The View From Hell
If you close you eyes and listen carefully to the rat-a-tat-tat of fingers on keyboards and the brusque phone conversations in the cube farm that is my new employer, you can almost hear the pieces of your soul sliding into Satan’s sticky grip. Sure, from the outside it appears like any other “open office plan” in Corporate America, but between the mouse-clicking and phone ringing, flames nip at the feet of the minions as they begin their slow descent into Hell. I know, because I’m one of them. And my toes are getting hot.
In retrospect, I should have known this was no average corporation, but Hell on Earth. The signs were all there. When I told people about my new job, I wasn’t overwhelmed with congratulations from my peers and former co-workers. Most of them, smiles not reaching their eyes, told me what a great opportunity it was, to be a manager for the megamart of healthcare. But I didn’t hear many wows, many whoops. Just good lucks and “you can always come back if it doesn’t work out.” Someone from the company I was joining virtually catapulted into my old job. The chair wasn’t even cold.
But the true sign came on my second day of work. Sitting in my first editorial meeting, someone actually spoke the words, “Let’s discuss the anti-smiley policy that’s in the works.”
And then I knew it. I was in Hell. What company doesn’t allow people to use smileys in email? Satan’s company, that’s what. From that day forward, he surreptitiously started stealing Susie’s soul.
(Excellent alliteration, there, huh? At least Satan hasn’t stolen my style!)
In the 17 weeks and three days I’ve been a member of Hell’s staff, my professional life has morphed into something between The Office and Office Space. I don’t understand the language they speak (lots of “leveraging” and “synergies” going on) and I can’t understand their writing style (which is to avoid the active voice at all costs). But above all, I don’t understand my co-workers or the culture in the office. I could go on forever about different things that have happened, but you’d get bored, maybe, or just stop scrolling. There are a few classic vignettes, though, that can’t go untold. For posterity--and anyone desperate enough to think about working at Hell on Earth for even one day--such stories must be shared.
Circling Around My Mistakes: In my first week on the job, my boss asked me to proofread one of the numerous publications coming out of our office. I did, taking way longer than I’ve ever taken before because I had to look everything up in Hell’s insane style guide. So the newspaper went to print and I put it out of my mind. The next week I walked into the office to find a wonderful present from the biggest asshole in the office (who is in no way above me on the totem pole): a copy of the newspaper on which he’d circled all the mistakes I missed, capping it all with a Post-It note that read “FYI.” This happened twice.
Don’t Make That Face: More recently, I was having a conversation with a woman in the office about the process for submitting stories. I had changed part of the process--after all, I am the editor of the publication, brought in to change and streamline operations. She expressed concern over the change and launched into a lengthy monologue about why it’s done the way it’s done. I listened, not upset but mentally disagreeing with her. Then she told me, in her best I’ve-been-here-forever-and-you’re-just-a-shit-kid tone, “Don’t MAKE that face. I’m telling you how it is!” Heck, I wasn’t even trying to make a face. She should see me when I make an effort. I’m scary.
No Pain, No Gain: Two weeks ago, I sprained my ankle pretty badly on the way to work, but because I was up against a tight deadline, I still hobbled to the bus stop, thinking I could work through the pain. When I tried to get off the bus, I couldn’t support my weight on that ankle and it was all swollen. Long story short, I made it to the office and realized I needed to get off the foot and to the doctor or I was going to do more damage. I went into my boss’s office and told her, and she just glared at me. I said I was going to check with another person in my office about backing me up on the project due that day, which I did. That girl was also pissed. No one cared that my ankle was green and worsening rapidly. Nope. I had to work until noon, then I was allowed to go. And I don’t know how many times someone in the damn office made me get up and walk to get something from them.
Designer Attitude: Just today, I asked our designer to print pages of the newspaper for our boss to review. I mentioned--nicely--that I thought we had forgotten to do so last time (“we” even, not him), and he said, “I didn’t forget.” I said something like, “OK, well, I just don’t remember getting her a copy last time.” He said, “If you don’t remember, it was because you left early and didn’t tell me.” That’s when I lost my temper. He was referring to the sprained ankle incident from above, so I retorted, “The only day I left early last week was Friday, when my ankle was green and swollen so much it barely fit in my shoe.” This guy just didn’t know when to quit. He kept going on about how he’s been doing this for a long time and has never forgotten to print out the pages on Wednesday, blah, blah, blah. I finally cut him off and said, “Fine, just print them today. Thanks.” And walked away.
