Short Story: Trial Period

A former publisher and his subordinate form an unlikely friendship whilst working for a herbal remedy company

Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels

An observation from unemployment purgatory: Modern job advertisements generally fall into two categories.

The first is the impenetrable corporate nonsense ad. Filled with interminable waffle about “scaling”, “pipelining”, and “drilling down”, they sound more like dentists or oil prospectors, and necessitate an immediate Google search to try and decipher what the bloody hell a KPI or B2B might be. In such ads, I don’t understand why everyone wants to “disrupt the space”, “disrupt the narrative”, or “disrupt the concept”. When did the working world get so disruptive?

The second kind involves vague invitations issued by tech-obsessed, bearded hipster entrepreneurs, who beam with an eerie Stepford-employer demeanour. They offer an unending supply of ethically sourced coffee, unlimited holidays, beanbags, and spaces to have “uncomfortable conversations”. It sounds less like they’re advertising a job, and more like they’re asking you to join a cult.

Having recently been made redundant after twenty-five years in a publishing job, I need to decide which way to leap. Into the vat of corporate bullshit, or into some dodgy Silicon Valley wannabe start-up, helmed by a trust fund brat, spending Daddy’s inherited millions.

Not that I begrudge people their wealth. I’m not one of those incessant over-caring activist types who blither on about the gap between rich and poor. I swear if I hear the term late-stage capitalism one more time, I’m going to do something violent. I can’t bear the whiny, sanctimonious, condescending drivel that bleeds from social media these days. By contrast, I suppose I adhere to the stereotype of blissful apathy that is assumed of my generation.

As my children frequently point out, Generation X had great music. Whilst scanning job ads on Linked In, my nine-year-old son Lee scuttles into my office from the sitting room, where he has been watching classic music videos online.

‘Can we go and see Michael Jackson in concert?’

‘No, sorry he’s dead.’

Lee looks disappointed. ‘Why are so many great singers dead?’

‘It’s tradition for great pop stars to die prematurely. Anyway, you don’t want to go with your forty-five-year-old father to a concert. You’re supposed to go with friends when you’re a teenager.’

‘Teenagers are annoying, and music today all sounds the same.’

Lee wanders back to the sitting room. I laugh. When I was growing up, parents were the ones muttering about how all modern music sounds the same. Now my wife and I are the ones listening to Ed Sheeran or Ariana Grande in one room, whilst our boys listen to David Bowie or Guns n Roses in another. In some ways, the internet has been an influence for good.

It’s my children who occupy much of my thoughts amid this attempt to restart my career in middle age. I don’t want their quality of life to suffer, so with great reluctance I have given up trying to find a creative role, and am instead focussed on transferable management skills. I had a decent salary in the middle-management position I occupied in my previous job. I also loved my work, running a department that made recommendations on which manuscripts to publish. Unfortunately, the company was deep-sixed when acquired by Americans in a hostile takeover. They did to that publisher what Mondelez did to Cadbury, which I think paints a sufficiently vivid picture. I still haven’t forgiven Mondelez for messing with the Crème Egg recipe. Bastards.

I stare out of the window at the quiet street on the estate where we’ve lived since Lee was born. He and his twelve-year-old brother Michael used to love it when I’d bring home manuscripts of the children’s novels we were thinking about publishing. I would read to them, and sometimes they had piercingly insightful criticisms. I’ve had to explain I won’t be doing that anymore.

A thrush twitters around just outside the window, on our front lawn. Bleak skies rumble overhead, threatening rain. Gritting my teeth, I continue to scour Linked In, wondering if any of the jobs I apply for will find favour with the Algorithmic Overlords. I don’t like the idea of working for a company that would cynically outsource CV assessment to artificial intelligence, but there is so much of that these days that I don’t really have a choice.

Michael and Lee. Do it for Michael and Lee.