MORE than a decade ago, I was in a job in
which if I had sat down at my desk and worked for 100 hours straight, I
would be only slightly less behind than when I started. I was a
newspaper editor, stuck in the never-ending grind that caused me to
begin having a regular daydream.
Wouldn’t it be nice, I would tell myself as I faced down one deadline after another, if I had a job in which I could just sit still for eight hours a day. No duties, no meetings, no responsibilities — just enter an office, sit down at a desk and collect a pay cheque at month end.
At the time I never
believed such a job existed, except perhaps in a few dusty corners of
the government. But then, after suffering complete burnout in my
newspaper job and finding myself back on the market, I discovered first hand that there was such a position in the private sector.
BASED
on the advertisement, the job I was hired to do appeared to require
actual work. I was to be an editor for a company that produced in-house
publications for business associations.
My task would be to work with members of the associations to edit and prepare monthly magazines and annual directories. It sounded like just what I was looking for: no daily deadlines and far less stress.
I arrived on the Monday morning at 8.30am, and soon learned that I had struck gold. The business model was explained to me: the company’s sales staff approached and signed up associations across the country, then editors like myself produced their publications.
But — and this was the most important detail — editors had to be hired before the associations were on board, so they would be ready to go as soon as a deal was signed.
A typical editor at the company managed 15 to 20 publications, but as a new hire, I would start out as the editor of zero. Editors earned cash bonuses for each magazine or directory they completed, so nobody wanted to pawn off any of their accounts.
On my first day, I was given an employee handbook, a thick, three-ring binder of company material; shown to a cubicle; and told to wait. For days? Weeks? Nobody I asked could be sure.
I APPROACHED my supervisor and several co-workers about how I was expected to fill my time.
Should I assist other editors? No, I was told, they work independently with their associations, so that wouldn’t be necessary.
Should I study up on the publications I would produce? No, each association was different, so that would serve no purpose.
The first thing you deal with in a work environment with no work to do is the insecurity that comes from the peering eyes of your co-workers. Even though you have been told to do nothing, it still feels wrong to graze on the internet or read a book at your desk while, all around you, actual work is being done.
The company occupied a building in a small industrial park. There was a pond at the back and a grassy area with picnic tables that served as a smoking section.
To create a little separation from the actual workers, I began to make my way outside to the picnic tables, a newspaper under my arm. At first, I would sit for 10 or 15 minutes at a time, chat with the smokers, relax by the pond and then brace myself for another hour in the cubicle.
Quickly, 15 minutes turned to 30, and 30 turned to 60. Nobody needed me, so nobody came looking for me.
Soon, the smokers began to notice. Between puffs, one of them casually broached the subject. "What, exactly, do you do here?" he asked.
The company was very successful, and much of the success was attributed to the military-type discipline that was imposed on its sales staff. Each month, 10 new people were brought in and trained, and about 10 less productive ones were shoved out the door.
One morning, I entered the cubicle at 8.35am to find a note on my desk from my supervisor. "We expect everybody here on time," she wrote. "Please don’t make me ask you again."
My idle presence would apparently be needed for the full eight hours.
I have often wondered why the so-called Masters of the Universe, those CEOs with multimillion-dollar monthly pay cheques, keep working. Why, once they have earned enough money to live comfortably forever, do they still drag themselves to the office? The easy answer, the one I had always settled on, was greed.
BUT
as I watched the hours slowly drip by in my cubicle, an alternative
reason came into view. Without a sense of purpose beyond the rent money,
malaise sets in almost immediately.
We all need a reason to get up in the morning, preferably one to which we can attach some meaning. It is why people flock to the scene of a natural disaster to rescue and rebuild, why people devote themselves to a cause, no matter how doomed it may be.
In the end, it’s the process as much as the material reward that nourishes us.
Eventually, associations were signed and work began to appear on my desk. But by that time, my need for purpose had jumped the line.
I had begun taking graduate school classes, and they did not fit into the strict 8.30am to 5.30pm company schedule. No exceptions would be made. I stuck with the classes, and in short order, I was fired.
I took a part-time job at a newspaper. The first day, my supervisor asked me to edit a page of church announcements, the most menial of tasks in the newsroom. I lunged for it as if I were dying of thirst.