That’s just the tip of the iceberg (if iceberg’s can exist in Hell). There was the way my boss acknowledged the homemade truffles I gave her for Christmas (she didn’t. Not in person anyway—just an impersonal thank-you note); the way the boss took the last of the coffee from the pot when my friend at work had briefly put it on the counter so she could put cream in her mug; the way everyone says “must be nice” when I leave at 4:30, despite the fact that I’m there by 8:15 and never take a lunch; the way the boss thrusts newspaper pages back at me and says “I don’t like it,” but doesn’t give me any reason why--yet she has no problem listing her concerns for the designer. There’s the fact that I had no training, have been given no tools that will actually allow me to succeed in Hell.
Maybe it’s better this way. Who wants to say they were a knockout superstar in Hell? But it’s taking its toll. Satan’s tight grip holds me at the office for long hours. I’m getting dark circles under my eyes and have to take anxiety meds to keep the panic attacks at bay. I carry Maalox in my work bag now, and live on ibuprofen for the constant tension headache that follows me wherever I go. Today the coffee shop accidentally gave me regular coffee and I felt like I was having a heart attack for four hours. I don’t recognize the face in the mirror anymore, the tired one with sad eyes who looks like she’s defeated, sad and alone. My hair has stopped curling, my skin is one big zit. And just when I think I’ve run out of tears, a new batch comes through and proves me wrong.
Am I losing my soul? I sure feel like it. But I wonder about all the other people in the office with the same empty, lost looks on their faces. Why do they stay? I’m trying like mad to get out--trying harder to get out, maybe, than I am to stay. But these people come in day after day, year after year, to bury their heads in their cubes and slave away for a company that doesn’t give a damn about who they are or what they want. Just as long as they do the work--the mind-numbing, relentless overabundance of work--Hell is happy. Satan sees the slaving heads bent over the next new way to sell overpriced health care and rubs his sticky hands together with glee.
I have one thing to say: Fuck you Satan. You can’t have me.
In retrospect, I should have known this was no average corporation, but Hell on Earth. The signs were all there. When I told people about my new job, I wasn’t overwhelmed with congratulations from my peers and former co-workers. Most of them, smiles not reaching their eyes, told me what a great opportunity it was, to be a manager for the megamart of healthcare. But I didn’t hear many wows, many whoops. Just good lucks and “you can always come back if it doesn’t work out.” Someone from the company I was joining virtually catapulted into my old job. The chair wasn’t even cold.
But the true sign came on my second day of work. Sitting in my first editorial meeting, someone actually spoke the words, “Let’s discuss the anti-smiley policy that’s in the works.”
And then I knew it. I was in Hell. What company doesn’t allow people to use smileys in email? Satan’s company, that’s what. From that day forward, he surreptitiously started stealing Susie’s soul.
(Excellent alliteration, there, huh? At least Satan hasn’t stolen my style!)
In the 17 weeks and three days I’ve been a member of Hell’s staff, my professional life has morphed into something between The Office and Office Space. I don’t understand the language they speak (lots of “leveraging” and “synergies” going on) and I can’t understand their writing style (which is to avoid the active voice at all costs). But above all, I don’t understand my co-workers or the culture in the office. I could go on forever about different things that have happened, but you’d get bored, maybe, or just stop scrolling. There are a few classic vignettes, though, that can’t go untold. For posterity--and anyone desperate enough to think about working at Hell on Earth for even one day--such stories must be shared.
Circling Around My Mistakes: In my first week on the job, my boss asked me to proofread one of the numerous publications coming out of our office. I did, taking way longer than I’ve ever taken before because I had to look everything up in Hell’s insane style guide. So the newspaper went to print and I put it out of my mind. The next week I walked into the office to find a wonderful present from the biggest asshole in the office (who is in no way above me on the totem pole): a copy of the newspaper on which he’d circled all the mistakes I missed, capping it all with a Post-It note that read “FYI.” This happened twice.
