1, 2, 3, 4, 5

A while ago, readers of this blog might have noticed an odd post. The contents were a single number which appeared once in the post title and once in the post's body. It was up for just a day or so. 

I promised someone an explanation, and here it is.

*   *   *

I was somewhere over Greenland when it first happened.

Mom and I were flying back from Norway and I had a series of thoughts that haven't left me.

I was looking out the maddeningly thick window at a distorted, frozen landscape and my drama starved imagination conjured up a 'for instance.' And then it just wouldn't stop.

What if the plane tore itself apart right now?

I would die.

But what if the plane came apart without hurting you?

I would still die. At cruising altitude there simply isn't enough air to breathe.

What If you held your breath until you fell into thicker air?

I would still die. Cerebral or pulmonary edema.

Those might not affect you before you...

Froze to death? It's -50 up there. Centigrade.

Dressed warmly...

I would miraculously remain alive and conscious during the six mile plunge to my death.

But if you had a parachute...

And the foresight to strap it on before I was hurled into a frozen, oxygen starved plummet.

You could-

Crash onto Greenland's ice shelf and wander aimlessly until I froze.

To.

Death.

*   *   *

It's thoughts like this that drive home how completely insane it is to be flying in a commercial jetliner.

All those people sitting around you, jostling over seat inclines and gazing expectantly at the attendants? They are shielded from certain death by an aluminium barrier that is a fraction of an inch thick. The notional protection of seat belts, masks, and flotation devices - glossed over with movies, snacks and beverage service. All of it. It makes no sense.

I am not a bad flyer. I don't get shortness of breath, or grip my seat or do any of the classic freak outs. 

Point of fact, I don't freak out. I just fly. But that part of my brain that delights in imagining tragedy and horror is terribly overstocked with source material when it comes to aircraft.

So that's what my brain does while I fly - run an endless loop of Tenerife, Jet Blue, and Lockerbie. My own private 'Seconds from Disaster.' And as a - reasonably - rational adult, I would just deal. But I'm finding there's a difference between flying with my family - and flying without them.

With them, there are countless logistical distractions. Keep the kids from fighting, hold out on deploying snacks or electronics. Bathroom breaks for one and all. There's no time to think, much less think about the thousand of ways everyone you hold dear could suddenly become doomed.

And even if you could, you'd have to eat it, because you can't freak in front of your little girl. Man up, right?

First time I flew without my family, I was going to London. I've been lots of places, but I'd never been to Europe as an adult and there were lots of distractions. Outbound is always easier, you're fresher and looking forward to new adventures. 

The return leg is different. You're beat, and you're headed back to the known - the resumption of all you'd flown away from. 

And Greenland was the return leg from London. It was like a series of bursting dams. I'd hold firm for awhile and then some new possibility would occur to me and I'd be seized with the overwhelming urge to walk the F$%8 around. To run. To scream that we needed to get to a safer altitude, because this sh!t just isn't right.

Air travel was different for me after that.

*   *   *

Sometime after it became clear that I would be taking a second trip to Europe with Mom, I had the idea.

Whenever Mom flew in for a visit, she would joke about things we probably should know and file away. Y'know, here's where I store my logins - in case the plane goes down.

When dad died - I remembered being impressed at how well organized things were. Paperwork was filed away, bills paid, very little to sort out. Aside from waiting for the overwhelmed state agencies to give us dad's death certificate - I think there were two loose ends. We had to transfer title of two of the vehicles that were under just his name to Mom - since the storm had totaled them and insurance wouldn't pay out to a dead man. That, and the gun safe combo was only in dad's head - we had to go through a Byzantine recovery process to get the manufacturer to give it to us.  But on the whole, dad's things were in order.

The thought of getting on a plane again had me wondering what kind of hairball I'd leave to my family if the plane went down. Little stuff like, would they know where to find the bill schedule? Or big stuff like, do I have enough life insurance? To entertain any of these thoughts is to start down an endless slope of self examination. Do I have my sh!t together? What if somebody had to pick up where I left off?

Once the administrative anxieties find their new level - the next logical step in the freak out is thinking of what happens to your loved ones. How you would miss out of their life's milestones, all the things you'd want them to know if you were gone-

-and then you think of leaving them a note in a safe place.

But leaving a piece of paper around seems foolish, because it could get thrown out - or lost, or opened by mistake after you've made it back safely.

I needed a note that would be inaccessible unless the worst happened - when it would become easily available.

And I thought...Blogger allows you to schedule posts in the future... 

That's where it started. I would write a final post that would publish automatically if the worst happened.

*   *   *

I started out by thinking I would write a last letter and quickly decided that a single message was not going to work out.

For one thing, I needed at least one other message. One that posted after my return date just in case I came home and forgot about the scheduled message. Sort of a tripwire message. If it published after I got back, it would be the reminder for me to log in and remove the other message.

Then I thought a single message was taking the easy way out. Like a Christmas letter from the beyond. Hi, everyone. I'm gone now - but I wanted to say a few things... I tried to write that a few times and couldn't make it work. There just wasn't an intro.

I decided on something more focused. Write something for each of them, to them. Those words came to me a lot easier. I would have the posts publish on each of their birthdays. I'd heard of a parent doing something like that, but rather than a series of messages - I'd just have one. I didn't want to linger. I didn't want to haunt.

So then, plan in hand - I went to work.

The tripwire message would publish first, but I knew I couldn't write it until I was done with the others.

*   *   *

First one up on the calendar: the Boy.

I'd tell him how proud I was of him - watching his all-in enthusiasm for the things he loved. How much he reminds me of my dad when he picks a task and runs it down. I'd tell him how I loved watching him happily working away on one of his projects. Or how I'd marvel at the questions he would ask - questions that a battalion of scientists might answer - but were utterly beyond his hapless father.

I would tell him he was my first child, my only son - and that I loved him beyond measure. I would ask him to forgive my failings as a father. Parental mistakes never leave you, and you never get the context to truly express how sorry you are for letting your children down - for being less than the father they deserved.

I would tell him that my world changed after my father was gone - but the responsibilities I'd left to him were things I needed to embrace. I wish my father were here, but I wish I'd realized I didn't have to wait for his help a lot earlier. I have surely made things hard for my boy by lording what I know over him. I should have encouraged more and chastised less.  I tried to be honest about what I knew and what I didn't - and I hoped he would do the same.

My lovely boy.

Be nice, work hard, be honest.

*   *   *

The first draft was terrible, even worse than what you're reading now. But it was therapeutic, in a way. Putting it down in words forced me to think about a lot of things and there was that feeling that I was doing something responsible. Checking something off on a list.

*   *   *

Next up on the calendar would be E.

I knew this one would be hard - partly because there were always trivial, administrative things that would crowd out what I wanted to say. Things like make sure to check on the life insurance policy. Things that were awkward to put in a public blog, but easier to pull out of my head than the real things I needed to say.

Like how I've loved our life together. How we've managed to be comfortable with each other just being how we are for almost two decades. How marvelous it was to watch E in a house full of bustle when we're spooling up for a holiday meal or some gathering. I know she loves that - and it reminds me so much of watching her mom ramp up for one of their family brunches. E loves to make a gathering, thrives on the disorder because it always works out. Left to my own devices, I'd probably tend towards hermit - but E craved contact and would fill the house with people.

