Saying Goodbye

Ten minutes after you're gone scavengers raid your old desk. Who takes the stapler? Who takes the tape? Who splits with the Post-its and who grabs the letter opener? 

So begins the poem "Ten Minutes" by my friend Anthony Buccino from his book of poems, "Canned".

I have been through this many times over the years, on both sides. At the wire service where I worked for 12 years as a copy editor I took the stapler from the now-vacant desk of a departed colleague because every time I'd look for a stapler at the supply closet there were none. I still have the stapler.

At this same wire service the boss - another in a line of jerks who were mainly white men who had trouble dealing with my "attitude," whatever that was at the time - was looking for a way to get rid of me and I provided it by accidentally putting the wrong time on an embargoed story that ran 24 hours too early. 

First, I was busted down to copy reader, meaning I could edit but not publish. However, I could read the writing on the virtual wall and knew what was coming. I started taking home or copying things I would need for my next job.

Even so, by the time my union padre took me on the long walk to the HR office for my "separation" agreement I needed three shopping bags to take the last of my personal stuff home. I walked around saying goodbye to the other copy editors and the reporters I'd worked with for over a decade. A now-former colleague helped me take my bags to the street, then he hugged me and went back to work. I walked the 10 blocks south to the train station and the ride home.

I was lucky. For the next 13 years that wire service connection helped me get other jobs that kept me steadily employed, including the last one, at an online cryptocurrency publication. For three months I went to the office and formed strong relationships with other editors and reporters. Those relationships were helpful after Covid struck and I was working from home. I never went back to the office.

When the cryptocurrency that provided lots of good times at the company went south in value, the publisher needed to close a huge budget hole to attract a new buyer. To close that hole a bunch of us were fired - virtually. I had just returned from a week off, and an hour into my return I was called to a "meeting" where two senior editorial people told me I was being let go. The company was smart. The first wave of people fired were from different departments and were of different ages, so I could not sue for age discrimination even if I had wanted to do so. 

The stapler I kept. (Margo D. Beller)

Again, I was lucky. The settlement was generous and added to my savings from years of 401(k) matches. A few months later my husband and I were on Medicare and then, having reach my "full retirement age," we were on Social Security. 

Within months the publisher found a new buyer, who eventually replaced almost all the senior people, including the publisher (who didn't like my asking pesky questions during staff meetings) and the two senior editorial people who fired me.

Karma.