Don’t Make That Face: More recently, I was having a conversation with a woman in the office about the process for submitting stories. I had changed part of the process--after all, I am the editor of the publication, brought in to change and streamline operations. She expressed concern over the change and launched into a lengthy monologue about why it’s done the way it’s done. I listened, not upset but mentally disagreeing with her. Then she told me, in her best I’ve-been-here-forever-and-you’re-just-a-shit-kid tone, “Don’t MAKE that face. I’m telling you how it is!” Heck, I wasn’t even trying to make a face. She should see me when I make an effort. I’m scary.
No Pain, No Gain: Two weeks ago, I sprained my ankle pretty badly on the way to work, but because I was up against a tight deadline, I still hobbled to the bus stop, thinking I could work through the pain. When I tried to get off the bus, I couldn’t support my weight on that ankle and it was all swollen. Long story short, I made it to the office and realized I needed to get off the foot and to the doctor or I was going to do more damage. I went into my boss’s office and told her, and she just glared at me. I said I was going to check with another person in my office about backing me up on the project due that day, which I did. That girl was also pissed. No one cared that my ankle was green and worsening rapidly. Nope. I had to work until noon, then I was allowed to go. And I don’t know how many times someone in the damn office made me get up and walk to get something from them.
Designer Attitude: Just today, I asked our designer to print pages of the newspaper for our boss to review. I mentioned--nicely--that I thought we had forgotten to do so last time (“we” even, not him), and he said, “I didn’t forget.” I said something like, “OK, well, I just don’t remember getting her a copy last time.” He said, “If you don’t remember, it was because you left early and didn’t tell me.” That’s when I lost my temper. He was referring to the sprained ankle incident from above, so I retorted, “The only day I left early last week was Friday, when my ankle was green and swollen so much it barely fit in my shoe.” This guy just didn’t know when to quit. He kept going on about how he’s been doing this for a long time and has never forgotten to print out the pages on Wednesday, blah, blah, blah. I finally cut him off and said, “Fine, just print them today. Thanks.” And walked away.
That’s just the tip of the iceberg (if iceberg’s can exist in Hell). There was the way my boss acknowledged the homemade truffles I gave her for Christmas (she didn’t. Not in person anyway—just an impersonal thank-you note); the way the boss took the last of the coffee from the pot when my friend at work had briefly put it on the counter so she could put cream in her mug; the way everyone says “must be nice” when I leave at 4:30, despite the fact that I’m there by 8:15 and never take a lunch; the way the boss thrusts newspaper pages back at me and says “I don’t like it,” but doesn’t give me any reason why--yet she has no problem listing her concerns for the designer. There’s the fact that I had no training, have been given no tools that will actually allow me to succeed in Hell.
Maybe it’s better this way. Who wants to say they were a knockout superstar in Hell? But it’s taking its toll. Satan’s tight grip holds me at the office for long hours. I’m getting dark circles under my eyes and have to take anxiety meds to keep the panic attacks at bay. I carry Maalox in my work bag now, and live on ibuprofen for the constant tension headache that follows me wherever I go. Today the coffee shop accidentally gave me regular coffee and I felt like I was having a heart attack for four hours. I don’t recognize the face in the mirror anymore, the tired one with sad eyes who looks like she’s defeated, sad and alone. My hair has stopped curling, my skin is one big zit. And just when I think I’ve run out of tears, a new batch comes through and proves me wrong.
Am I losing my soul? I sure feel like it. But I wonder about all the other people in the office with the same empty, lost looks on their faces. Why do they stay? I’m trying like mad to get out--trying harder to get out, maybe, than I am to stay. But these people come in day after day, year after year, to bury their heads in their cubes and slave away for a company that doesn’t give a damn about who they are or what they want. Just as long as they do the work--the mind-numbing, relentless overabundance of work--Hell is happy. Satan sees the slaving heads bent over the next new way to sell overpriced health care and rubs his sticky hands together with glee.
I have one thing to say: Fuck you Satan. You can’t have me.
2 Comments:
Susie -
As this rather entertaining, though gut-wrenching post shows, you are an extraordinarily talented writer. Why don't you tell them to "take this job and shove it" and find a place where your talents are respected and enjoyed? You should be working for Ellen, Jon Stewart or the New Yorker. Seriously, don't waste your wit and wisdom on those too shallow to appreciate it.
I'm working on the "take this job and shove it" option, but I need a new job first, so I won't go bankrupt and lose my house.
Thanks for the compliment, though, Suz! I'm thinking about turning this job into a book of essays..."Six Months in Hell." Look for me on the bestseller list next year :)
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