He had grown weary as an engineer at a publishing company, fed up with peers so frequently and quickly dismissing his ideas, boss’ unwillingness to consider circumstances of missed deadlines, and the devaluation of his fifteen years of seniority. New employees had more clout with the brass than he did, and his word meant little these days. Nor was the politicking pleasant — having to say yes when no was the real answer, and having to compliment subordinates’ mediocre performance, like it was supreme when in fact, it was lousy. Advancing in the corporation required routine compromises of honesty principles, and he wished to not be a “team player” if it meant being false to himself and others. Political correctness should not restrict the free flow of truth. But this attitude frequently caused havoc with coworkers, and he was tired of fighting these battles over and over. He wanted to spend middle-age following his own orders, in his own business, and not those from green bosses who hadn’t moved through the ranks as he had, and thus were unqualified to judge a more experienced person’s work like his. He suspected treachery in their criticisms. Did they want to help him reach that consulting position he’d been trying for for four years, or did they disparage to hold him back? Perhaps they did this so they could get the promotion first. The latter seemed more the case, and he couldn’t continue putting energy into dead-end efforts, which were so often written off as merely ‘adequate but not exceptional’ by bosses, especially knowing that the work quality was but a small part of what determined how favorably they appraised it.
It wasn’t all bad however. The position paid well. He could easily afford a quiet home in the suburbs, fine dining, lots of CDs and books not to mention clothing, food, electricity, hot showers, and healthcare. In fact, throughout his career, money was plentiful for vacations and medical emergencies. Now, while he was not “rich,” he enjoyed his middle-class life, the reward for pleasing bosses. At home, family and friends respected him for his computer skills, often teasing, saying, “There’s the guy with the big bucks.” The job gave him good-standing among family and friends, just because he had it. Often, just saying he was a lead software engineer impressed them enough to get them to talk further. Plus, the position was secure as he had survived several lay-offs in the 90s; the company valued him enough to keep him on despite his often-opposing views. He figured he could work for them until retirement some twenty-three years later. He valued the job security, good compensation, and others’ high esteem. These benefits are why he stayed so long after his discontentment began. He could stay if he kept quiet — towing the line and doing just enough to get by although he was not a slacker, wanting to do more with himself than just plod along until retirement.
Wanting change but afraid to lose the perks, he held on to the position some four years after first considering leaving, until this particular day, when the boss demanded weekly reports of his job-related activities. Preparing this would add an hour each week to an already-busy schedule, and to him, this was a waste of time as it meant doing less of the work that really counted, and more of the paper-pushing hogwash that only heightens resentment between management and the rank-and-file. She assigned this on Thursday, and though he wanted to quit immediately, he needed time to consider the consequences before actually doing it. So, he kept quiet until the weekend, when he had the time to think.
He dozed and dreamt early Saturday morning, the sleep broken as horrors of unemployment flitted through his mind, wrenching him in and out of slumber. Scenes of desperation flashed before him like a TV flipping from channel to channel. In one, his neglected teeth fell out. as routine and affordable dental care had gone with the job. They made a peculiar snapping sound as they hit the pavement beneath his bare feet for which he could afford no shoes. Another image showed him without dignity, panhandling to survive. Without access to a shower, his own body odor kept money and work from his hands. People would cringe upon his approach, demanding that he buzz off and leave them alone. In another flash, the ladies avoided dating him. It was as though they could see the word “impoverished” stamped on his forehead. “Well,” he thought, “money may not be everything. But it sure makes life more enjoyable. People don’t respect a poor man. So I don’t want to be penniless. Maybe quitting isn’t right after all.”
But then, images of the advantages of leaving surfaced. Over the past few years, he’d found a writing interest, and aspired to spend the final chapter of his working life, authoring books and short stories. Periodically, an image of the first book he’d publish came to mind. Its cover sported silvery blue-green letters on a violet-blue background, and he’d wanted to find the time to finish it, even though its actual title was uncertain. But if he quit, he’d have time to complete it and clarify the title, and that would be one big plus to getting out on his own. He dreamt on. Publishers asked him to travel the globe, giving talks at bookstores and paid him enough money to buy a much bigger house in the suburbs than the current job allowed. Unlike the anonymity of software engineers, people knew him through his writings everywhere and women saw him as a successful entrepreneur, feeling comfortable with him because his good reputation preceded him. He had achieved world-wide respect and never again did he receive blank or frightened stares when meeting new ladies to date. They smiled now, interested, any time he approached. They stopped assuming too early that his intensions were dishonorable, and didn’t mind as much if they were. People accepted him more quickly, going out of their way to help him if they knew of his writing success. They longed to be a part of it, often asking if there was anything they could do to help. Though writing itself is an activity of solitude, it enabled him to connect with interesting people and achieve the social life he’d wanted, something his job to date had not done.
These thoughts coalesced into a dream that would resolve his dilemma about leaving. Usually his dreams contained sounds, colors, aromas, and motion, and were primarily sensory experiences, without much thought. But this time, there was little color, no noise, and no smells. This was more a thinking and feeling dream than a sensory one.
It began in a brightly lit office with white walls, gray carpeted floor, and walnut trim around the windows and doors. The cool-white fluorescent lighting stirred feelings of civilization and security, because working for bosses in settings like these was the only adult labor he’d ever known. Good or bad, it was comfortable. But after fifteen years, working for others had lost its joy. Yet he still found solace in the daily grind nonetheless because though answering to bosses was grueling, it was a lower risk occupation than going out on his own.
