I’m getting fired. I know it, but my boss hasn’t told me yet. But I know it. I can’t say how, because the way I found out was (REDACTED), and people who know me through work read this web site. You people will soon not know me through work. Maybe you will know me as a human being.
Anyway, I’m getting fired. I got tipped off when the H.R. lady for the large corporation– fuck it, I’ll just say it, who cares now. I work for a production company that has what’s called a “term deal” at (REDACTED), the studio, not the network that you’ve actually heard of and is what any sane person would assume you mean when you say “(REDACTED)”– this is why I fucking hate show business, having to explain this god damn shit to people at parties– anyway, my boss gets a chunk of money to have an office at (REDACTED) and in return all the TV shows we make have to get underwritten by (REDACTED), the studio.
I knew when the lady from (REDACTED) corporate H.R. was calling for my boss. And he didn’t want to take the call when I was there. A couple times she called, meaning, he had called her back. There is no other call he would ever make himself, when I wasn’t around. It means he’s firing me. He shut his door and was talking to her. He is an idiot, which means, he does not know that everyone in the entire building can hear every word of every call he’s on when both doors of his office are closed. It causes maybe a ten per cent reduction in the noise he’s making, closing these hollow-core doors that resonate like tympanis. I would have brought it up to him but then he would have made me get into a long involved struggle to get the doors replaced with soundproof vault doors but without him paying for it; I would have had to convince people whose entire jobs are to ensure that (REDACTED) Corporation does not spend money, to spend a ton of money replacing the doors in the building so that he wouldn’t need to speak slightly more softly, and bringing it up would have made him forever vigilant about the acoustics of the free doors and etc., so fuck it. There is no winning. Bringing up a problem means it is yours to solve, and it is ultimately unsolvable, and any problem with the solution is going to be blamed on you. So fuck it. Anyway, obviously, I am going to eavesdrop on this call. I can’t not eavesdrop in any of his calls; I constantly have to hear his voice. When I go to hell it will be piped in. But this is the one time I desperately wanted to. I had to know.
But it was the girl upstairs’ birthday. Her boss, who is not a cruel lizard-eyed demon, got her a birthday card. It was an audio card with a realistic and loud recording of cats meowing to the tune of “Happy Birthday.” Like the dogs singing “Jingle Bells.” Cute, right? This is the kind of thing these two do for each other, this young woman and her boss. And the other girl who works for the other company upstairs, all laughing and chattering over this card. The opening of the card for the first time coincided exactly with the beginning of the call which would tell me definitively whether or not I would remain employed. The call lasted maybe three minutes. They played the card fifteen fucking times. Meow meow meow meow MEEEEEOOOOOWW meeeowww. Fifteen times. I was terrified of getting fired, even though I hate my job. I am eight grand in credit card debt and my checking account has seventeen dollars in it. I hate my job, but I need it. I had to know. Meow meow meow meow MEEEOOOW meooowww….
When the fuck did the audio cards get so good? Used to be the tune from a music box played in the tone of a smoke alarm telling you it was running out of batteries. I guess it’s to be expected; there would be a Moore’s Law for fucking birthday cards, and someday it would be real audio of cats actually meowing, autotuned to “Happy Birthday” and “When I’m 64.” But why did they also have to crank it up to the volume level of a motherfucking air raid siren and why did one of these hyperrealistic singing cat cards have to be presented to the bubbly girl upstairs who actually likes her boss and never does any work whatsoever at the exact moment when a phone conversation was being had that will determine whether I can pay my rent and feed my cat and not move back in with my motherfucking parents at age 36.
They all came downstairs, finally. They were walking from their office to the office of the show where the nice lady boss works, as a writer, a comedy writer– she is really very funny and sweet; whoever the guy who married her is, he scored like motherfucking Harry Potter with the sneetch– and they were laughing and giggling about this cat card still, and they offered me a piece of cake. I felt like I had just emerged from Tower 2 moments before it pancaked, like I had walked over the body of my coworker who had jumped out of an eighty sixth floor window to get away from the kerosene smoke and just run like hell with half my scalp flapping off– they were giggling and said have a piece of cake. They showed me the cake. It was one of those fancy ones. In L.A. they have crazy fancy boutique bakeries and shit, this cake was like– if Hailee Steinfeld’s virgin pussy were a cake, it would be this cake. I had had a light lunch. I was desperately hungry for this cake. But I couldn’t communicate with them. I just told them no. They kept insisting. I told them I was sick. I tried to be funny about it. I try to be on top of my game, especially with the comedy writer, to show her that if I wanted to be a comedy writer, I could be a comedy writer too. It’s not true, I’m sure. But they were in such good moods. Come on and laugh, have a piece of cake. Leave me alone and shove your fucking cake up your ass, is what I was thinking. They wouldn’t leave me alone about the cake and the fucking cat card while I was getting fired. It figures it would be something like this.
I’m scared about the money. But also: fuck my job, fuck my boss, fuck my colleagues, fuck everyone I work with. Fuck Hollywood, fuck movies, fuck television. I fucking hate all of it, every god damn motherfucking second; my whole day is just waiting for the day to be over and I’ve wasted years and years of my life like this. Thank you, my boss, for firing me. It is the one right and merciful thing you’ve ever done, and the one smart decision I’ve ever seen you make. Someone else will do a much better job. Or they won’t; you are impossible to do a good job for because you suck and you are an incomprehensible idiot. Literally the worst manager of employees I have ever seen, and I’ve worked in sewers. I’ve cleaned toilets; I did fucking scam telemarketing; I sold ads to whores out of the back of the free weekly paper– you are infinitely less skilled at being a boss than any of my bosses at any of these places ever were. If I could wave a magic wand and see you dead I would do it; if I could see you on fire and hear you scream screams of unimaginable pain it would be the only time I have ever jerked off to a man. A thousand deaths and a million hells are not enough for you, and your children, and your children’s children. But thanks for employing me.