Layoffs

Top management called an all-hands meeting this week to describe the "new direction" our outfit will be taking in the months to come. It was anybody's guess what the big news would be.

"If there are snacks, it's good news," I joked as my crowd walked into the meeting room. "No snacks? Bad news!"

There were no snacks. And the news was bad. As Mr. Bigboss called us to order in somber tones, somebody whispered "Layoffs."

And I scanned the room for faces that should have been there, but weren't. There were many. Layoff announcements always take place after the deed has been done.

Mr Bigboss is the kind of guy who hurls humongous loads of work in all directions with a big salesman's smile and an overly hearty voice and a pep talk about how much your work will benefit the company. As if you had a choice. Or ever got a raise. It's been years.

But that day Mr. Bigboss reigned in the false bonhomie, at least at first. He's never laid people off before -- to my knowledge -- and it was pretty obvious that he felt bad about doing it.

And I respected him for that, and for getting up in front of us all and saying No, the people who'd been dismissed had done nothing wrong, this had nothing to do with performance, but cuts had to be made and they were in the positions we felt we could do without.

Mr. Bigboss and his management minions had actually planned the layoff thoughtfully: they'd figured out what corners they should or shouldn't cut to most efficiently run the company with a couple of dozen fewer people. And once they knew that, they knew who could or couldn't be let go They explained it all. And it all made sense.

And as he talked and talked, you could see it dawn on Mr. Bigboss that we accepted what he was saying as reasonable, and that we weren't going to rush him with obsidian knives and flay him alive and hang his bloody hide from the flagpole as a grim warning to CEOs everywhere.

And so he gradually perked up and began to smile. And his salesman's voice regained its hearty timbre as he exhorted us all to worker harder and longer to do all the work of the people who were no longer with us. And, by the way, if things didn't pick up, there'd be more layoffs to come.

And then he asked us if there were any questions. One or two brief ones, then nothing. "Any other questions?" he asked. The silence was defeaning. "None?" he asked, looking at us uncertainly.

We stared back at him mutely. And in our silence, I believe that got our message: we were simply enduring him; we had to, to continue to live. We had nothing to say, because there was nothing to say.

He'd made it all very clear. They'd work us as hard as they dared. We'd work as hard as we could. And maybe the paychecks would keep coming and we could continue to pay our bills. Maybe.

Mr. Bigboss sat down, the HR guy stood up and told us that his door was always open, and then we were dismissed.

This is happening everywhere.

That last sentence would end this blog entry well. Except... I'm also going to miss the people who are gone. And I worry about them.

About the very down-home, friendly sales exec -- who was also a jazz musician, and a single parent. The shy admin who put her husband through grad school. The unflappable receptionist who was equal to any craziness that crawled through the door, new to this part of the country. The old hippie, at sea in the impersonal world of modern business. The hyperactive Silicon Valley retread with computer-phobia. And many others. You can see them as real caring, breathing people -- or as faceless unemployment statistics. Just as you choose.

You know, when one businessman screws another, he's wont to clap his victim on the shoulder and say, "But hey, it's just business, right? Nothing personal, right?"

Wrong. Everything is personal. Everything.