His boss glared from behind a red oak desk. So much for the civilization and security. These days, she was usually unhappy with him. No matter how hard he worked, she was rarely grateful and often, condescending. “Well, this is nice,” she’d say. “But I’ve seen better. You should do better.” Her words angered him, even after coping over a decade with similar gripes. He’d never gotten used to them. But to keep working, he’d have to learn to ignore unhelpful criticism. However, with so many years in corporate America, he realized that he hadn’t so far, been able to do this, and figured that by now, he never would.
At the sight of her scowling face, he turned to run. Often, it’s right to run. Survival of the fittest does not always mean survival of the strongest, most courageous, or enduring people. In fact, the most fearless frequently die young. They take danger too lightly. Likewise, the strong often overestimate their ability to leave dangerous situations without injury, believing that caution only applies to the weak. Since they’ve seen their own strength work for them where others weren’t so lucky, they believe themselves invincible. As a teenager, he felt this way. But middle age brought the understanding that boundless endurance of hardship was not an enviable prize. He didn’t want to be strong and fearless, and put up with his boss’s judging anymore. So, he moved to the exit — a wooden door with a brass knob and textured glass window in the top half. The glass obscured what was on the other side, as cold air whistled in through the crack at the door’s edge, gently rattling the glass.
He looked from the door, to her, and back again. She wasn’t through berating him, so he’d best stay put. “So, I’ll expect your first activity report next week,” she said smugly. Well, that was it.
“No, you should not,” he replied, picking up the pace toward the door. Reaching it, he yanked it open. Appalling how dark and cold it was out there. A long corridor stretched out ahead into infinity. His boss said nothing as he stepped through into this hall, the white light from her office casting a triangle shape on the gray cement floor outside. Again he glanced back at her, then to the hall.
“If you want to stay,” she warned, “you must provide the reports I’ve requested.” Well, there was no way he’d give in and do that. Again, he considered the long hall, the walls made of block and cement, painted a pale blue, and ceilings unfinished with lots of pipes, ducts, and wires visible. Workmen’s lights with protective grills around the bulbs hung every few feet and filled the area with a murky yellow luminosity, turning the blue walls lime green. The hall was either under construction or demolition. He couldn’t tell which. But no other doors or turns were visible. It looked like a path straight to nowhere, or perhaps, to everywhere. He didn’t care though. Any place — even nowhere — was preferable to the boss’s office. He knew that if he remained in the hall much longer, there would be no returning. “I’ll see you next week with that report,” she taunted. He walked ahead defiantly, closing the door, the loose glass in it rattling and echoing.
He studied the hall for some minutes, then looked back at her door, now shimmering and fading, like it was caught in a Star Trek transporter. He couldn’t go back now, for as he watched, the door dematerialized with a sparkling whine and was replaced by the same dingy blue brick as the surrounding walls. All that which was behind the door — a secure income, lavish retirement, paid medical benefits, and so on — was gone. But while he appreciated the job’s profits, it could never be enough to get the nationwide recognition for his work he desired, and that to continue working there would only prevent him from ever realizing his dreams.
The shimmering stopped. The door was nothing but a solid wall now, leaving him no way to leave. Thus, he had no choice but to turn one-hundred-eighty degrees and walk and look, seeking a more fulfilling office. This end of the hall represented the dead-end his programming career had reached and he had lingered here for way too long. He was now committed to this career change.
The lost profit for the programs he had written for that company saddened him; programs that were at this minute, helping to make thousands of dollars per day for them. He had little to show for those efforts. Yet the company would continue benefiting from them without having to pay anything, for years to come. So be it though. He was eager to make his money elsewhere now. He pondered this while walking down the hall, away from the dead end of the ex-boss’s office, savoring the first taste of being on his own. This hall was a lonely place. He wanted to find a new office, but this time, he’d be the boss. It would be himself he faced behind the desk. He might pass lots of inviting doors on the way — warm places where people would offer money and predefined direction. But he’d skip them all to keep searching for his office, his own place in the business world, where he’d answer only to his customers, and not be micromanaged by coworkers and superiors.
However, finding financial independence wouldn’t be easy in this damp, dark hall. The walk would be long he predicted, with no other doors visible. However, the time for debate about taking this step was past, and the deed now done. He was glad to be in the chill with the uncertain future, and found that he preferred these dimly lit walls to the warm company offices. The uncertain future here in the hall gave him a chance at securing a better future than the certain one he’d just thrown away. In the hall, he could decide how to grow his business and when to do it, unlike the company where he had been forced to live with so many controversial decisions. He desired more control over the outcome of the business than he could get in the corporate world. As Milton wrote, he’d rather rule in hell than serve in heaven. The sensation of the hall’s coldness faded and his dream, that began as a nightmare in his boss’s office, where he’d been afraid to give up the certainty of that job, had now become a pleasant musing. In this scary hall, he found resolve to do what might not make the most money, but would alleviate the strains of working for others, creating a better position to make his long-term dreams happen for real. The hall lights faded, its walls blackening as he woke up. He found the courage to quit, and come Monday morning, he called his boss and did just that.
Quitting was surprisingly easy, for he had come to embrace the dark hall of uncertainty rather than avoid it. The dream that weekend had prepared him for a long walk down the hall for real. He’d rather search forever for happiness running the risk of never finding it, than settle for security in a place where happiness would never visit him. He was truly on his own now and though this sent chills through him, he felt an energetic motivation to run the hall, to find his dreams, to find other doors, to make his own office. Uncertainty is the first step toward a better life.
Tom Hesley
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