Some Ragrats #2
I saw Bob’s jowls shake uncomfortably. Carolyne looked at me with thinly veiled distaste, and worse . . . pity. I knew then
that I was a tad fucked.
Bob, for his part, didn’t say a word; he just puffed out his cheeks and signed the documents with cold efficiency.
I stood frozen. I was the lowest person in the room, and the walls were slowly closing in on me.
When Bob finished, he rushed out, but not before giving Carolyne a pointed look. She followed directly behind him.
On my way out after them, I caught my reflection in the hall mirror. My brond hair (at least that’s what my colorist called
it) was still perfectly smooth, my makeup was maybe in need of a touch-up on the lips, but my skin had gone sickly pale. I
went back to my desk and mindlessly read through emails until, expectedly, I received a summons to Carolyne’s office.
I felt numb as I walked down the hallway. When I pushed the door to her office open and she told me to close it behind me, I assumed I was about to be fired.
Carolyne took a measured breath. “That moment with Bob—wasn’t great.”
“I know,” I said, curling into myself, staring at my lap.
“He said he’s going to think about the campaign. But he doesn’t want you working on it.”
I hung my head, waiting for the inevitable next shoe.
“I was surprised, Mona. You put so much work into that campaign. I was hoping it would be a meaningful opportunity to you.”
“I know. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I noticed you didn’t take any bereavement leave after attending your father’s funeral. That was just about three months ago
now, right?”
I looked up sharply, jaw tight. “I wanted to stay focused.”
“Sure,” Carolyne said. “And maybe that worked for a while. But today”—she gave a soft shrug—“felt like something slipped.
And I don’t want that to become a pattern.”
I looked down at my hands, unsure of what we were doing.
Carolyne continued, her voice even. “This isn’t disciplinary, Mona. But I think it might be smart—for everyone—if you took
some time off. Reset, get your footing back. It gives us all a little breathing room, so you can come back stronger.”
Officially, the firm believes work-life balance is very important.
But to make it in my world, you need to go the extra mile.
The old-timers often flex their long hours and ability to repress their humanity because there’s a certain gravitas that comes with devoting your life to this job.
PTO exists on paper, but until you’ve put in your time and made it past associate level, you should probably only use it for lifesaving surgery (so long as you keep your phone on and stick with local anesthesia so you can answer emails while on the table).
Because who else is going to wake at four a.m. to set up an influencer event?
When is one supposed to make a gorgeous, curated slideshow before a last-minute pitch meeting?
Our clients expect more than just creative ideas—they pay for us to be there whenever they need us.
To make their lives feel easier. And you don’t climb the ladder by sleeping through your weekends.
But I recognized what I was being offered—and what it was protecting me from. At that moment, all I could think about was
not being fired, so I agreed to take the leave and to pair it with some of my overly accumulated vacation time that nobody
with any real career goals is meant to use. Since I had offended a big client, I needed to show I was taking her recommendation
seriously. Carolyne said I could finish out the day, and she’d handle the rest with HR.
Afterward, I decided to still show up for drinks with my usual crew at the usual time. They say to surround yourself with
people who inspire you, who are going places you want to be. And I didn’t really want to go back to my shitty apartment and
face the reality that I wouldn’t have anywhere else to be for a long while. So when Corbin (manager), Lisa (manager), Olivia
(associate on her way to being manager), and me (manager days away from director until four hours ago) finished our cocktails,
I kept it going and ordered another round.
As we had our next drinks, I realized I’d eventually need to provide some excuse why I wouldn’t be at work tomorrow. These
were my friends, and we got together weekly to commiserate about our work woes, but they were also my competition. There was
only one director-level position opening up, and if they realized my much-anticipated promotion was suddenly on unsteady ground,
it wouldn’t be long before they swooped in to take on my clients, friends or not. After all, I’d do the same for them.
Another round of overpriced drinks in, I finally mustered the courage to tell them I’d be taking some time off.
As soon as the words left my lips, their gazes instantly found each other.
Their expressions communicated what they’d never say aloud: One didn’t just take several weeks of R&R in our field.
We’d all seen the signs in former colleagues who hadn’t made it.
First it was a vacation day, then it was quitting to be a wellness coach.
You either lived the grind, or you burned out and failed.
The pay at the firm is decent, but like most creative industries, you don’t start making real money until you hit the higher
levels. After years of scraping by on an assistant’s salary, I only started to feel some financial breathing room when I made
manager. Unlike my friends who didn’t have student loans and could afford to live blocks from the office, I carried not just
my own debt but my parents’ too. For years, a chunk of my paychecks had gone to help my mother out of her many binds. Which
means that even though I turned thirty-one last September, the only nest egg I have worth bragging about are the three phone
chargers I’ve accumulated through the years. Still, I was so close to breaking through—close to affording an apartment free
of water stains, to replacing my contact lenses as frequently as recommended instead of waiting until they felt like sandpaper.
Yet, despite all of it, here I was: a freshly minted dud.
“It’s just to help my mom,” I lied. “But I’ll still be checking in. Keeping things moving, you know . . .”
“Wow, that’s so selfless of you,” Olivia said.
Selfless. After all my hard work—all the sacrifices, the moments I’d missed, in service to my career . . . My throat was thick
as I knocked back the remnants of my third-slash-maybe-fourth drink and excused myself to get another.
At some point after that, I’d clearly managed to go somewhere to buy Cheetos. And I found a mysterious broken vase to put
on my nightstand. As I rack my brain to fill in the many voids, it feels like something is . . . wrong—like something really
bad happened last night. I push that thought away. It must be some lingering shame from the hangover. I’m not used to it.
“Everyone make your way to the nearest exit!” a voice yells, bringing me back to the present—to my apartment building hallway that I’ve been tentatively making my way through.
My slippers sink into the squishy carpet that’s overly patterned to hide the years of dirt particles we tenants have trampled into it.
I reach the stairwell door and make eye contact with my reflection in the finger-scuffed glass.
My hair is in a giant nest of a bun on top of my head, mascara is smudged under my eyes, and this worn-out housecoat should never see daylight. But I brace myself and push onward.
The noise from the alarm is even louder in the stairwell. As I descend the creaking stairs toward the lobby, clutching the