The 405 Club

(Ed. Note) We are excited to introduce Lesley Pink, an editor and writer who has worked in marketing, financial journalism, and immigration law.  She wishes she could swim for a living, but for now you can find her here in her new “Single White Unemployed Female” column. Enjoy.

I thought I was lucky. After seeing a number of my former colleagues laid off in 2009, I held my breath and continued to work as an editor. I knew times were still tough, but thought I had escaped the hatchet coming down on me. I was wrong.

The first week of January, I was laid off. It was my first time. I had been at the company over two years, had gotten good reviews, thought my [now former] boss liked my work. The phone call came from the HR director right before 5 on a Thursday.

I knew that her call meant one of two things: either I had gotten in trouble somehow or I was being laid off. Based on the timing, I guessed the latter. HR Director and Former Boss were seated at a round conference table, stacks of large white envelopes surrounding them. “I can guess why I’m here,” I said, waiting for what I knew they were going to tell me. “And what is that?” asked HR Director. “I’m guessing I’m getting laid off,” I replied. “Unfortunately, you are correct. We are eliminating your position,” she said. And with that, I entered the ranks of the unemployed. HR Director went on to explain the meager severance package, COBRA coverage, and, of course, how all of this would go down.

Having just seen “Up in the Air” a week before, I felt like I was in the movie itself…

Part of me had expected that I would be laid off, but part of me was having a hard time believing it was actually happening. In a moment of exasperation, I said, “I don’t even make that much money.” HR Director tried to reassure me, telling me that it would be easier for me to find a job since my salary wasn’t so high— that those with high salaries were having a harder time finding work. This woman had HR training? Really?

I had to leave that day. Boxes would be delivered to my office. A security guard would be stationed outside my office. I called some of the co-workers I was closest to, and they gathered in my office. My assistant looked shell-shocked.

Someone said, “I can’t believe this.”

Someone else said, “You’ll be fine.”

I brought my ID card and blackberry to Former Boss’s office. “Here,” I said, handing them to her. She did not say a word. She took the items and turned back to her computer. I went back to my office and loaded as much of my stuff as I could into a bag, but there were still items remaining. Those would be shipped soon, I was told.

My assistant and, of course, the security guard, escorted me to the elevator. We all got on, no one saying a word, tears looming in my eyes. I had to make it down more than 40 floors without bursting into tears. There were no tears, but there was some swearing. The security guard saw me out of the building, and I headed to the subway. The tears came.

I was now officially a member of The 405 Club.

-By Lesley Pink, an editor and writer who has worked in marketing, financial journalism, and immigration law.