I admired E's point of view. How she would always call you out on your bullsh!t. You always hear people say that parenthood changes you, makes you live for someone else, but marriage is a hell of a big shift, too. You share all your viewpoints with someone and learn which ones are indefensible. E's moral compass has trumped many of my antiquated viewpoints and I treasure those moments where one of E's off the cuff pronouncements has changed the way I view everything.

My post to E broke down on all sorts of levels. I kept coming up with random thoughts: Make sure you get a big, floppy dog. And I kept trying to avoid dwelling on regrets.

I'm sorry I never took you to Hawaii.
I'm sorry I won't be there when you need me. I know I swore I would never leave you.

I remember closing with gratitude, how marvelous it was to be with her. How I loved goofing off with her. How I thought she was a spectacular mom. How our late night chats about anything were the best conversation to be had - and I loved how she'd snap "Freak!" at me when I'd pester her.

And I loved pestering her.

I was so proud to see her get her Masters. Doubly so when she made the huge leap to her newest job. Plunging into the deep end after years of the stable and the known. So awesome. 

I love seeing her delight in the kids. Her enthusiasm and love for their every little thing.

*   *   *

There is too much.  This is what I kept learning. How do you sum up a life with family? How do you write a last anything to them?

I kept going back, revising. Evaluating if I'd said enough. Pruning out the sappy. It would never end.

*   *   *

Little e's birthday would be last.

My little happiness factory. Running to meet me - always ready with a huge hug. She made me a poster for my birthday. A rapid fire drawing of E, that said "Happy Birthday! Your Wife, E!" which is perhaps the greatest poster of all time.

I love how she devours books, delights in people and loves to get her groove on. I'm sure over time, she will stop calling me the World's Greatest Dad, but I will use her words as armor against whatever the world will throw at me forever.

I loved saving you from whatever problem you had, little e - but I know you have it in you to be your own solution to things. It's fine to ask for help - but you'd be surprised at what you are capable of.

I love how she will instantly ask after a word she doesn't know - because she wants to understand. I was the kid who'd stay quiet and hope I'd figure it out eventually, rather than risk a question. Keep asking your questions, there is no safety in ignorance.

Hold on to your joy. Be good to your brother. Take care of your mother.

*   *  *

So many things to say - and a note does not allow for the passage of time. You cannot give personal safety advice for a teenage daughter when she's still in elementary school.

Always with siblings, there must be parity. Have I said too much for one and not the other?

Had the worst happened, I wouldn't have known my boy would make the National Honor Roll for math. Something I'm immensely proud of. Not because of the competition, but because he leaned that if he stuck with something he could accomplish great things.

I treasured the pride in his eyes when my son held his medals. Remember that feeling when you are thinking of saying 'no' to something. You can do great things.

The thought that I could have missed that. It's too much.

Thinking of my little girl in her little tricycle, determined to finish the 4th of July parade - on her own.

These moments bubble up into a flood and soon I have to stop.

*   *   *

In writing, you kill your darlings. Pare the words back to the most essential - and exterminate the rest.

I'd done the opposite. Started with the idea of a single post and I'd turned it into four.

The first post, I just called "1" - because I couldn't manage to start it. This was the tripwire post. Once I got back it could serve as the warning post for me to stop the others. But the content was always up in the air. Hi, I might be dead right now...or I just forgot to stop this message from displaying. Keep watching this blog to see which is true.

Then a post for each of my family: 2, 3, 4 posts.

And then 5.

It would seem unjust to end the posts with one directed at a single family member, just because of the calendar. And I'd need to make clear that there would be no more messages. They should know when I was done.

So I started a fifth post - I'd settled on Christmas. Just a short message to tell them how I loved them - how I wished them the very best and that this would be my last post on the blog.

*   *   *

It was the editing that broke me.  I couldn't kill my darlings. I couldn't find ways to make them say everything I wanted. I couldn't make them equal because there was always something left out.

I re-listened to the radio story about that mother who sent the letters - it didn't end well. I knew that, but hearing the anguish in her daughter's voice - I knew a drawn out series of messages could play out in ways I couldn't control.

And then I thought about the likely scenario where I arrive safely home. The scenario where I delete all these messages - so my family won't see them. 

That made the least sense of all. Why would I hide these things from my family? Whatever final words I wanted to leave them with are things I should probably be saying while I'm still here.

The more I thought about it - the less I wanted to keep editing hidden blog posts. I figured I should do a better job of making sure I'm saying these things out loud. To my family.

When my father died, I remember people asking me "if there was anything they could do," and the only answer I had for them came years later.

Is there anything you could do? Yes.
If you love someone, the next chance you get - and I mean the very next chance you get 
- tell them so. 

*   *   *

About a week before our flight to Paris, I started deleting the posts, 5, 4, 3, 2.  All that angst and foolishness blown away with a few clicks.  It felt pretty good.

The '1' post was empty, save for the single '1' I'd put in there when I first had the idea.

Somehow, in the rush to go - I'd left that post in there & it published after I got back.

I got a comment asking after what it meant and I promised an explanation - so here it is.

I'm kind of glad '1' published by mistake. Helped me think about a lot of things that needed a little brainwork.

-But flying still scares the crap out of me.

Another Letter

Round two came back in the mail after only three days. I was rushing out the door, and almost missed it. I'd sent out maybe a dozen or so documents and, lo and behold, back came an envelope containing a dozen or so sheets of paper.

Seen that before.

I chucked the rest of the mail on the couch, balanced my bag on the handrail - and ripped it open. It had a cover letter. One hand reaching for my keys, I looked for the check box.

But there wasn't one. This was a genuine letter, signed even. It said "Enclosed are the documents you requested."

I'm halfway out of the house, swinging the door closed, reading-

George _________ - Born March 20, 1887.
Hospitalized: August 31, 1921 - April 17, 1923.

I'll be damned.
There it was, in black and white. I sat down on the porch and began reading.

---

It was not a happy story.

It began with interview notes. In them, the patient is described as a common laborer. In the blank next to "education," the doctor has entered - "not much." The patient is asked a series of questions about the world around him; He knows who the president is, he knows that the Mississippi is the largest river in the US, and so on.

He doesn't know why he's here. He knows he owns his own house; he's had trouble with his wife over the children. He did threaten to kill her, but he didn't mean it. He thinks his wife doesn't care for him, that she might be unfaithful. She's been saying things, you see.

The diagnosis is brief.

The other documents were a chronology of patient behavior and disposition. Every month or so, the patient gets three or more lines of text.

Lines like:

...patient does no work...
...sits and stares into space...
...wanders the ward aimlessly...
...dull and stupid.

All entries report the patient is in good physical condition. Treatment is not mentioned at all.
The last entries record a change in demeanor: the patient has "a high opinion of himself" and occasionally attacks staff. The final entry has an almost exasperated tone:

Transferred by order of the Board of Control. Condition unimproved

There was a lot in the letter, but that's where it ended, 1923. Two years down, forty odd more to go.

If there is more to be had, I'll find it.

< Previous

One Small Box

I don't know exactly what I expected to find when I started chasing after my great grandfather, but it wasn't this.

