We all know co-workers like Jesus, a composite of people I met during my 20 years working for Gannett, and my two years blogging about the nation's No. 1 newspaper publisher. In this post, names and some details have been changed to protect individual privacy. It's a cautionary tale for a time when layoffs are becoming far too routine.
Part 1 | A conference room at a newspaper: 9:40 a.m.
The eight directors around the long table survived this Publisher, the third in 10 years. But no one's feeling overly confident. Rumors of more cuts demanded by Corporate have them on edge again. And Publisher's in a bad mood: He's staring in his lap, both hands below the table; the Controller's in the same position, at the opposite end: They are texting each other furiously on their Blackberries, when Human Resources Director says:
"There's an issue with Debbie,'' and her voice trails off. "We need to give the award to someone else.''
Fuck, everyone thinks, except for Publisher, who's wondering why his new honey -- Veronica, over at this midsized city's smaller Cadillac dealer -- is threatening to cancel their nooner. This meeting just got longer, again.
HR has Publisher's ear; she's been his director at the last four Gannett newspapers, so everyone pays close attention.
Production Director got the thankless job of running the interdepartmental committee that picked Debbie for the Times-Gazette's local Unsung Hero Award. He strong-armed everyone into choosing her because HR made clear Debbie was Publisher's favorite. Now this. But he wants to keep his job, and he's just politically savvy enough in the ways of Corporate to say:
"How about Jesus? Corporate's been on my ass about diversity. We just reclassified him, so we're getting points for that. Jesus would look good.''
Controller looks up, scowling. "Jesus?" Then he remembers. "Oh, right; you always say it the right way. What'd that cost me? Did we bump his pay, too?"
Production Director, winking: "I cut way back on his overtime, so it's a wash.''
HR: "Works for me. No problem-o.'' She makes a mental note to coach Publisher and Controller on pronunciation. "It's hay-soos,'' she will say. "Not Jesus, like on the cross.''
Publisher still isn't paying attention; he's heading to that Cadillac dealer to pick up his new car. ("Let another publisher do that green crap,'' he had told Controller, a week before. "No fucking way am I driving a Prius to the club. I've earned this one.")
His squeeze, Veronica, works in sales at that dealer. Even though the other Caddy store is a major account, Publisher threw the sale to this place, because Veronica said, bitterly, "Otherwise, no more. I've got sales quotas, too." (Advertising Director didn't even bother to fight: She's on the ropes because that condo in Naples, Fla., she figured on flipping is now underwater -- mortgage-wise.)
Publisher makes that tell-tale grunting sound, and heads for his private bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Meeting's over.
Part 2 | The annual awards ceremony: Noon
Jesus, 26, has been the mailroom clerk for six years. But until this recent promotion, which he still doesn't understand, he's never gotten a chance to advance. That's despite the nearly $12,000 in student loans he racked up at night school, learning Microsoft Office and other skills he'd been promised would lead to a better job.
He doesn't like to think about it, because he tries to remain cheerful, but: More than a few of the newspaper's employees still don't know his last name, or where he lives, what he dreams about. A visitor to the newsroom, with its threadbare carpeting held down in spots with duct tape, might think his name was, "Hey, can you give me a hand,'' or, "Toner's out again. Can you fix it, quick? I'm on deadline."
But he's happy today, dressed in his best clothes, because he's getting the annual Unsung Hero Award. Progress! Along with that recent promotion and, now this, night school is paying off after all. He's looking past the fact that Production Director said, "Sorry. You can't bring a friend. This is really for . . . well. You know, budget's kinda tight this year. We're keeping this simple.'' That's how Jesus found out the more elaborate annual service awards program had been cut way back to cake and soft drinks in the windowless breakroom. ("Bring change for the vending machine, everyone; its BYOB.")
Jesus is there now, carefully removing the hard plastic shell cradling the carrot cake he picked up at Kroger on the way to work that morning. There's always some extra task these days, way outside the scope of his job description. But wanting this day to be special, he dug into his own pocket, paid for the larger-size cake, anyway, because he knew there wouldn't be enough to go around otherwise. Those reporters sure can eat, he thought, smiling.
