The Wolf

His suit is a blue as deep as depression, the sharp cut is equally unforgiving.  The shine of his black shoes and hair is only surpassed by the diamond-hard glint in his eye. If it weren't for his private-school breeding, he'd physically be salivating like a wolf on the verge of the kill. But I guess that's exactly what it is.

His bitch, there to bear witness that protocol is adhered to, to ensure there'll be no come back, sits away from the table, shoulders slumped, arms and legs crossed as if by curling into herself and taking up minimal physical space, she is somehow emotionally removing herself from the inevitable blood letting.

'Please,' he says, indicating one of the sixteen plush leather boardroom chairs, all befitting the arses of the power brokers of this cut-throat, ASX top-100 corporation, 'have a seat.' I don't bother to verbally acknowledge him, fuck that, but I do sit and meet his cool blue gaze with one I hope is accurately conveying my nonchalant disinterest.

Naturally, I have rehearsed this meeting a hundred times in my head. In one version, I actually refuse to take a seat and just stand there which is incredibly awkward for him and amusing for me. But on reflection I realise this stance will give him an advantage - the school teacher to student. So I had already predetermined that I would sit. Might as well be comfortable - this could drag on. Or not.

'As you're no doubt aware,' he launches into his legal-department-approved speech, 'due to unexpected market conditions, the company is not fairing as well as we'd hoped and therefore not meeting budget.' I'm tempted to ask how that's got anything to do with m
e. No one asked me what I thought the market might do, no one asked me to have a crack at the budget and yet, here I am, being casually informed of the mistakes of the securely employed. 'That being the case, we are now in the unfortunate position of having to make some..... adjustments.' I almost laugh out loud. But then I remember I am one of those adjustments.

Again, in my usual smart-arse manner, the one that probably led to me being in this seat and in this meeting, I set my mouth in a firm straight line and nod sagely, as if he's just explained something to me that makes complete sense. It's only because he knows me that he gets a whiff of piss taking. One to me.

I could cut this short. I could just ask how much my severance is, what the exclusion and confidentiality clauses are and be done with it. But where's the sport in that?

He rambles on with his speech, clearly deriving a perverse satisfaction from his performance as the consummate professional, imagining himself secretly being filmed for the documentary version of Wall Street. Sadly, his audience, me and the cowering HR woman in the background, aren't the least bit dazzled. I glance at the clock on the wall and sit up a little straighter as I realise with pride that we're 15 minutes in and I'm yet to utter a word. Two to me.

He reaches the business end of his speech,'... so I'm afraid we have to let you go.' I nod and deign to speak for the first time. 'Okay.' Not 'okay' as in affirming or agreeing, that's a trap for young players who don't know me better. This 'okay' is merely an acknowledgment that I have heard what you said. A subtle but essential difference. I doubt he noticed, but I did and that's what matters.

'So,' he continues on, 'how would you like to play this? In terms of letting your team and the staff know? Moving on to pursue other interests?' He punctuates this last sentence with quotation marks etched in the air with his fingers. The wolf is starting to look a lot like a pussy.

I arrange my face to a look of boredom. 'Why don't you just tell them the truth? Unexpected market conditions, blah blah blah - you flung me.' He looks affronted. Not because I'm being blunt about my position but that I'm not being respectful enough of his brilliant performance. He looks just a little bit defeatist. Three to me. Time to sign and get out.



PS This isn't true. I just made it up. I have been retrenched in my career, just the once which is surprising in advertising. It was early in my career, the managing director who delivered the news was kind, even ringing his mate at another agency to get me an interview there. I got that gig and actually liked it more than my previous job. As is so often the case.