Okay, that's not quite true - I did expect a few things. Fairly unrealistic things, now that I think about it. I was caught up in what I thought was a bit of a mystery - and mysteries always get my imagination going. I had started with one piece of information: the name of the facility where my great-grandpa George died

I was hot on the trail.

As it happened, there is a facility with that name right where I live (what luck). All the documentation I needed practically fell into my lap. All I needed to do was write a letter and ask them to send me everything they had on my great grandfather. This was going to be a fairly straightforward case.

So be it. If the hunt was to be easy - there was still the anticipation of what I would discover - what they would send me.

Here's how I pictured it:

I would wait a few days, then weeks, and then about the time I'd forgotten about ever making the request, it would arrive.

In my imagination, it would be a small, well-worn box. It would have a few dusty photographs of people I'd never met, maybe a book or two written in Russian, and (best of all) official documentation of my great-grandfather's confinement. There would be a certain amount of finality to it, but with enough leads to take me to new mysteries - if I was interested.

That's what I expected, but then - Hollywood has really done a number on my generation.

What I did get was a letter. In it was the request and supporting documentation I'd sent them - they were sending it back. They'd attached a cover sheet with four lines of text on it. Each line was next to a check box.

One of these boxes was checked. It said:

Our files have been carefully checked and we are unable to determine that the patient was ever seen at [our facility]

So much for imagination, so much for easy.

So much for round one. Round two is in the mail, and I've queued up round three. Mysteries be damned, I just hate to lose.

I'm still on the trail.

< Previous

A Letter For George

I wrote this story about ten years ago.
At the time, it was a curiosity - a mystery, even. I've said before, I'm stubborn.
But I think this story has me beat.

Apologies to those who've heard this chapter before, but this time around - there will be new chapters.

For most of my family, the story began with an envelope that arrived sometime before 1965.

---

It was an unremarkable envelope, and it arrived at my grandparent's home while my grandfather George was away. It was addressed to him, but it was my grandmother who opened it. There was a Lancaster postmark, and the return address was from a hospital she'd never heard of.

Within moments of reading it, my grandmother was in hysterics.

The letter was from a physician. He seemed to be asking for permission to amputate George’s leg. This was necessary, the doctor explained, because George was not fit to make such decisions on his own.

Her husband worked on a train - had there been an accident? She frantically called coworkers and friends. No, they assured her, there had been no accident on the train. Even if there were - they certainly wouldn't notify the family by mail. George should be home on schedule, and everything should sort itself out.

Which left my grandmother at home staring at the clock and wondering; Why was it addressed to George? Was this all a mistake?

George did arrive on schedule, unharmed. When his wife confronted him with the letter, his response was indirect: “My God, he's still alive."

Who?

"My father."

And that was all he'd say. The letter's existence was only enough to pry out the necessary detail that George and his father shared a first name. After that, all questions were met with a gruff, "leave it alone."

The letter vanished, presumably signed and returned. Somewhere in Lancaster, a man no one knew lost his leg. There would be one more letter, years later. Grandpa George would read that one in private.

---

In all the memories of my grandfather, I can remember only one utterance about his father. "He said he was from Georgia. White Russia." He had said it like he was unsure -and wished he wasn't. I never asked him why he hadn't just asked his dad to be certain, it just didn't occur to me.

A lot never occurred to me back then. I also never wondered about why I had a grandfather with a surname shared by none of my great-grandparents. I was a kid, and had no interest in old people with funny names.

---

My early memories of Grandpa George were simple.

He was a mountain of a man with a booming voice. He was the kind of person who would do anything for you if he liked you, but he gave off vibes that told you not to ask for much. Truth was, I was afraid of him for a long time.

He was a history buff. He loved hearing a good story as much as telling one - so long as it was true. He had no use for fiction. Grandpa had an elephantine memory for battles and their generals, and he could put you right in the middle of whatever battle he was describing.

He loved firearms, and had a gun collection that was modest in size, but had no peer when it came to maintenance. Nobody had cleaner guns than Grandpa George. He'd take one out for just a minute, then clean it for ten before putting it back. We used to joke that grandpa liked cleaning guns more than shooting them.

I spent a lot of time watching grandpa clean his guns. That, and listening to everything grandpa knew about gun safety - grandpa was nuts about gun safety.

He was of course, much more than that. But I was a kid with simple questions and simple views. By the time my questions actually meant something, the time to ask them had passed.

---

Over time, I learned little else about my Great-grandfather. Mostly from how people said something about him, rather than what words they'd chosen. "Oh, yeah..." they'd say, "he left when grandpa was young."

It was in college that my curiosity finally connected the dots on why my great-grandmother didn’t share Grandpa George’s last name; she'd remarried. A fact that everyone knew, but one that somehow managed to elude me for more than two decades. Of course she'd remarried, her husband had left her. 

Asked and answered.

---

Not too long ago, some other peoples' memories finally came bubbling to the surface. They were from George's sister Francie, by way of my mother. Before she died, Francie had told my mother a little about George Sr.

"Our father had a terrible temper," she'd told my mother, "just terrible."

It seems that George Sr. also had a modest collection of guns, and also kept them in near-immaculate condition. One day when my grandfather was around ten years old, he took one of his father's guns without permission and went shooting out in the woods. Once he was done, he snuck it back into his father's gun case and never said a word.

Of course, he'd put them back dirty.

It's easy to imagine what happened next. The father comes home and notices that someone has been using his guns. He confronts his son, who - being a kid - denies everything. Then he shows George Jr. the proof: dirt and residue on rifles that are always clean.

Then, according to Francie, George Sr. proceeded to beat his son.

Francie was a kind soul, so she called it a beating. But beating is far too small a word for what my great-grandfather did to his son that night.

I should point out that unless some ancient police report surfaces, there is no way to know what occurred with any certainty. All who were there are now dead. However, the two facts I have pretty much tell the story.

After that night - my great-grandmother gathered her children and left her husband forever. Because of what he did, my great-grandfather was put into a state mental hospital, where he spent the rest of his life.

It was this hospital that sent my grandfather the letter all those years later.

---

One other memory from my childhood comes back to me now. There was a time when my grandfather kept a pistol in his nightstand. Being a kid, it took no time at all for me to find it, and only one or two days for me to build up the nerve to actually pick it up.

It was, oddly enough, at a time when my parents and uncles were in the next room. I had figured they were too busy to worry about me, and anyway - I wanted to pick up the pistol.

It was a Browning 9mm, your classic movie pistol, and it was impressive. Aping what I had seen on TV, I gripped it and pulled the slide back-

-and watched a live round slide halfway out of the side of the gun, jamming it open.

I was dead. I knew it, I was too terrified to let the slide go back, because any slip could make the gun go off. Even if I managed to clear the jam, I'd have to take a bullet out of the gun and grandpa would know.

Kid logic exhausted, I gave up. I set down the pistol and went to my grandpa and told him to follow me.

As I entered his room with him behind me, I could just see it coming. I'd let him down. Everything he'd shown me, everything he taught me, I'd blown it, and he was going to hit the roof. He'd start with, "NEVER pick up a gun without an adult!!" and then my parents and everyone would come in and join in, and my life would be over.