As my workload grew and again began to eclipse the number of hours in the day, I held on to the cubicle experience. It was a blessing to have fulfilling work, to be a cog in an important machine, to have a reason for being.
Still, it wasn’t long before, on those days when the work was piled up high, with no end in sight, I began to slip into a familiar daydream. "Wouldn’t it be nice, if…"
New York Times
Wouldn’t it be nice, I would tell myself as I faced down one deadline after another, if I had a job in which I could just sit still for eight hours a day. No duties, no meetings, no responsibilities — just enter an office, sit down at a desk and collect a pay cheque at month end.
My task would be to work with members of the associations to edit and prepare monthly magazines and annual directories. It sounded like just what I was looking for: no daily deadlines and far less stress.
I arrived on the Monday morning at 8.30am, and soon learned that I had struck gold. The business model was explained to me: the company’s sales staff approached and signed up associations across the country, then editors like myself produced their publications.
But — and this was the most important detail — editors had to be hired before the associations were on board, so they would be ready to go as soon as a deal was signed.
A typical editor at the company managed 15 to 20 publications, but as a new hire, I would start out as the editor of zero. Editors earned cash bonuses for each magazine or directory they completed, so nobody wanted to pawn off any of their accounts.
On my first day, I was given an employee handbook, a thick, three-ring binder of company material; shown to a cubicle; and told to wait. For days? Weeks? Nobody I asked could be sure.
Should I assist other editors? No, I was told, they work independently with their associations, so that wouldn’t be necessary.
Should I study up on the publications I would produce? No, each association was different, so that would serve no purpose.
The first thing you deal with in a work environment with no work to do is the insecurity that comes from the peering eyes of your co-workers. Even though you have been told to do nothing, it still feels wrong to graze on the internet or read a book at your desk while, all around you, actual work is being done.
The company occupied a building in a small industrial park. There was a pond at the back and a grassy area with picnic tables that served as a smoking section.
To create a little separation from the actual workers, I began to make my way outside to the picnic tables, a newspaper under my arm. At first, I would sit for 10 or 15 minutes at a time, chat with the smokers, relax by the pond and then brace myself for another hour in the cubicle.
Quickly, 15 minutes turned to 30, and 30 turned to 60. Nobody needed me, so nobody came looking for me.
Soon, the smokers began to notice. Between puffs, one of them casually broached the subject. "What, exactly, do you do here?" he asked.
The company was very successful, and much of the success was attributed to the military-type discipline that was imposed on its sales staff. Each month, 10 new people were brought in and trained, and about 10 less productive ones were shoved out the door.
One morning, I entered the cubicle at 8.35am to find a note on my desk from my supervisor. "We expect everybody here on time," she wrote. "Please don’t make me ask you again."
My idle presence would apparently be needed for the full eight hours.
I have often wondered why the so-called Masters of the Universe, those CEOs with multimillion-dollar monthly pay cheques, keep working. Why, once they have earned enough money to live comfortably forever, do they still drag themselves to the office? The easy answer, the one I had always settled on, was greed.
We all need a reason to get up in the morning, preferably one to which we can attach some meaning. It is why people flock to the scene of a natural disaster to rescue and rebuild, why people devote themselves to a cause, no matter how doomed it may be.
In the end, it’s the process as much as the material reward that nourishes us.
Eventually, associations were signed and work began to appear on my desk. But by that time, my need for purpose had jumped the line.
I had begun taking graduate school classes, and they did not fit into the strict 8.30am to 5.30pm company schedule. No exceptions would be made. I stuck with the classes, and in short order, I was fired.
I took a part-time job at a newspaper. The first day, my supervisor asked me to edit a page of church announcements, the most menial of tasks in the newsroom. I lunged for it as if I were dying of thirst.
As my workload grew and again began to eclipse the number of hours in the day, I held on to the cubicle experience. It was a blessing to have fulfilling work, to be a cog in an important machine, to have a reason for being.
Still, it wasn’t long before, on those days when the work was piled up high, with no end in sight, I began to slip into a familiar daydream. "Wouldn’t it be nice, if…"
New York Times
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