Unceremoniously Dumped by Corporate America

I was 22 when I broke my first world record. It all started with an abrupt tap on my shoulder at 10:30 a.m. on a Monday in the heart of corporate America — if corporate America even has a heart.

Just a week prior, I had pranced bright-eyed and bushy-tailed into my first day of work after being on the prowl for far too long. While my liberal arts degree made for a compelling education, it apparently didn’t make me a very compelling hire. I had finally found a company that saw value in my limited experience and character. It was a sigh of relief.

A woman with a tight smile and an even tighter ponytail briskly led me into an empty conference room. I was confused by the impromptu meeting, but things began to dawn on me once she opened her mouth: “This isn’t an easy conversation to have…”

Is she firing me a week into my first job? No way. That would be absurd.

“We’ve decided we only need one person for this role, and between the two of you…”

She put my manager on the phone to reiterate the bomb she had just dropped. A whirlwind was brewing in my mind, but my disposition remained dumbstruck. I couldn’t choke out a word. I was on the verge of tears.

My perpetual lack of a poker face wasn’t doing me any favors when it came to saving face. This was the corporate edition of the guy who emotionlessly blindsides you with a breakup while you sit there trying to salvage an ounce of pride, only to end up sobbing and calling your mom.

“We’ll be happy to provide a recommendation for you if you need one. We’re all about community here.” The only letter I’d trust these people with is a death warrant.

The HR robot was in such a hurry to usher me out that she forgot to take my badge. I trudged up the stairs in a walk of shame to hand it to her. She flashed a pearly grin as if she hadn’t just pulverized my spirit and stepped over the corpse, all before lunch.

They wasted no time changing my logins. By 11 a.m., there was no trace of my short-lived corporate existence.

I walked down the street to the train station for the last time, wondering if anyone would notice my absence, if I had made any impact at all. I recalled how it had almost been drizzling on my way in that morning. That should’ve been my first clue. Pathetic fallacy never fails me.

I may have unceremoniously lost my first job, but I gained the title of shortest job ever kept. I tell myself that failures make funnier, more memorable stories than successes, but in the moment, it hurts. It might hurt slightly less when I don’t have to rise at 5 a.m. every morning. My inner night owl squawks in distress at the 9-to-5 lifestyle.