But he didn't.

He cleared the jam, put the pistol away, and said "Forget about it. I've forgotten about it already." Then he pushed me out of the room. I couldn't believe it. He didn't punish me, he didn't even yell.

He got rid of the pistol after that, but he never brought that day up again - or told anyone about it - and I never understood.

I think I do now.

...

FTE Tuesday

With the drama done, I'm focused on getting myself brought on full time at the new gig. The new gig was contract-to-hire and - originally - I was supposed to have been a full time employee after two to three months.

Not that the contracting part of the new gig has been bad. In contrast to the other staffing company I worked for (and all of the ones I've heard colleagues talk about), my current staffing company has been good. Really good.

As in, they are beating on the doors to get me hired as a FTE. Which is the total opposite of my previous company - who let me sit as a contractor for well over five years and seemed perfectly content to let me stay that way.

Being a contractor has some upsides, but I've always wanted to be part of the team.

The new staffing company was keen to get me situated - it was just my current client is slow to move on just about anything.

Thinking back to how they agreed to hire me on contract - it was a month of zero communication from them before they suddenly asked me to come aboard. That's not terribly normal anywhere else but here - apparently.

In their defense, my understanding of the situation is that they'd signed a contract to provide a contract worker for X amount of hours. My predecessor, Anjin-san, had worked through some of those hours - but a not insignificant amount of hours remained on the contract.

And my client was obligated to pay for those hours whether or not a contractor was working them or not. Were they to hire me before they'd burned through those hours, they would be doling out twice the money for the same labor. Once for FTE me, and once again to pay out the contract.

Not that I'd get paid twice - and not that they'd get twice the labor out of me.

So - my hire date wouldn't arrive until I'd burned through the hours. I'd check with my account rep and they gave me an estimate of mid-August.

Now, the discriminating reader will note that I am writing this in the latter half of October.

Yes. This is true.

And I'd asked about this. My Boss is a great person - but they are literally the eye of the storm in this place. Constantly getting calls or texts or rushing from meeting to meeting at a breakneck pace. They are incredibly smart - and grasp very complicated things in one pass - all the while maintaining several other incredibly complicated things in their head at the same time.

I literally do not know how they do this.

And I hate to add to their burdens. But eventually, questions about holiday plans emerge and re-emerge often enough to signify there are going to be problems ahead if I don't get a handle on when my FTE status will begin.

Because once it does - the magic of five weeks of vacation can begin. There are some restrictions, but you literally can start using them as soon as you come on board. It's ri-DONK-ulous - and I want it. Mom's planning a family vacation down south and gosh darn it, we're going to do that. And I want me a holiday, too.

It's been almost eight years since I was paid for the day after Thanksgiving. Staffing companies don't do that sort of thing. My last staffing company had a few set holidays - but the add ons didn't make the cut. If you wanted that day, you paid in PTO.

My current company doesn't even do that. If my client isn't open for business - as of right now - I don't get paid. I don't even have the option to come in, because the place is closed.

Which - how do you say? - SuuuuUuuuuuuuucks.

To counteract this, my staffing company called me out of the blue before Labor Day and told me they had a nice surprise for me. I'm thinking They're going to pay me for Labor Day! Which seemed like a good guess. Only I didn't manage to get a hold of them until after the holiday.

I'm thinking they're going to send me a gift card or something. Meh.

No. Instead, they're giving me a 15% raise on my salary. Which, by the way, is the largest raise (percentage or absolute dollars) I have ever received.

I was so dumbfounded by this move, that I don't think I adequately thanked my account rep. I just was like "uh, can I get a paper copy that details this?" I literally thought my rep had misspoken. There's no WAY they meant that much...

But they did. And they made the raise retroactive to the last pay period.

!!!

So the following Friday, I get a paycheck that is better than any that preceded it. I immediately made plans to get E and I out of the house for some celebrating. But it got delayed, and then - well, you know what happened.

I still owe her a night out, by the way.

Anyway, I'm hesitant to bother the boss about bringing me on as FTE and now I'm 15% less inclined to do so. After all, there is no way my client is going to agree to be on the hook for this new pay rate.

One of the things that genuinely shocks me about my interview with my current Boss is how blunt I was about money. Well, that - and the fact that I showed up in blue jeans. But mostly the money thing.  I laid out a slightly inflated version of my compensation at CorpWorld and then proceeded to spell out my expectation to continue getting paid at least that as a FTE.

Contract work often is higher than FTE rate - at least in my experience - and I was very clear about not wanting to contract for rate X - and then go FTE at X minus anything. Which is pretty blunt coming from the likes of me. I'm truly terrible at the deal - always have been - and getting all ultimatum-ish with a prospective employer was well outside of my norm.

But I did it, and my Boss indicated this would not be a problem. Score!

So, I'd coasted past labor day - happy to soak up my temporary rate of X +15% until I went FTE at just plan X.

No hurry, man... just take your time...

But like I said, the PTO situation would ultimately be an issue. Knowing the speed of things, I didn't want machinery to start right before Thanksgiving, because odds are it wouldn't stop until right before Christmas. And I did not want that.

Which is why I was bugging the boss about bringing me on right around the time I was talking with that Corporate Recruiter. This needs to stop. I need to settle down.

In my heart of hearts, I'd imagined a scenario where I'd tell my Boss I had this other offer and that I was willing to stay but only at X +15%. The Gordon Gekko approach.

No doubt there are some worlds where that is the norm, but that really wasn't how I wanted to do this. I'd only spoken to the Recruiter so I had a plan B in the event there was some foul up and I couldn't go FTE. And it really struck me as a total jerkwad move.

I'd spoken to Morlock, the sole developer at the new gig and they assured me that my hire was a sure thing. "You just gotta get after the Boss. It'll happen. No question."

Morlock said something else, though. Something about my classification as an FTE: "You're probably going to be classified at Level 1, which means your salary will be set at the lowest level coming on."

Now, aside from the Prince of Darkness, I don't know anyone more pessimistic about things than Morlock. Morlock has been convinced that they've been about to be fired for fourteen years.
You don't talk to Morlock when you're looking for sunshine.

But Morlock is big on the details, so it would be foolish not to address this issue. If there is no salary negotiation when I come on board, my Client might mistakenly give me the wrong agreement.

This is the one thing that could go wrong. And it's my future salary. So, on the same day that I'm telling the Recruiter that I won't take the gig - I'm sitting down with the Boss making sure there are no misunderstandings about what my rate will be going forward.

Without batting an eye, the Boss says "X -11%"

My initial reaction was stunned silence. Then I talked about my expectation that there would not be so much of a fall off when I went to FTE.

See what I did there? - As I said, I SUCK at the deal.

My Boss thought for a moment, then said "You want me to put words in your mouth?"

And I said "Yes."

Totally. SUCK. At the deal.

And my Boss said "You want us to try to meet you halfway?"

And I said "That'd be great."

Understand, this would amount to hoping for "X - 5.5%" Yeah, that would be greeeEEeeeeat.

With that, I go to lunch. Leaving things in the Boss's hands is reflex at this point. The Boss has half a dozen impossible things to do before the end of the day and always manages to get them done. This is just another one.

