspoon and Steve Carrell in which Carrell’s character, Mitch, dies when he accidentally swerves his car off a cliff to avoid crashing into an oncoming vehicle.

I think about this scene a lot. Particularly, this moment, the second he realizes what has happened, that he’s about to die. Instead of fear or panic, he releases his tight grip on the steering wheel and closes his eyes. Letting go of not just the wheel, but everything.

Relief. Total submission to the riptides roaring through life. Take me. Do what you will.

That’s how I’d feel if I lost my job, I think. It would be terrible, of course. But also a relief. A forced exit from the rat race. A race that has largely been very good to me even as I routinely declare my hatred for capitalism, the whole fuckin’ corporate system and those eagerly working to toe the line. A system I am trapped within because it gives me healthcare, a steady paycheck along with the circular debate of whether I live to work or work to live.

My job stopped being any part of my identity years ago. I try not to ask people “What do you do?” when in conversation because our society tends to encourage the formulation of wrong opinions about people based on what they “do” for a living. I like getting to know someone for who they are, not what they do.

The job, the building, and the people I work with have been my safe space since my divorce almost ten years ago. I knew no one in Pennsylvania except my ex-husband’s family. As a freelance writer in an online world that was rapidly becoming an unreliable way to make a living, I had to figure out my next thing.

With a kindergartener, a toddler, and a newborn, landing a job with a salary and healthcare at a reputable global company headquartered a few miles away felt miraculous. The salary was scary low but it was something. A start. And it reassured me that I could make it through a very scary, uncertain time in my life.

Those long weekend shifts got me through that first terrible year of adjusting to being without my babies half of the time, figuring out solo parenting when they were with me, and deciding where - in an unfamiliar state - I should live in conjunction with where their dad chose to live.

Nearly a decade later, my kids have grown up in the building where I work. Have been welcomed there with me whenever I had no backup scenario.

Finding respite in the large, quiet building felt like the security I looked forward to in elementary school when my home life was so unstructured and scary. School was a safe space where calm, professional adults were in charge. Rules, routines, processes, and procedures are desperately welcome structures amid the emotional chaos of being a child of divorce, and they were a liferaft during my own traumatic divorce.

I’ve worked my ass off for this company. But as anyone who works at a corporation knows, working for a company is a bit like selling your soul to the devil. Yes, there is a salary, and yes there is healthcare, but your time is no longer yours. You’re owned by Zooms, phone calls, Slacks, emails, huddles, texts, and relentless interactions with co-workers you may or may not like interacting with.

Work in a post-COVID world is no longer a 9 to 5 scenario. Like a red t-shirt tossed in with a load of whites, it bleeds into every aspect of life. The relief of it all just disappearing would be intense. A letting go of the steering wheel moment. And then I’d be terrified. Or maybe, after all the therapy, I’d surprise myself and discover a better way to exist.

As I drove the five minutes to work wondering if I’d be on the list of those laid off, I cranked my go-to anti-establishment, personal empowerment tune that my college roommate and I used to blast on our way to classes and reminded myself that I don’t keep photos or personal effects at my desk for just such occasions. Post layoff I can immediately roll right out of the building without carrying a sad little box of desk trinkets.

“Now you’re under control”

“And now you do what they told you”

Middle-aged white lady in a minivan on her way to her corporate gig cranking Rage Against the Machine. I know what I look like; a more embarrassing version of Michael Boulton rapping to Scarface in the first scene of Office Space. Which, incidentally, also stars Jen Aniston.

With passive aggression that is my calling card, unfortunately, I keep my windows down as I park next to the building, turn the volume up, and let the song finish.

“Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me!”

“Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me!”

“Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me!”

After the song ends I take a deep breath, turn off the engine, get out of the van, and swipe my badge to get into the building.

“Morning, Susan!” I chirp to the security guard stationed in the lobby. “Could it be any hotter?”

Jesus jumpin’ Christ. I float above myself. What a tool I am.

I did not get fired.

And I am still here to do what they tell me.