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| Photo Courtesy of John Bolt |
When I got laid off in 2007, I’d run the gamut of jobs in New York, but they were all corporate jobs. Something I’d never pictured for myself. Advertising sucked me in more than any other field because my co-proofreaders were literature nerds. Many of them were about fifty-years old and native to the Bronx or Manhattan. If there was no work to do, I could instead hear stories about the hippies in the sixties bugging out on LSD in central park, or talk books. I could wear any clothing I wanted and if there were no ads to proof, I could blatantly work on my writing or read a book. There was no pretense about looking busy. That’s what lured me in, it was the perfect office job. But I never forgot the last part of that phrase, office job, and how it contradicted my beliefs. I was twenty-five and harboring a lot of idealism. I felt myself a huge hypocrite. Consumerism went against my ideals yet I was getting paid to read ads. Many of the clients were pharmaceutical companies, and I hate ‘big pharma.’ I’d started off freelance and got sucked into a full-time job, which I’d already established would never be good for my writing. A position had opened because one of the proofreaders quit out of nowhere. She had some inheritance money and she wanted to write more. As much this industry intrigued me I was done with it in a few months and ready to make the big change the last proofreader did minus the inheritance. Two months after I was hired fulltime, the company was taken over by another and the gradual descent into layoffs began. I’d already decided I would be quitting to waitress again. I tallied my work roster from ’03 to ’06. All offices, all things I don’t believe in. I never tried to really hustle and I was living in New York City. I couldn’t think of why I kept going to these jobs, I didn’t have kids or a house, so it wasn’t a sacrifice of anything but me, for me. I probably would’ve begun this trek on my own at some point, but getting laid off made the decision and path active. I was overjoyed when they took us in the conference room and began to gently explain to us that the company may fold in a few months.
My co-workers didn’t feel the same. The ones who were content had already sealed themselves a position in another advertising firm. Others felt violated. One woman said her job was her identity. Lunches in the break room were becoming impromptu support groups. I kept all my thoughts inside. I was thrilled, I would tune out their commiserating and stare out of the window at the sky, fantasizing about a part-time job. Four days a week. I’ll give up weekends. I hate being off with the rest of the world. I want to take the train to Coney on a weekday at 2p.m.
There was a buxom Jewish woman who was forced to occupy a cubicle beside me for two months, at the very end of it all. Day after day she was shouting on the phone about some renovation at her apartment. She was completely entitled and oblivious to the ways of construction. I’d have pegged her to be a major whiner about the layoffs but she surprised me with some perspective. She matter-of-factly said in her deep raspy voice,
“This kind of shit is typical in advertising. It’s the nature of the beast. Companies get bought out all the time. It’s not like we put our hearts in ads. Yeez.”
Once we were all out and done, I immediately realized that I didn’t miss having a job at all. I didn’t miss the cubicles. But no one really relaxes on unemployment. There’s always guilt and worry and job-searching. My salary was cut in half but I could stare out of my fourth-floor Brooklyn apartment to amazing views. It was an apartment I would be priced out of if I didn’t get a full time job again. I felt I had to prove myself somehow. I knew, so far, that no matter what the job I wouldn’t write as much. I had myself on a schedule everyday. I was determined to finish a novel in six months. As if creativity would be summoned whenever I wanted.
About a month in to my unemployment someone had scheduled me for a job interview at an ad agency. Before we all stopped working many people were helping each other out with setting up job interviews. I agreed hoping I could just pick up some part-time work. It was a gorgeous day in late autumn, unseasonably hot. I took the Q to the interview. It went across the Manhattan Bridge and had a stunning view. The Brooklyn Bridge and off in the distance the Statue of Liberty and big blue skies behind them. The train was still elevated for some time once it crossed into Manhattan. Chinatown and lush treetops, the LES projects, and then it went down.
I got off at Union Square and walked to the advertising house’s address on 23rd and 5th avenue. The agency was in a building I was guessing was ninety years old. The elevator only fit six. Between floors it paused as if it might conk out. When the doors opened on the fourth floor I went blind from the light. Not what I would’ve expected from the shell of the building. It was the décor typical in advertising, with sleek furniture. I found it very sterile, bright lighting, and glass doors and a sprinkling of bright red chairs or side tables. A lot like some futuristic landscape. Supposedly, studies showed that this environment sparked creativity. I checked in with a receptionist who was clad in expensive torn clothing. A good-looking guy passed through the waiting area, wearing old-school sneakers and a white tee shirt. When I started working in advertising it seemed I was liberated by being allowed to wear what I wanted, but ultimately I still wasn’t inspired. No matter what those studies showed. I found it odd that in advertising they towed the line between art and ads. They even had a department called Creative, where the most hip-looking wannabes dwelled. Most of them graduated from private art schools with degrees in graphic design.
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| Photo Courtesy of John Bolt |
The receptionist arose from her seat to show me to the interview room. My heart was beating fast. I began to think of all the times I swore, never again, as I walked down the pod. I was shown to an office with a decent view of some Chelsea rooftops with the old water towers. A boisterous man with splotchy red cheeks entered and greeted me. The guy’s name was Andy, he was the production supervisor. He spoke in a nasal sardonic tone. He said, fuck, pretty often. I think he was going for cool. All this juxtaposed with the family photos displayed on the wall behind him.
Andy went on asking the generic interview questions. What would you do in blah blah situation? At one point I answered something like,
“Well at when I worked at Ribbit, I’d just grab one of the guys from QC, and have him make some adjustments and then proof it again, and save a real round.”
“Well, I hope you didn’t grab him! That would be harassment!!” he said laughing a little too hard. We were wrapping it up and he asked me,
“Do you have any questions or concerns?”
“To be honest,” I said, “I’ve been hearing a lot of agencies are downsizing to cut costs and there are smaller staffs being overworked.” To this one response he had no joke and for one moment looked serious.
“Well,” he sighed, “You really can’t get emotional in these situations. Ya know?” he said and brought back his clownish face. He ended the verbal interview abruptly and walked me down a hall where I was to take a proofreading test. The florescent lights above and bright red circles patterened in the grey carpet made me feel nauseous. The room he led me to had bleach-white walls and a small silver table and chair, both plastic.
The proofing test consisted of some advertising samples. I opened a folder and found seven samples, all littered with copy in different-sized fonts. None of them would be complete without the teeny tiny legal section. As I began, I felt the weight of my old days in the cubicle. All of the sample proofs were for a telecommunications company. I couldn’t focus. I hated telecomm. All the inconsistencies and cheap, ugly layouts. My eyes began to hurt from the lighting and close for sleep. They fluttered open and shut again and I jolted awake. I’d only read one daunting paragraph on my first sample. After staring at my nails and biting them for fifteen more minutes, I decided to flea the interview. I left the sample proofs in neat piles and walked moderately past the receptionist so as not to cause alarm. I exited the building with no problems. Just as I began to descend the subway stairs, I heard an incredulous voice shouting, “Sarah? Sarah??” I had my sunglasses on and barely turned my head, kept moving down the stairs. I glanced and saw it was Andy the jokester holding his purchase from the deli in hand. I could tell my non-responsiveness worked. His gestures showed that he thought he was mistaken. Still he must’ve felt unconvinced. He moved briskly to the building’s entrance.
I hopped in the doors of the train just as the conductor got on the loudspeaker, “Stand Clear.” Bing Bong. The doors closed and I sat back in a chair. The air-conditioning made my nausea slowly fade away and I faded into sleep. I’d put myself, in that 40-minute window, through an entire 40-year career of working at that agency I’d just left behind me. I passed out and woke up in Coney.
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| Photo Courtesy of John Bolt |