Also, I'm just not up for some kind of staredown. I know I should be, but I'm not.

After lunch, I come back to find an email from HR entitled "Letter of Hire."

I open it to find a form letter attachment congratulating me on my new status as a Full Time Employee -

-At the going rate of "X - 11%"

They've scheduled me for a two hour meeting with HR at 9am on Monday to finalize the paperwork.

The wrong paperwork.

I immediately head into my Boss's office. "Did you see that email from HR?" I'm trying not to get too worked up, but in the back of my head I'm doing the math. Going from "X + 15%" to "X - 11%" is a hell of a lot of awful.

My Boss's response is immediate. "We'll fix this. I need to speak to the CFO."

The CFO is a whirlwind of stress that buzzes around my Boss wherever they go. Awhile ago the Boss and I were grinding out some manual work at 11pm and the CFO called - they felt their monitor was too dim and could my Boss "run up with a new one?" 

Seriously.

But this is the person who needs to sign off on correcting my wages. My Boss has their ear - and this is just another impossible deed they will accomplish before 9am on Monday.

My Boss is a good person. I believe they will do this thing. I email them the specific number we talked about and thank them for their time.

The number is "X - 5.5%"

And I go forth and I write the Recruiter and tell them "Thank You For Considering Me."

*     *     *

Now, in that very email - I'd left open only a sliver of hope that the recruiter would hold on until I'd gotten my salary situation sorted out. I'd studiously left out any mention of other jobs in my salary discussions - because (and I'm seriously doubting this right now) I thought that was the honorable thing to do.

If the only thing I used the Corporate gig for was as leverage against my current employer - well, it sure felt like I wasted a whole bunch of smart people's time. I didn't want to do that. 

This is stupid thinking. I realize this now. But it was what I was thinking at the time. Don't hit the Boss over the head with this. There is a stack of red tape that needs to be sorted out - and they don't need to feel you're threatening them. It's not a good way to forge a working alliance.

Over the weekend, I was too busy to do much thinking about work. We had our annual gathering of college friends and their families at my house and it was wall to wall socializing.

And great. Being jacked up about the work situation gave me a subject to unload about - but as there was no resolution it was just venting stored up stress. 

What's funny, is when I think about how I described the salary snafu, I'd unconsciously made an edit to where my salary stood. Yes, I told my friends, my job is offering less money than we agreed to, but my Boss is going to make it right.

Make it right.

"Making it right," would be getting me back to X. But that's not what was in the works. My Boss had offered to get me from "X - 11%" up to "X - 5.5%" 

I like my Boss a lot. Maybe that's why I wanted to paper over what was happening. I cannot believe they would do that to me. Not the Boss.

After a whirlwind weekend filled with old friends - and nowhere near enough catching up - everyone goes home.

And I go back to work.

*     *     *

Monday

I'm supposed to meet with HR at 9am. I generally get into the office around 8:30 or so - this job is incredibly flexible about home obligations. Last week - I got to walk with my kids to school every day. Gave me an entirely new perspective on mornings. I love that flexibility. 

Quality of life, man.

But this morning - I'm dropping off the kids by car because I need time to check in with the Boss and see if HR is up to speed on some new arrangement for my salary.

-and I forgot my passport.

I was supposed to bring my social security card to the HR meeting, but I could use a passport for most of it. My SS card is in the safety deposit box and between 12:40pm on Friday and Monday morning - I hadn't managed to get it out of the bank.

And this morning, I'd forgotten my passport. So, back home I go. I sprint upstairs and get the damn thing - then manage to make it to work at 8:45. HR is in a separate building about ten minutes away.

I need to check in to see if my Boss is there - or if there's an email.

They're not. And there isn't.

I'm going to meet HR blind.

I head over - resolving in my head not to sign anything that shows a salary figure of "X -11%." I'm not going down that road. 

But if it's "X -5.5%" You takin' that? Huh?

I'm rewinding back to Friday. Back when I told the Recruiter no. I'd been thinking about quality of life, flexible hours - lots of PTO. But the Recruiter's offer was long on one thing in particular: money.

Gone now.

I dash into the HR building and fumble my way into a cluster of office cubes. There are a brace of staffers there clearly waiting for me. An incredibly poised woman announces that while they could start my meeting - they had late information that something about my salary was still in flux.

She then pointed out that this business does not negotiate on salary. For my classification - there is one rate - the rate they offered. She mentioned there was some possibility of a re-classification - but that would be something that should have been settled before I met with HR. 

"We were not told of this until now."

I sympathize. They are in an awkward position. They expected a pro forma form processing session - and there is something to negotiate. And they are not allowed to negotiate. 

Those sorts of things take place before things reach HR. And HR was not happy about being left with someone else's mess.

My mess.

I told them we should reschedule and I went back to my office. 

Back at the office - I'd gotten another email from the Recruiter. They said they would wait until I met with the people I needed to before accepting my withdrawal as a candidate.

That was incredibly generous of them. I have a moment's flash of jumping at their offer - but I remember CorpWorld. I remember years of not getting a raise followed by years of dread - thinking I'd be laid off.

And less vacation. I hadn't gotten my golden handcuffs, but I wanted them.

*     *     *

When the Boss finally did show up - they had no news for me. They'd been unable to reach the usually omnipresent CFO. Naturally, the CFO was taking a day of vacation and were unreachable. 

I'd entertained thoughts of keeping the Recruiter's offer in my back pocket when and if salary negotiations began - but it didn't look like they'd begin anytime soon. Meantime, the Recruiter's offer was about to turn into a pumpkin while I sat waiting for the goddamn CFO.

I knew I would get to see the CFO on Tuesday, though. My group was scheduled to meet with him so he could give a presentation on our financial situation.

At first, this sounded ominous - but the Boss assured me this was just one of those regular speeches to the troops right around the time that budgets and financial indicators were in flux. "Nothing to worry about."

Nothing at all. And the Boss will handle your salary thing. Bank on it.

Before the end of the afternoon, I contacted the Recruiter to thank them for waiting on me, but that I had been unable to contact the people I needed today. 

They didn't respond.

Pumpkin.

No closer to FTE-hood and feeling ill, I called it a day.

*     *     * 

Tuesday

It started out like a sitcom. I'd been asked by YoungPM to put together some process documents on the work I was doing. They'd asked for a sample document to review by the end of the week, and then 17 more in about two weeks.

The day after they'd asked for a sample document - two days before they said they wanted it done - they asked if it was done.

Process documents are a piece of cake, so it was done. I sent it along within 12 minutes. Here.

No 'thank you.' No 'Sorry about needing it earlier." No response at all. You're welcome.

That was YoungPM last week. This week, Tuesday, they're asking for all 17 process documents by Thursday. That'd be more than a week earlier than what they'd originally asked for. 

YoungPM would like to schedule a marathon meeting with me to crank out the documents - YoungPM and Me working together, in my office.

1) Process documents are a piece of cake

2) I do virtually every part of the 17 processes I need to document; and 

3) WTF would having another person in the room help me with?

All this adds up to a PM who doesn't know what they are doing.

I tell YoungPM I'll make the documents and send them along to review. Once YoungPM has had a look at them, we can meet to discuss edits and cleanup. That's something that might need two people.