From the apartment he shares with his best friend, Jesus also brought paper plates, plastic forks and a good knife; that would make it easier to clean up later, when everyone had grabbed a slice, and muttered a quick, "Congrats, guy,'' before scurrying back to their desks.
There's a deadline every minute now -- especially in editorial, what with the demand for constant Website updates after Corporate simultaneously laid off three reporters when they replaced the last quality-control program, Real Life, Real News, with the Information Center.
Jesus keeps wondering about the gift. Last year's winner got an iPod! But now, he's too busy setting up the break room. He stops to smell the sleeve of his favorite shirt; Jesus had spilled gasoline when he fueled up Publisher's new Caddy at the company pump. (Another extra task.) And he blanched at the memory of finding those condoms on the driver's side floor. That morning, Publisher had said, "Hey, uh,'' still stumbling for the pronunciation, as he dangled the keys. "Hey, would you mind filling it up? And watch the grease on the floor. Last time, you left it kind of a mess.''
Jesus glances at his watch. It's already past noon, and only a few of the Times-Gazette's employees have come to the breakroom, despite the increasingly urgent e-mails sent by Production Director's admin. "Please,'' she said. "He wore his best. Let's have a nice turnout.''
Part 3 | A week later; layoff day: 8:30 a.m.
Everyone seems to wear the same expression when Jesus arrives for work: Deer-in-the headlights. Sarah is sobbing softly in her cubicle. A Security Guard hired for this sad day is at her side as she puts framed photos in a cardboard box. "I'm sorry,'' the guard says, urgently. "This is so fucked up. But could you hurry a little? I've got four more of these, and they're on my case to move.''
Elsewhere, small groups of employees gather for furtive conversations. Lots of whispering. When Jesus enters the newsroom, he passes one such group. Everyone grows silent. That's weird, he thinks; usually the admin hands him a to-do list right away. More reporters notebooks from the supply closet. Find the laptop Sports apparently lost a week ago. (It's sitting in the overheated trunk of the columnist's battered Ford, where's it's been since he stayed late shooting a roll to upload for a slideshow. Quotas! Hearing rumors of another layoff, he worked three more hours of OT that he knew better than to put on his timecard.)
Jesus had heard rumblings about layoffs, too. But he didn't think anything was going to happen. After all, Publisher just got that new Caddy. And then the fancy new ergonomic chair for his office, with the vibrating and back-warming options. Its top-grain black leather was still perfuming the air of the nearby conference room. And Jesus had stumbled across the bill, by accident, when he was delivering mail one day. His eyes bugged out: $3,000! Two months' pay, after taxes and the health insurance premium HR had suddenly boosted.
He's still miffed about the gift. At the end of the awards ceremony, when Production Director said a few words, without even uttering his name, Jesus had waited for what seemed like days. But nothing. As he cleaned the smeared cream-cheese frosting off the break room tables, then dumped the used paper plates into the trash bin, he figured: Maybe they were all out of iPods. It'll come.
But now, the Executive Editor's admin is calling him over. She looks stricken. Can't be those layoff rumors, Jesus thinks; it's baloney. "Uh,'' she says, looking away, and suddenly getting busy with rearranging file folders on her desk. "Listen. They want you in HR. I'm sorry. But, really, go there right now.''
Cool, Jesus thinks: the iPod. He's so excited, he doesn't even notice when Security Guard starts trailing him down the hall.
Part 4 | Postscript; two days later: 4 a.m.
Jesus is home, in that apartment he shares with his best friend. He's still trying to figure out how to pay next month's rent, the school loan for all those classes he took that now don't add up to jack. Why did they lay me off, he keeps asking, turning that fact over and over, but never reaching a satisfactory conclusion. He did everything he was told. Never put in for half the OT he worked. Didn't breath a word about those condoms, even when Publisher's wife cornered him in the lobby, the day she appeared unannounced, her face crimson-red, eyes puffy from crying.
But now, with the sun just starting to rise, Jesus is at his old PC, entering dollar figures, dates and other embarrassing details into an e-mail. Those classes will be useful in at least one way, he thinks, as he prepares to attach a scan of the nearly $10,000 in hotel room charges Publisher had slipped onto his expense form. Then he checks the e-mail address one last time, making sure he's spelled it correctly, just before hitting the send button: gannettblog@gmail.com.
