Paper Handcuffs
Golden handcuffs are what they call it when your compensation package is so good that leaving your job is untenable. So, what’s the right term for being so poor that you’re stuck? Tin handcuffs? Plastic or paper ones?
This was my situation. Being a journalist at a small independent newspaper fed my soul—it gave me purpose and a work family who sustained me—but my paycheck was more decorative than substantial.
One morning, as I was negotiating our French fry policy with the CFO determining that anyone who brought fries into the office had to share them with me since my new diet banned me from ordering them myself, I was summoned into my boss’s office.
“Hold on,” I said to Jamie, who was called “Carlos” due to another office policy that determined there could be only one Jaime.
When my boss asked me to close his door, I joked, “What are you firing me?”
(That would be almost too much.)
(He was.)
“I am,” he said. It turned out to be more complicated than that—or simpler, depending on your viewpoint. They were closing up the news division and selling for parts. I couldn’t even wrap my head around it.
“I have to finish up a story about the Child Care Council,” I told him.
“No, you don’t,” he answered.
“I have deadlines.”
“You don’t,” he said it with a kindness that broke my heart.
“But we have the Power Party tomorrow night!” I protested. I’d been working so hard to put that event together. I was looking forward to it. He told me he’d love to have me as a guest, if I was up to it. But he understood if I wasn't.
When there was nothing left to say, I wept like a baby.