I'm looking at process docs from other units and they have dates on them like July. I'm asked to get mine last week, and do them in five days.

This is the PM I will work for the bulk of my UX work.

I grind out docs until it's time to go to the CFO's presentation.

It's for all the admin and IS staff - and it's Goddawful. It begins with the CEO talking in pulseless tones about our 'vision' and strategic goal of becoming a 'center for excellence.' At more than one point the CFO cues the CEO into which group he is speaking to - so the CEO can insert the name of one of our groups into his canned lines.

Meh.

Next up is the CFO. They are a much more dynamic and engaging speaker - but their material has me slackjawed almost immediately. The CFO puts up a chart of our primary funding source over the past decade - it is an absolute flatline. No new money is coming in - and the CFO makes it clear that this picture - at least from this funding source - is not going to change.

The CFO then launches into a whiz-bang discussion of the various strategies that will be employed to gain new funding sources. The most notable among them is borrowing the equivalent of 10% of our current gross income as 'seed money' to fund 'new initiatives.'

I want to barf. I went five years without a raise at my last job. I know for a fact that no one at this gig has gotten a raise in the last five years. 

At this point, the CFO - I'm not making this up - begins to tear up as they thank the staff for their sacrifices over the past several years.

I start to feel that familiar haunting feeling again, right in between my shoulder blades.

I have faced flatlined COLA and downsizing before, and I don't ever want to do that again.

This is a roomful of people who have experienced everything short of layoffs - and their CFO is telling them they are about to go into debt to spend their way out of their problems.

I'm starting to freak out. The spectre of professional death.

This is silly.

But that's just what it feels like. The instant the presentation is over, I go over to my Boss and ask if he has any news. 

The Boss looks up, "I literally just walked into the room before the presentation started. The CFO hasn't responded to my messages."

I can't spontaneously interrupt the CFO and CEO for my problems right now - but I need them to sort me out. If I can get at least signed up at a decent rate, I could hang on for a few years and soak up some good PTO. Get some vacay with the fam....

I'm car-pooling back with the SilentOne - a co-worker of mine who (as you might expect) doesn't talk much. Post meeting they are more chatty, though. They think the CFO's tears are rehearsed - and they tell me they've never seen a meeting like that one before.

I blow into my office and check to see if the Recruiter has gotten back to me - nothing.

Pumpkin. You blew it.

Morlock shows up to complete the day. Morlock is, without a doubt, somewhere on the Aspberger's spectrum. They are obsessed with dates - are incapable of summarizing anything - and are bruisingly blunt about everything. 

Molock is mad because of something I've screwed up. Morlock is capable of keeping a truly insane amount of detail in their RAM at all times. Conversations with Morlock begin with a muttered "Last month I showed you this line of code - do you remember?"

I never remember. With Morlock - I write everything down. Morlock believes nothing you say unless you  can point to a primary source. "How do you know this? What is it based on? Okay. Fair enough."

I can't remember what Morlock was mad about that afternoon as I was barely listening to them. If you ask Morlock what time it is, they will tell you how to build a watch. They will then explain the intricate ways in which time is recorded and calculated according to an episode of Nova that they watched a few years ago.

If you interrupt, Morlock will get angry. If you try to change the subject, Morlock will get angrier still. They. Are. Not. Finished. Yet.

I have sat through innumerable sessions with Morlock spouting gouts of information in a steady stream. It's like listening to an audiobook of the final chapters of Kafka's 'The Castle' cranked up to double speed. 

At first you listen, then your brain requests a time out. Then you fidget nervously as you realize you haven't followed a single word for the past ten minutes. Morlock is bound to ask you a question and you won't be able to answer. Morlock will know you haven't been listening - and that will make everything worse.  

You invent a reason to leave. I need to move my car, I need to go to the bathroom, I need to go throw up for a few hours. Anything. You just need to get clear - get some air - something.

Morlock tells me we have to have a meeting later in the week to review some things. They are incredulous that I don't just know these things. "Don't you remember? We talked about this in June"

Whatever excuse I make, I get out and spend the next few minutes stalking around the building desperately replaying the past day.

I will be paid significantly less than I'd signed on for.

I will get lots of time off.

It will be years before I will get my next raise.

I will work hand in glove with Morlock.

I will perform my UX work in service to YoungPM.

But I keep going back to the first item. I'd made a deal to be paid X. And it wasn't going to happen. I'd botched the follow up negotiations, but really - this is not something I should have been discovering this late in the game. If there were issues with my salary requirements - or questions - they could have asked me. I'd said to the Recruiter that the one thing that would make me bolt from my job was them welching on my salary. 

And here they were welching. And what was I doing about it?

And what was keeping me from taking the Corporate gig all this time? Sensei had already greenlighted the work. They'd been there long enough to know their crew was solid.

Their PTO was only 4 weeks first year, but with 12 paid holidays, that was closer to decent.

I'd had the Corporate gig's VP on the phone and asked about flexible time - they'd said they support flexible schedules.

Why the Hell had I let that one go??

My current gig was noble work. Lord knows the Boss could use some help digging out of the mud - and I'd envisioned a long, hard slog that led ultimately to me helping land a collossus of a new system with the grace of a butterfly.

But nothing in the culture that I'd seen in seven months suggested this gig was anywhere near putting my skills to work. I would slog along in the basement and if any system did land - it would not be something I could point to at the end and say "See, I helped make that."

Years of underpaid slog that would appear on my resume as "treading water."

And the corporate gig was formal UX - with a dev team ready in the slips. They are making stuff for a national product. This would have been work you'd refer to on a resume - bank on it.

And you told them to go away.

Twice.

And there's nothing in my inbox.

*     *     *

Bong!

I'm outside the building, heading towards the coffee place across the street. My phone informs me I have an email from the Recruiter. It's about four hours old.

I'd had WiFi off by mistake - and cellular data in the basement just doesn't happen. Now that I'm back in the surface world my phone is again bathed in 4G.

I open the email - it's one line.

"Let's connect today, Okay?"

I mash the screen like a meth addict. "Sounds like a plan."

Still nothing for sure, but more than I'd had all day. They may just want to formally tell me to buzz off, but after this day, I'll take anything.

It's almost 1pm and I wait a whole three hours for my Boss to come by and say something about the status of my becoming an FTE. Or if they've spoken to the CFO. 

But nothing happens. I go outside and call the recruiter. They don't answer and I leave a message on their mobile.

I go back down in the basement and finish my shift. No word, not even an email about my salary situation - from anyone.

5pm comes and goes, I'm checking in with E to see if she'd be okay with the corporate gig. Of course, that's a terribly loaded question - and E is of course awesome. She's good with whatever I think is the right move.

And - more than any other thing I know at that moment - I know I cannot let this Corporate gig get away from me. I need to have this. 

The Recruiter calls me back just as the family is piling into the car to go get our flu shots. 

Recruiter is cordial. "Good to hear back from you."

I try to be calm and direct. "Do you still need an Interaction Designer?"

Recruiter laughs. "Does this mean you're taking the job?"

I'm seeing flashbacks of Juno's note on the wall. If you're still in...

"I am if you still need one."

Recruiter laughs again. "You know we do! The UX director will be so excited to hear this!"

