In my third year working in the art department at a major publishing company, I started talking to myself. Sometimes on the ten-minute walk from the subway to the office building. Sometimes in my tiny office that had an actual window, where I tipped cigarette ash into a blue glass vessel perched precariously on my drawing board. I knew talking to myself was unhealthy, ditto the smoking. I was teetering on the edge of misery, without an escape plan.
The job itself was a good one. I was at the beginning of my career and I was making my way. A few of my book covers had made it into design magazines. My boss, the art director, was demanding but fair, and had advocated for generous raises (“generous” by publishing standards, that is). Sometimes he was in a foul mood, but we always knew this because he came to the office in black leather pants. On those days I kept clear and held questions to the following day.
What did not work for me was office life. I was becoming aware of my social discomforts, how I needed solitude to find a creative spark. Quiet meetings in my boss’s office went well. Then I would return to my office and try to focus. Just outside, phones rang without end, colleagues talked about lunch and office gossip and weekend plans in the hallway. I sensed that my boss wanted to elevate me, so that my path would be like his. I didn’t know a lot about myself at 27, but I knew this: I had no aptitude for noisy office life.
One morning, as I walked to my office—a pleasant spring day—I decided that I had to make a change, with a hard deadline. In fact, I decided, I would establish that deadline for a year from that day. Next spring, I would quit my job and become a freelancer. Between these two points in time, I would work as hard as I could to build up a list of clients. I told my parents of my plans. My father, who worked with countless self-employed designers, was supportive. I looked forward to lancing freely.
Then I heard about a job opening at another company. Perhaps it wasn’t quitting this sphere altogether, I thought. Maybe I just needed a change. My boss could be mercurial. Perhaps, I hoped, there was a kinder, gentler place where I’d feel more appreciated. I contacted the art director’s secretary and scheduled an interview during an upcoming lunch hour. On the appointed day, I slipped out of my own office with my portfolio case as stealthily as possible. The place was a viper’s nest of gossip, though not as bad as high school.
It happens in New York City more often than you’d imagine in a city of millions: I stepped on to a downtown F train and there, right in my sightline, was a close friend. An illustrator, with an empty seat next to her. What were the odds?
“Where you going?” she asked.
I told her about the interview, that I needed a change.
“Julie. Turn around. You don’t want to work there.” Her voice was sharp, piercing my forced optimism. “You’ll hate it. He’s awful to his staff. A friend of mine worked there, for, like, not too long. She told me stories.”
“Okay,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I have another ten minutes, tell me some stories.”
“He’s a real yeller,” she said. “One time he threw an X-Acto knife at her, impaling the blade in her drafting table, fortunately, not her hand.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, he’s a real dirtbag,” my friend continued. “And, I can tell you from personal experience, when I did illustration work for him, he’s also a letch. You’ll see where his eyes are looking.”
“Eww.” I’d already encountered a few art directors like this. After noting that their gaze was at boob height, I had bought myself a trouser suit and button-down shirt, to wear like a jouster’s suit of armor. If I stuck to Plan A, lancing freely would mean more of this, but I wouldn’t have to spend eight hours a day feeling vulnerable.
As my friend continued telling horror stories and the train lumbered and screeched its way downtown, I considered my current situation in a new light. My boss had never been cruel. He was gay; and as such only interested in my work, not how I looked. I’d never experienced sexual harassment from him or anyone else at my company. I hadn’t considered what a privilege this was. How safe I was.
My stop was next. I said goodbye to my friend and walked to the interview. I showed my work, the art director liked it, and said he’d be in touch. I smiled and thanked him, tried to feign enthusiasm for the job I knew I wouldn’t accept if he offered it, and then I retreated to my midtown office. When the art director called a few days later with a job offer, I declined as politely as possible, disappointed only because now it was too late to pitch him for freelance work.
My boss was not happy when I gave notice some months later, but he promised me work once I left. On the last day, I went home, terrified, exhilarated, ready to vomit. I’d bought a cheap drafting table and ordered a copying machine that could enlarge and reduce—cutting edge stuff pre-computers. A few years later, my parents loaned me money to buy my first Mac, a gargantuan contraption, doomed to be outmoded, like a new car that loses value as you drive it off the lot. By then, I’d adopted the life of other freelancers I knew: rise at 10 a.m., work and take calls, send and receive packages, work, eat dinner (sometimes with friends), stay up till 2 a.m. to finish work, fall apart. Night owl life suited me until I had a child. But as she grew older my kid, fortunately, turned out to be a night owl as well.
I was offered a staff designer job about fifteen years later by one of my favorite freelance clients. A decent salary, plus generous benefits. I thought about it. But I knew by then that I had become unemployable. I liked working in my pajamas on winter days. After day care and then school days, my young daughter knew that my office was full of fun stuff: colored paper, crayons, pencils, paints, scissors, and that I had no problem with her making a creative mess on my floor. Even though the landscape of private health insurance (before Obamacare) was hellish, there was satisfaction in self-directing my working life. I turned down the job.
When my husband died, my daughter was six and a half. I was so grateful to be able to hide out at home and work and be present for my child. Everything was chaos, but I had a daily routine focused on small accomplishments that maintained an anchor of normalcy. For me, work offered a sense of self-control, one I knew was illusory, but in the end, don’t we all need our illusions?
Thank you for reading and as with all posts here, I’d love to hear from you! More to follow each Friday at noon. I hope you’ll subscribe and share with other readers. You can find out more about my memoirs Perfection and Eva and Eve here and purchase here. I work privately with writers on creative non-fiction projects. If you’re interested, you can contact me through my website: juliemetz.com. A first consultation is free of charge.
Thanks for sharing your life with us. Your style of writing is enjoyable to read. I’m looking forward to next week.
I want to read so much more about this. And, huzzah to you for knowing what you want and getting it, even when it’s scary.