The door was open. That’s the first thing I noticed while sitting in the dimly lit office, staring at my boss. Then I saw his blue tracksuit, and thought about how un-boss-like he looked pairing it with white New Balance sneakers and a white T-shirt. It was way more dad-about-to-coach-his-kid’s-soccer-game than person-about-to-fire-me.
Yep, that’s right: I was getting fired.
For the past two months, I’d been working as a production assistant for a (very random and not at all “me”) sports publication. It was the opposite of what I’d dreamed of doing; I was a writer, and desperately needed to be creative. But six months out of college, I thought I should do something—anything!—full-time, and when I came across the listing on a media-focused job site, I applied on a whim and was hired.
My day-to-day pretty much consisted of resizing photos and changing around fonts, and when I was done with that, I went on to file papers (thrilling, I tell you). But more than the work, there were also my catty coworkers: Everyone on my team was weirdly named Allison (or Allie), and they loved telling (or yelling) their drunken, wild-night stories, gossiping about others and sharing inside jokes.
It was on the day that Allison and Allie decided to type messages to each other, then reply, out loud, “I know, right?” that I knew something was up. And when I got called into my boss’s office later that morning, my biggest fear was confirmed.
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