The kids are pounding on things and I'm supposedly backing out of the driveway when all this is happening - but honestly - it's all a blur.

I got it. Days after selling my professional future down the river - I finally realized what I was doing. I was taking the safe, in-hand thing because it was less immediate risk. 

And I remembered CorpWorld, but good.

But not all of them are the same - and regardless, you should never march backward on pay - not while you have a choice. I was letting my foot off the gas because I didn't want to offend my Boss. 

But I remember how totally jazzed I was after meeting the Corporate gig folks. I felt strong, competent, useful. 

And contrasting that with how I've felt at my current job - there was no choice to make.

I'm going Corporate again. This time, as a FTE.

And I'm good with it. 

Happy even.

Funny thing? If I'd have been made an FTE at the Nonprofit on the original three month schedule?

I'd have never even taken that Recruiter's call.

You just never know.

Golden Handcuffs

One of the key perks of my current gig is the vacation plan. You get five weeks paid vacation your first year of work. In your second year you get six weeks.

I know.

Take a moment to let that work into your system.

Yeah. That's a life altering amount of vacation for a new job.

It's what I was thinking when I wrote this:

Dear [Recruiter], 

I wasn't able to speak to all the powers that be [at my current job]. Friday is a low staff day I'm afraid. 

I have a meeting scheduled for Monday at 9am to sort everything out on what my status is going forward. 

I must tell you the signs point towards my remaining at [my current job]. 

If you need an answer from me this evening - then rather than drag this out I would withdraw as a candidate for your position. 

Your offer was more than generous, and your UX team is very impressive. What was beyond the reach of any offer at this point was my family's need for professional stability. [My current job] is offering me a fluid schedule and an almost alarming amount of PTO. 

With my wife's PTO situation in flux we need one of us to be ready to do the kid pickup and drop off. My wife has done the lion's share of that duty while I was at [CorpWorld] -  now it's her turn to go for the brass ring. Where we're at now - this just seems like the best option. 

Please extend my regrets to [your UX] team. It was exhilarating talking with them. 

Thank you for considering me.

That was Friday.

Shiny Shiny

About two weeks after I accepted my current job - I paid a visit to a magical place.

I do corporate UX work, and while I've been in some fairly rarified environments - my clients have been truly mundane flavors of the craft. Design this form so people scan it and throw it away. This web page needs a bunch more fields added to it - make them fit without additional expense.

This place I visited - two weeks before I left CorpWorld - was altogether different.

This place was UX Candy Land.

On literally every level, beginning with the invite. I get pinged on LinkedIn by a guy I've never heard of. That's pretty typical of LinkedIn - but usually it's some parasitical recruiter "Hi, I've got an exciting opportunity for a seasoned UXer in Portland."

This came from the president of a design firm.

Dude. Okay, I'll look into this.

His company was local. Practically across the street from CorpWorld - and I'd never heard of it.
I scanned their website and one thing became clear.

This man was the President of a Design Firm.

As in, this place was a serious deal. Design and construction for big ticket clients. My experience is in web interface - the ephemeral bits we use to manipulate our digital marionettes.

Candy Land? They made Things.

Medical devices that they fashioned in their very own machine shop. They gave me a tour and showed me a place that looked like M5.

Open concept working spaces.
Conference rooms packed with spiffy gear and youthful pros.
A hall filled with their award winning creations - medical devices that saved lives.
This wasn't a business - it was a cause.

It.
Was.
AWESOME.

They were looking for UX contacts in the area, because all their custom devices would have screens and would need UI.

Oh, and they sold things all over the world. International travel might be involved.

The President took me out to lunch and picked my brain about UX. I had him rolling in the aisle.

I know, Right??

But you've read my blog before, so you know this wasn't my springboard to UX demigod.

I was upfront. I told the President that I'd literally just taken a new job and couldn't in good faith bail out on my new employers.

This wasn't as hard as it might sound - I mean, this was a shop where most of the design team had PhDs. There is a big difference between making the President laugh and winning a slot on a team like that.

But mostly, I couldn't stomach the visual of my transformation from charming UX professional to unprincipled toady. Yes, I know I said I had a job already, but I'd ditch that for you. Won't you hire me?

Better to enjoy being briefly well thought of than forever pigeonholed as a synchophant. I offered to pass on the contact info for any UXers I knew in the area. And that was that.

As it turned out, all the UX folks I knew were gainfully and happily employed. I referred Stimpy to him, but I think Stimpy was stabilizing and not looking to jump again.

For the President - it was probably a noon hour shot to hell, but for me - it was amazing. I felt validated as a professional. He called me.

Plus - free lunch!

*     *     *

I have thought about that afternoon a lot in the past few weeks.

Where I work, there is no open concept anything.

I work in a basement. I scrounge for cast off bits of office furniture in unattended storage closets.

I used to sit in a Herman Miller Aeron - now I have a battered hand-me-down with gum stains.

Every time I grapple with its battered adjustment knobs, I think You chose Nonprofit, pal.

I miss my Aeron.

*     *     *

Which is not to say the new gig is bad. It is a welcome shift in culture. There is virtually no administrative crap. Schedules are amazingly flexible. The quality of life changes are seriously tangible. Before the kids started school, I was biking to work.

Biking to work!

And the vacation time is quite a thing.

In CorpWorld the PTO barely qualified as terrible. Even after five years, I was getting only 20 days - and one unplanned hospital stay put me in negative PTO for the better part of a year. Which meant no family vacations and E pulling all the kid events and sick days. Which is its own kind of drain on the family. Head down, grinding out time for that future month when you'd get to take a long weekend.

The new gig is flush with PTO.

Or... it would be. If they would actually hire me.

I'm on a contract to hire gig - and the initial hire timeline has more than slipped. What was to be two to three months has become seven. And while my boss was upfront that I would be doing some pretty dreary back end stuff starting out - eventually I was supposed to get back to UX.

Except, I haven't.

I spend most days wishing I knew more about Unix. I babysit a slew of scripts and do sysadmin stuff that - while fascinating in its own way - it is definitely not UX.

I like to think I am a patient person - so I've hung in there.

In my dark little office - on my gum-stained chair.

*     *     *

So, a few weeks ago - I get another one of those recruiter emails.

"Hi, I work for X and I wanted to reach out to you..."

'Reach out to.' This is the current buzz phrase for the cold call contact.  Prior to the reflex delete, I can see this one is from a local company that Sensei used to work for. A place I'd applied for during my freefall out of CorpWorld.

I remember I gave this place a resume - and never got so much as an email back.

Six months too late to save the desperate me, they contacted the Nonprofit version of me.

And I wasn't all that sure what the Nonprofit me was thinking about things.

This place was Corporate. Not Fortune 500, but it definitely had a capital C. And in the back of my mind there was this gnawing feeling that my hire at the Nonprofit might be less certain than I'd thought.

It wouldn't hurt to have a plan B.

Old anxieties die hard. I emailed the recruiter.

Step 1 was a phone interview with the UX director. They have a UX director.

I set it up over lunch and took the call on my earbuds while I walked around the lake near work. I felt like an IT commercial.

Um, yes. This is he. What's that sound? Oh, I just thought I'd, you know, walk and talk.

