Chapter Four
Four
It’s been decided by the members of the WHAT THE FUCK? group chat that we’ll all meet at Murphy’s Tavern for a debrief. Since I have nothing to do until Connor sends over the promised skills test, I join them. If nothing else, it’s probably a good opportunity for a little reconnaissance.
Murphy’s has always been the de facto meeting place of the product team—the vaguely Irish pub is run-down compared to the rest of the Financial District in a way that feels almost charming.
It’s perpetually dark, the wood is faded, and the single decorative feature is a huge mural of signed dollar bills stapled to the wall behind the bar.
There’s a real pre-vacation energy in the room when I push through the doors.
Though it’s barely eleven in the morning, the drinks are already flowing.
And why not? We’re the only people in here, and the majority of us don’t have jobs anymore.
You can feel it in the air: these people are here for a session.
As expected, there’s a single topic up for discussion—mostly we’re all saying some version of “Can you believe this?” over and over again while the shots get passed around.
Usually when there’s layoffs, someone sees them coming, rolling toward the business like a huge storm.
Today’s proceedings at least have some novelty.
They’ve come as a huge shock to everyone.
—
Eventually, I spot Andy’s disembodied head across the room and make my way toward him, his gel-glossed hair the end point on my treasure map.
As another Jotter original, Andy and I go way back—he’s the closest thing we have to a rock star in the product department, and for a while there, I was basically his groupie.
Andy was famous at Jotter for launching our most talked-about feature, the template library.
It’s exactly what it sounds like: a huge collection of pre-populated boards which teachers or marketing managers or software engineers could use to hit the ground running when they set up a new project.
It was extremely successful when it launched.
And eventually, one of the reasons Taskio acquired Jotter.
I already know he and the rest of his team survived the culling—they’re now one of only a handful of Jotter squads left in the entire department. He’s deep in discussion when I approach, talking to Leon, another product manager who, like me, also lost his job this morning.
“There she is,” Andy says, looping an arm around my shoulders and squeezing me to his side like a long-lost friend.
Though my crush on Andy took a long time to die, overall, it was an instructive learning experience about the nature of workplace flirtation, which no matter what it might seem like, indicates nothing.
Making out at the Christmas party also means nothing. Equally meaningless: getting to second base in the stairwell at that same party. I cringe every time I remember that he has drunkenly touched my nipple. Or how smoothly he forgot the whole thing.
“It just seems crazy that it would happen that fast,” Leon says, returning to whatever conversation they were having.
“I’m telling you,” Andy insists. “Something’s going on. And I intend to find out what it is.”
“Watch out, Taskio,” I tease. “Detective Andy is reporting for duty.”
“You know it. I think I could pull off one of those trench coats, don’t you?”
This is a classic Andy “joke”—one where he’s being funny, but also not remotely kidding.
“You could certainly try,” I say.
He thinks he’d look hot in a trench coat. He probably would look hot in a trench coat, but would ruin it with his awareness of that fact.
“Well, good luck to you, man,” Leon says, slapping Andy on the back. “Can’t say I’m pissed that this isn’t my problem anymore.”
“What will you do, Lee?” I ask.
“I’ve got a buddy over at TrustPilot, he’s going to try and get me in. What’s next for you, Annie? You moving back to Canada?”
Andy is confused. “Why would you move to Canada?”
We stare at him like he’s insane.
“…Because I’m Canadian.”
He looks dumbfounded. “You are?”
For a second, I think he might be kidding. “I mean, this isn’t exactly new information.”
“Dude,” Leon says. “How did you miss that? She literally has a bottle of maple syrup on her desk.”
“I have no idea,” Andy says, with a shake of his head.
I have no idea either; I’ve told him multiple times.
“Anyway,” I say, moving the conversation swiftly along. “I’ll hopefully get moved internally.”
“Nice one,” Leon says. “How’d you manage that?”
“Funny story. I didn’t see the call invite this morning and missed it. I didn’t know anything was wrong until I got here and my keycard didn’t work.”
Andy winces. “Ouch.”
“I went up to HR and Carrie had to lay me off in person,” I say, pulling a face. “But she’s trying to get me moved into one of the other open roles.”
“What’s new with Carrie these days?” Andy asks. “Is she still seeing that guy from Merrill Lynch?”
How does he know about that?
“Erm, no. They broke it off a while ago.”
Andy makes a little noise like hmm, and I get the distinct impression he’s trying to look less interested in that information than he really is.
Before I can go any further down that rabbit hole, his attention is caught by the arrival of his deskmate, and he moves off to go and say hello, leaving me alone with Leon.
“Question,” I say to him. “Do you know anyone in Data Strategy? They sit up on twenty-four.”
“Data Strategy, Data Strategy,” Leon muses, scratching at his chin. “No.”
“The department head is Naomi Evans,” I prompt.
“Oh, them,” Leon says. “Yes, I do, actually. Is that what they’re called?”
“I guess,” I say. “That’s the team I’m hopefully getting transferred to.”
“I think Alex did some work with them recently. Hey, Alex—” he calls across the bar, waving Alex over.
Though everyone in this room works in the product department, we all have different disciplines.
Leon and I both do user research, meaning I spend (spent, rather) most of the day scheduling calls with customers who already use our software, then ask them to share their screens as they talk me through exactly how they use Taskio, and for what.
Afterward, I write up a little report and email it to its final resting place, the inbox of another product manager.
Alex is a UX designer, which stands for user experience. He’s somewhere between an artist and an urban planner; it’s his responsibility to make sure things like the home button are in a place you can actually find.
