One More Styrofoam Parachute

For 21 years he drove the same route, down the hill, across the city, from suburb to corporate tower--an hour-plus in either direction. Over the years he spent enough time car-bound to learn blues licks on a guitar, and once he listened to an entire novel on tape. Something about Van Gogh’s sister. He got in assorted fender-benders and sat out too many SigAlerts to remember. Mainly, though, he just drove. Same road, same office. Twenty-one years.

He was what corporate headhunters once called a $60,000-a-year man, with a shared secretary, an office without windows and a deskful of the middling duties that make the business world go round. A decade ago there was much learned hand-wringing over whether L.A., with its inflated real estate and rough commutes, could attract enough of these white-collar workers. Then along came downsizing--later known, in the executioner’s euphemism, as “right-sizing.” After the elimination of thousands upon thousands of jobs, there were now more than enough corporate worker bees to go around.

Our friend--and his is a true tale, though he wants to remain anonymous--figured the hatchet would never find him. He worked hard and was loyal; he thought the company stood for something. He could make more money elsewhere, but he liked the security. “You have a job here,” he’d been told when hired, “for as long as you want. You have security.”

And he did, for 21 years.

*

The first signs were subtle. The top executives quit bothering to flash pretend smiles when they wandered through his department. He began to notice how new office clerks no longer were brought around for introductions. Before too long there were staff meetings and memos on a singular topic: “Belt-tightening.”

Now the company was flush. In fact, its war chest of ready cash was a regular source of industry speculation. The best the worker bees could figure, the belt-tightening clamor was aimed at Wall Street. Investors like lean, and they adore mean. Corporate Darwinism, and all that. Or maybe the CEO simply didn’t want to risk ridicule among his right-sizing buddies. Who knew? “In these deals,” he said, “they never give you a why.”

His supervisors went first, strapped to traditional golden parachutes. The new bosses promptly changed all locks. “Just for your security,” he was assured. And then everyone in the department was summoned for an individual “chat” with an executive freshly arrived from New York. This one wore a gray suit, smiled wide with fine white teeth, and talked excitedly about how much fun it would be, bringing the department “into the 1990s.”

Right away, our boy knew he was sunk: “Once he started talking about bringing us into the ‘90s, I quit listening and started to study his teeth. He lost all human form. All I could see was a big barracuda smiling at me. He had jaggedy, razor teeth, and they were worn down--like he had been using them a lot. And his eyes were in a feeding mood. I said to myself, ‘Start swimming for shore.’ ”

In the end, it came down to this: He could volunteer to leave and receive a year’s salary; or he could try to hang on in a hostile environment, risking, as he put it, “my Styrofoam parachute.” He asked to think for a minute. “Not much choice,” he said. The barracuda smiled. He remembered the long business trips, the working weekends. He remembered 21 years. He knew they meant nothing.

“Where,” he sighed, “do I sign?”

*

In a few weeks, he’ll be done. He’ll surrender his pager, endure a boozy send-off full of lies, and hit the road home. Already he’s watched the replacements move in, a brigade of $30,000-a-year eager beavers, all young and absolutely convinced of their security. The initial anger and hurt have faded. Worse than finally facing the barracuda is the dread of waiting for the encounter. He sees this fear in the few colleagues who declined the buyout. They huddle among themselves, whispering. Their eyes move too fast.

Such fear, of course, is almost everywhere these days. It is where the anger comes from, the anger that politicians misdirect toward easy villains like welfare mothers and illegal immigrants. This creates voter blocs while diverting attention from the true source of discontent--the steady elimination of good jobs in a recovered economy: one “business trend” no politician will touch.

And so our friend is on his own. Everyone tells him he looks happy. He’s got resumes out and plenty of plans. Art projects. College courses. That vague new American frontier, called consulting. Shoot, he’s only 50. He can do it. Of course, there’s a lot of competition out there.