I'm one of those people who are loudly engaged in business discussions in public places. I'm annoying nearby fishermen. This makes me even happier.

The UX Director sounds like he's made his bones in software many times over. He asks me about my design philosophy.

Red Flag? Meet Bull.

Having a job that is not actively hurling me out the door takes a lot of the pressure off an interview. I was free to unload my frustrations and aspirations about the business of making user interface. It didn't hurt to have a blog full of war stories to draw on, either.

I was en feugo. Parables and anecdotes and years worth of pent up ideas on what should happen as opposed to what did happen.

What do I believe...? Hold onto your hat, bud.

I pontificated, I gesticulated, I conquered. Passersby were suitably irritated with me.

But, it felt so good to be asked. I was jubilant.

And then I went back to my office in the basement.

*     *     *

The following week, I pressed my boss on the status of my being brought on full time. They looked a bit chagrined and said they'd give the process another nudge. Soooo, we're not very far along at all, are we?

The following day, I filled out an online application for the Corporate gig. I figured I might as well see what they are like.

The online app was - I don't think I'm exaggerating here - one of the worst online forms I had seen in years. The gist of it was "Remember that resume you gave us last week? Well, type that same information into the world's crappiest form."

The form was hosted at a company that was different than the Corporate gig, so I felt this was a third party recruiting site. And it stunk on all levels. By the end of the form I wrote a mini screed about how terrible it was. This is what I wrote:

I believe that UX design requires user feedback. 

And I would offer some to you: 

I want you to  know that this application form is among the worst pieces of software I've interacted with in quite a long time. 

This web application is like something out of the 90s, and I suspect it is costing you applicants - as well as increasing the likelihood that applicants are submitting erroneous or incomplete information. 

It is poorly laid out, excessively long, and requires duplicate entry of required fields.  

There are no defaults. 

Several fields show a required indicator, when the form area they are contained in is marked optional. 

The button to progress through the form is not highlighted and begins its label with "Save." 

I could go on, but that is not the purpose of this application.

SoooOooo, not so much with the diplomacy. I was feeling a bit too free to express myself. But that's what I wrote. It was a truly crappy form. And it was just the recruiter's website, right?

Shortly after submitting the form - I noticed that the different name was in fact the parent company of the Corporate gig I'd just applied for.

Oh. Well, that was...rash.

But I got the impression that the form was pro forma. Data go in here. Box is checked, then. Proceed to interview.

And a few days later, I found myself following the Google Maps voice over to the west side of town for an in person interview. I had a list of instructions on how to enter the building as well as a detailed check in procedure.

Corporate with a capital C.

There were so many ambient things that screamed CorpWorld! on the way in I doubt I can accurately itemize them. But here's the short list:

The sterile parking garage.
The security cameras.
The neutral corporate art.
The immaculately clean lobby restrooms (Yes, you should always hit the restroom before an interview).
The badge-access security doors.
The "aren't we impressive?" lobby furniture.
And the dizzying array of expensive office gear.

Aeron? Please. We use the Steelcase Leap.

I'm to interview with the entire development team.
Later, we'll video conference with their office on the west coast. I note it's a city that Shadowrun introduced me to, back in the day.

And then they're throwing softballs at me. Four ironclad dev types and one UX guy. I like the developers immediately. They're clearly trying to suss out if I'm one of those design prima donnas. I demonstrate quite convincingly I'm not. I blow through a few war stories that illustrate my get-it-done pragmatism and I try to show a certain amount of humility in design. "We aren't the user - no matter how much we think we are." I share stories of failure, lessons learned and spell out aspirations for what a good design can do for a process.

I make light of my trashing their application form - just in case. They know it's terrible and agree it should be fixed. Score.

The west coast office asks a few questions that amount to "have you done battle with the business over a design."

Um. YES.

I crush that question. I see a lot of nodding heads and shared pain. These are veterans, too. These are good people.

The only low point of the interview is - sadly - the UX guy. He is a design prima donna. One given to using big words to sound special when clear words are all that is needed.

He actually used the phrase "Cognitive Bandages," which - if UX was the VMAs - would be the equivalent of sticking your tongue out and twerking.

You are trying WAY too hard, dude. Seriously.

I believe I struck a good balance between appearing respectful and punking this guy. I felt a few cringes from the dev guys as the UX dude was talking so I suspect this netted me some checks in the plus column.

Veni, vidi, vici, baby.

And then it was handshakes and 'Thank Yous' and I was back outside.

Just sitting in my car - in a Corporate parking garage-

...wondering what the hell I'm doing.

*     *     *

I remember good things about CorpWorld, I do. Good people. Lots of them. Some skunks, too. But mostly good, smart people doing their best in trying circumstances.

Mostly, though - I remember the fear.

Coming to work on Monday with an all-encompassing dread that this would be the week you got bounced out. Or hearing your home phone ring at night on a Friday and thinking your staffing company was calling to let you go.

I used to tell the FTE's who would get on me about being a consultant: "Y'know when you scan your badge at the door and the door doesn't open? You think the sensor is messed up. I think I've been fired."

Not that CorpWorld canned folks like that, you'd get a call first - but that story says a lot about my state of mind.

You felt privileged, but you were constantly aware it could go away at any time.

*     *     *

So, I got out. Went Nonprofit. And yet I'm zipping off to the edge of town for another shot to get on the corporate freight train.

Driving back to work after the interview, I was energized. I kept reciting my answers and offering up new ones to imaginary questions all the way back to my current gig.

I slunk back into work like a thief. "An appointment" was what I'd called it. My co-workers asked about the Boy, assuming it was some doctor thing. They're good folks, which makes you feel worse.

About the time the Recruiter sets me up with a phone interview with one of the VPs of the Company, my current Boss starts the machinery rolling to bring me on full time.

I get scheduled for a meeting to go over process and task analysis.

Right on cue.

I nail the phone interview with the VP - they're mostly asking about corporate culture and if I had additional questions. Again, I'm outside walking around when they call. It just seems to work better when I can move around.

Over the next few days, the gears start to grind - slowly - towards what I was promised at the Nonprofit. At a smaller shop, I'll supposedly have more influence on the process. There's less bureaucracy to wade through. But it will never make the papers.

It's a silly thing to be proud of, but every now and then I'll go to the web app I spent so much time on, view the source and call up the CSS file. My name is in the comments. That always makes me smile. My name's not first - nor does it deserve to be - but it's there.

I helped make something. And it works.

At a Nonprofit - that will not happen. The work will be internally focused and there will be no travel, no conferences and no tuition reimbursement. It will be comfortable, flexible, casual even - but it may very well be professional obscurity. Is that a good bargain in the long run? Yeah, kinda.

Corporate gig will be the polar opposite. I won't be a jet setter, but it could very well make a national product and some very real bona fides in UX. Do I want that? Kinda, yeah.

And life is just settling down. E and I are in a good place. The Long Lean Season is over. I'm not sweating getting our taxes paid anymore. I'd looked into the Corporate gig as a backup plan. It was never really supposed to amount to anything.

And on the way home - tonight - the Recruiter calls me. The Corporate gig wants to make me an offer. Tomorrow.

And I am literally lost for an answer.