Part 1 | A conference room at a newspaper: 9:40 a.m.
The eight directors around the long table survived this Publisher, the third in 10 years. But no one's feeling overly confident. Rumors of more cuts demanded by Corporate have them on edge again. And Publisher's in a bad mood: He's staring in his lap, both hands below the table; the Controller's in the same position, at the opposite end: They are texting each other furiously on their Blackberries, when Human Resources Director says:
"There's an issue with Debbie,'' and her voice trails off. "We need to give the award to someone else.''
Fuck, everyone thinks, except for Publisher, who's wondering why his new honey -- Veronica, over at this midsized city's smaller Cadillac dealer -- is threatening to cancel their nooner. This meeting just got longer, again.HR has Publisher's ear; she's been his director at the last four Gannett newspapers, so everyone pays close attention.
Production Director got the thankless job of running the interdepartmental committee that picked Debbie for the Times-Gazette's local Unsung Hero Award. He strong-armed everyone into choosing her because HR made clear Debbie was Publisher's favorite. Now this. But he wants to keep his job, and he's just politically savvy enough in the ways of Corporate to say:
"How about Jesus? Corporate's been on my ass about diversity. We just reclassified him, so we're getting points for that. Jesus would look good.''
Controller looks up, scowling. "Jesus?" Then he remembers. "Oh, right; you always say it the right way. What'd that cost me? Did we bump his pay, too?"
Production Director, winking: "I cut way back on his overtime, so it's a wash.''
HR: "Works for me. No problem-o.'' She makes a mental note to coach Publisher and Controller on pronunciation. "It's hay-soos,'' she will say. "Not Jesus, like on the cross.''
Publisher still isn't paying attention; he's heading to that Cadillac dealer to pick up his new car. ("Let another publisher do that green crap,'' he had told Controller, a week before. "No fucking way am I driving a Prius to the club. I've earned this one.")
His squeeze, Veronica, works in sales at that dealer. Even though the other Caddy store is a major account, Publisher threw the sale to this place, because Veronica said, bitterly, "Otherwise, no more. I've got sales quotas, too." (Advertising Director didn't even bother to fight: She's on the ropes because that condo in Naples, Fla., she figured on flipping is now underwater -- mortgage-wise.)
Publisher makes that tell-tale grunting sound, and heads for his private bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Meeting's over.
Part 2 | The annual awards ceremony: Noon
Jesus, 26, has been the mailroom clerk for six years. But until this recent promotion, which he still doesn't understand, he's never gotten a chance to advance. That's despite the nearly $12,000 in student loans he racked up at night school, learning Microsoft Office and other skills he'd been promised would lead to a better job.
He doesn't like to think about it, because he tries to remain cheerful, but: More than a few of the newspaper's employees still don't know his last name, or where he lives, what he dreams about. A visitor to the newsroom, with its threadbare carpeting held down in spots with duct tape, might think his name was, "Hey, can you give me a hand,'' or, "Toner's out again. Can you fix it, quick? I'm on deadline."
But he's happy today, dressed in his best clothes, because he's getting the annual Unsung Hero Award. Progress! Along with that recent promotion and, now this, night school is paying off after all. He's looking past the fact that Production Director said, "Sorry. You can't bring a friend. This is really for . . . well. You know, budget's kinda tight this year. We're keeping this simple.'' That's how Jesus found out the more elaborate annual service awards program had been cut way back to cake and soft drinks in the windowless breakroom. ("Bring change for the vending machine, everyone; its BYOB.")
Jesus is there now, carefully removing the hard plastic shell cradling the carrot cake he picked up at Kroger on the way to work that morning. There's always some extra task these days, way outside the scope of his job description. But wanting this day to be special, he dug into his own pocket, paid for the larger-size cake, anyway, because he knew there wouldn't be enough to go around otherwise. Those reporters sure can eat, he thought, smiling.From the apartment he shares with his best friend, Jesus also brought paper plates, plastic forks and a good knife; that would make it easier to clean up later, when everyone had grabbed a slice, and muttered a quick, "Congrats, guy,'' before scurrying back to their desks.
