And I Feel Fine, Act 1: Ragnarok

“A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.” — Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow

“This is a shitty time to start working here. We’re going to be merged with another division in the spring, and we’ll all be laid off. Wait and see.”

This was my introduction to the corporate world, when I first went to work for the Burdines division of Federated Department Stores back in December of 1993. The prophecy was uttered by one of my brand-new previously-unmet co-workers, who took me aside to clue me in.

Spring came and went and Burdines survived, but it quickly became obvious that impending doom was a way of life there, particularly in my home in the marketing department. Several years earlier Federated had gone through an ugly bankruptcy, and the survivors of that era staggered through their paychecks quietly — or sometimes rather vocally and bitterly — waiting for the end of the world.

This was not an unreasonable prediction, however. Recent years had seen changes in the corporate culture, moving away from a regional, less-hierarchical approach to business decisions, and toward a traditional top-down national standardization. When Macy’s went bankrupt and was purchased by Federated no number of strident corporate denials could quell the fear; when another, similarly regionalized department store chain was acquired the murmurs grew to a rumble. Surely this would be the end. Still, these things take time, so there were more denials ahead.

In early 2008 the Seattle, St. Louis, and Minneapolis regional headquarters of the company were shuttered, laying off thousands of people. In spite of all the handholding and assurances by senior management that Florida would be spared, I don’t think many people believed them. By then the economy was starting to collapse, and it was obvious the gods on Olympus would need to do something dramatic to save themselves, and possibly the company (defined in this instance as the stockholders’ money). The writing was on the wall, printed in large, block letters easy enough for a child to read.

In February, 2009, the long-standing predictions of doom were finally borne out, as the recently renamed Macy’s, Inc. issued a press release announcing a “reduction in force,” eliminating seven thousand jobs nationally, and centralizing most operations in New York and Cincinnati. The affected parties would include most of the Miami headquarters, closing down many departments in their entirety.

With the initial lay-off announcement came a deadline: As of April 30 the new corporate systems and structure were planned to be in place, and the workforce would be appropriately reduced. All positions in the existing headquarters would be eliminated, with existing employees given the opportunity to apply for new roles within the reduced organization. Those deemed a good fit would stay on; those who did not, or who chose not to interview, would be compensated. An outplacement company was hired to help people refresh their job-hunting skills, and outside speakers came in to discuss matters like filing for unemployment and fiscal planning. It was, all things considered, a fair offering on a purely pragmatic level.

However, if you have not been through such a situation it is difficult to imagine the scope of the disruption. We had many older employees, to be blunt — people who began their professional careers in an era when you found a job and an employer and stayed with them until you retired. Today’s corporate mentality is completely different, of course; companies disproportionally reward disloyalty, providing the fastest promotional tracks and highest salaries to those with the smallest emotional bond to their employers. There ain’t no such thing as a gold watch any longer, and for many of my co-workers — people with with thirty or forty years with the company — the concept of entering this kind of vicious job market was terrifying.

To try to avoid this, people were fighting for their lives in the form of applying for the tiny number of new positions created within the restructured company. Friends who had lunched together for years were suddenly competing for the same offerings, while trying to maintain a cordial demeanor; you never knew who might be watching, or who might have some input into the decision as to who would be allowed to stay in a similar role, and who might be “better suited for a new career elsewhere.”

As the three months transition period progressed, it became clear that those responsible for executing the restructuring were just as surprised by the announcement as the rest of the company. Jobs were posted internally without descriptions, and on inquiry applicants often discovered their potential new bosses had little or no idea about the responsibilities of the position. Jobs were listed as open, then vanished as protected employees were slotted into place without competition. We were advised to check the intranet site daily for new listings, but for those departments being virtually eliminated, it was akin to a daily reminder that you were no longer needed. More than once I walked down a hallway and gently closed a door to mask the sounds of open sobbing within. This went on for months, a subtle pressure, an unseen but ever-present miasma sapping our spirits.

Every few days some placements would be announced: someone would get a position, and they would weep openly with relief. Different days people would get that other call call from human resources, suggesting that perhaps they might set their sights a little lower, or consider a complete change of careers, or you know, leave the company entirely. In those days of interviews everyone squirmed and tried to augur their own future in the entrails of the dead.

Along the way there were the requisite ceremonies, although there was more than a whiff of the wake to them. There were happy hours, and corporate celebrations, and retirement parties for those who had stockpiled enough years and good will to call it quits. Some of it was fun, and there was enough mordant humor to take the edge off the horror of attending your own professional funeral. Still, the subtle rift had started to form between the “go-forwards” with new positions in the company, and the “Not-Going-Forwards” or “NGFs.” I suppose it is a form of survivor’s guilt, and understandable in that context; that didn’t make it any less awkward for us all.

My own position, like that of many other people working in operational functions, was even stranger. Information technology was being eliminated completely from the regions, so our entire team was being let go. In theory we could have applied for positions in Atlanta with the corporate IT group, but as they were enduring layoffs of their own the likelihood of success was not strong. However, early in the process the gods in New York and Cincinnati and Atlanta realized that they needed people in the regions to keep the company running while they worked out their new national strategies. This placed a few of us in the unenviable position of half-life: we would be allowed to keep our jobs beyond the deadline, but had no future with the company, either. We couldn’t stop moving, but couldn’t move on.

I was one of four people from IT who would be moving into this half-life, so I wanted to say goodbye to my team. I had the best group of people working for me I can imagine, so one day near the end I gathered them together, and we went away from prying eyes and into the basement of the building. I gave them a little speech, we talked about our plans, we said our farewells. This was as close as I was able to get to closure with a team of brilliant and caring people no longer needed by the company. It ripped my soul out to let go, but it was time. All over the company, in varying ways and in varying places similar scenarios were playing out — co-workers were becoming people again, and were saying goodbye.

Then it was April 30th, and the end came. IT and security set up a station to collect the corporate effects of dead careers: building passes, laptops, cameras, ID cards, the hardware and ephemera no longer needed for a post-layoff life. Some people approached it with humor, telling us that “At least I won’t have to deal with this piece of shit laptop any more!” Some said nothing, just signing a form and walking away. Mainly, though, it was a matter of fact transaction. Three months of waiting had come to an end, and the sense of relief from most people was as tangible as their ID cards.

But there were tears, too. A woman gave me her building pass and then hugged me as though I were a dying friend, and choked out her gratitude to me for never treating her like a fool when she called for technical support, even when she knew her questions were stupid, and how much that respect meant to her, and how much she would miss me, and then she staggered off toward the elevators crying in Spanish. Sadly, I have no idea who she was, only that she was someone who wanted to have her last moment at a company where she’d spent years of her life, and where she had felt like she was more important as a person than just as a minimum wage data-entry clerk.

Through the day they came, some just walking away from yet another job, some moving on to a new career, some ending a major chapter in their life. And meanwhile, just a few feet away, those who got positions in the new company focussed on learning their new roles and carrying out their new tasks, and tried not to look at the queues of the dead filing toward the elevators. Many of them, I later learned, had chosen to use a vacation day rather than see their friends walk away.

When the day was done there was a happy hour, a funeral for the Burdines that was, and for the careers of those let go. But funerals are for the living and for the dead, not for those still trapped between worlds. This wasn’t my Ragnarok; I just went home.