It sounds simple, but in fact, Alex has the diplomacy skills of a hostage negotiator.
He spends his days tactfully persuading the decision makers around him that no, we don’t need to look different, or be jazzy—the customer likes it best when they can navigate the software without having to take a seminar first.
Alex is almost freakishly tall, and as slim as a twig, with tawny-brown hair and a nose piercing. The way he leans down over the bar calls to mind a giraffe, munching on leaves.
“What’s up, guys?” he asks, pausing to sip on his morning beer.
“Al, you did some work with Data Strategy, right?” Leon asks.
“That’s the team I’m hopefully being reassigned to,” I tell him, craning my neck upward. “I’m trying to get some intel. What do you know about them?”
Alex knows a lot, as it turns out. From what he can tell, they’re some weird shadow faction, sitting separate from the other teams, working on miscellaneous projects at the behest of the leadership team.
They sound random, honestly. They must be the only team in the business that gets asked “What do you do here?” more than the product department.
“I did a lot of work with them last year. Building out the new reporting dashboard.”
“What is that?”
“Besides a disaster?” he jokes.
The reporting dashboard, it turns out, is the final phase of the Taskio/Jotter merger. If you can even call it that. Officially, Jotter was absorbed. Like when one twin vanishes the other in utero.
“All good guys, though,” he assures me. “And Connor is a genius.”
I try very hard not to roll my eyes.
A few other friends join us at the bar, and I survey them on whether or not they know Connor.
“The guy who’s always with Brad Pincer?” one asks.
“Er, not sure,” I admit. “Is he?”
“If it’s who I’m thinking of, that guy is pretty much Brad’s bitch.”
Brad is the VP of corporate development.
He is not a popular man in Product, nor, I think, anywhere.
No one seems to be exactly sure what his role entails, yet Brad seems to believe his remit extends across the entire company.
He crashes meetings constantly, invites you to explain things to him like he’s seven, and is obsessed—and I mean obsessed—with what he calls “cross-functional initiatives.” If Connor is one of his cronies, he’s also probably a complete drip.
Next, my friend Martha appears, wedging her way between us and leaning heavily against the bar to order another drink. She turns back with a slurred sorry ’bout that, while she waves the bartender over. It strikes me as I watch her pay for her vodka soda that she is already pretty tipsy.
“Want to do another shot?” she asks, confirming my instincts.
“I’m good, thanks,” I tell her. “I have to go back to the office after this.”
“Now that they’ve paid me to leave,” she says sagely, “you could not pay me to go back there.”
“Wise words, Mar. Any idea what you want to do next?” I ask her.
“I think it’s time for me to move to Philly,” she says haltingly.
“Right.” I have no idea what she means by that and don’t dare probe further. Like Alex, Martha is also a designer. Maybe they’re into that there?
Martha considers us. “So what are you guys talking about, anyway?”
“The Data Strategy team. Do you know them?”
“Who’s the team lead?”
“Naomi Evans, but she’s on mat leave. The interim is named Connor.”
“Oh yeah,” she says, “I think I know him.” And then a second later, “Wait, Connor who?”
I actually can’t remember.
I try and picture the last name on his email signature and draw a complete blank. “Hat, glasses…kind of looks like a grown-up version of a kid.”
“Oh, Connor Reid. Yeah. I thought you meant Connor Jones and I was thinking, how do you know my old piano teacher?”
“Have you done any work with him?”
She pauses to sip the dregs of her vodka soda from two tiny cocktail straws.
“Sort of. He helped me set up A/B testing on the new homepage designs last year when I couldn’t figure out how to do it. He’s pretty smart. Oh, and he loves hot dogs.”
“So you liked him?”
“I mean, I thought Ben was hotter but I’d definitely have sex with him, yeah.”
She looks at me very pointedly when she says this, like it’s actually me who’s just said I’d have sex with Connor, which I would not, so I don’t know why I’m reacting like the two of us are already secretly doing it.
“I’ve never met Ben,” I say, feeling the heat creep up my neck.
“He’s not single, so don’t bother. Can you hold my drink for a sec? I need more lip gloss.”
She thrusts her glass toward me, and I hold it while she pulls a tube from her pocket and lines her lips with perfect precision. The alcohol may be impairing her powers of reason but is having no impact whatsoever on her fine motor skills.
Just then my phone chimes in my pocket. Like a creature summoned from the deep, Connor’s name appears beside a little envelope on my screen with the subject line Skills Test.
I take my sweet time with my farewells at the bar, offering up dozens of loose-limbed hugs as I make my way toward the door, begging people not to be strangers, to let me know if they need anything, or have left anything behind.
I’m unexpectedly choked up at saying goodbye to so many of the people I’ve known since I first moved here, and the realization that even if I keep this job, I’ll basically be starting all over again now that most of my friends are gone.
“Heading out?” Andy asks, as I slip through the door. He’s standing out front, having a smoke.
“Yeah. It’s time to audition for my new team,” I say. I point at the cigarette in his hand. “What happened to quitting?”
“Today doesn’t count.”
Considering the events of this morning, that seems fair.
He takes a drag. “Not many of us left now,” he says.
“There really isn’t,” I say. “It sucks.”
“You and me will stick together, though, yeah?”
I chuckle at this. “Of course. You’re one of my last friends here.”
“Right back at you.” He nods. “Good luck in there. Give your new Taskio overlords hell.”
I salute him, then head on my way.