There's a deadline every minute now -- especially in editorial, what with the demand for constant Website updates after Corporate simultaneously laid off three reporters when they replaced the last quality-control program, Real Life, Real News, with the Information Center.
Jesus keeps wondering about the gift. Last year's winner got an iPod! But now, he's too busy setting up the break room. He stops to smell the sleeve of his favorite shirt; Jesus had spilled gasoline when he fueled up Publisher's new Caddy at the company pump. (Another extra task.) And he blanched at the memory of finding those condoms on the driver's side floor. That morning, Publisher had said, "Hey, uh,'' still stumbling for the pronunciation, as he dangled the keys. "Hey, would you mind filling it up? And watch the grease on the floor. Last time, you left it kind of a mess.''
Jesus glances at his watch. It's already past noon, and only a few of the Times-Gazette's employees have come to the breakroom, despite the increasingly urgent e-mails sent by Production Director's admin. "Please,'' she said. "He wore his best. Let's have a nice turnout.''
Part 3 | A week later; layoff day: 8:30 a.m.
Everyone seems to wear the same expression when Jesus arrives for work: Deer-in-the headlights. Sarah is sobbing softly in her cubicle. A Security Guard hired for this sad day is at her side as she puts framed photos in a cardboard box. "I'm sorry,'' the guard says, urgently. "This is so fucked up. But could you hurry a little? I've got four more of these, and they're on my case to move.''
Elsewhere, small groups of employees gather for furtive conversations. Lots of whispering. When Jesus enters the newsroom, he passes one such group. Everyone grows silent. That's weird, he thinks; usually the admin hands him a to-do list right away. More reporters notebooks from the supply closet. Find the laptop Sports apparently lost a week ago. (It's sitting in the overheated trunk of the columnist's battered Ford, where's it's been since he stayed late shooting a roll to upload for a slideshow. Quotas! Hearing rumors of another layoff, he worked three more hours of OT that he knew better than to put on his timecard.)
Jesus had heard rumblings about layoffs, too. But he didn't think anything was going to happen. After all, Publisher just got that new Caddy. And then the fancy new ergonomic chair for his office, with the vibrating and back-warming options. Its top-grain black leather was still perfuming the air of the nearby conference room. And Jesus had stumbled across the bill, by accident, when he was delivering mail one day. His eyes bugged out: $3,000! Two months' pay, after taxes and the health insurance premium HR had suddenly boosted.He's still miffed about the gift. At the end of the awards ceremony, when Production Director said a few words, without even uttering his name, Jesus had waited for what seemed like days. But nothing. As he cleaned the smeared cream-cheese frosting off the break room tables, then dumped the used paper plates into the trash bin, he figured: Maybe they were all out of iPods. It'll come.
But now, the Executive Editor's admin is calling him over. She looks stricken. Can't be those layoff rumors, Jesus thinks; it's baloney. "Uh,'' she says, looking away, and suddenly getting busy with rearranging file folders on her desk. "Listen. They want you in HR. I'm sorry. But, really, go there right now.''
Cool, Jesus thinks: the iPod. He's so excited, he doesn't even notice when Security Guard starts trailing him down the hall.
Part 4 | Postscript; two days later: 4 a.m.
Jesus is home, in that apartment he shares with his best friend. He's still trying to figure out how to pay next month's rent, the school loan for all those classes he took that now don't add up to jack. Why did they lay me off, he keeps asking, turning that fact over and over, but never reaching a satisfactory conclusion. He did everything he was told. Never put in for half the OT he worked. Didn't breath a word about those condoms, even when Publisher's wife cornered him in the lobby, the day she appeared unannounced, her face crimson-red, eyes puffy from crying.
But now, with the sun just starting to rise, Jesus is at his old PC, entering dollar figures, dates and other embarrassing details into an e-mail. Those classes will be useful in at least one way, he thinks, as he prepares to attach a scan of the nearly $10,000 in hotel room charges Publisher had slipped onto his expense form. Then he checks the e-mail address one last time, making sure he's spelled it correctly, just before hitting the send button: gannettblog@gmail.com.
