The Popcorn Debacle

I was kind of hoping that my new job, at Faith Popcorn's boutique consulting company called "BrainReserve," would last longer than two and a half days. Yes, you read that right: two and a half days.

In all honesty I was apprehensive about the position long before accepting their offer. The first sign of "Warning: Possible Danger Ahead" came from a friend early in my interviewing process. When I mentioned I had interviewed at BrainReserve, she blurted out, "Oh, my God --you do not want to work there. Faith Popcorn is a freak. One of my friends worked for her. She ended up quitting because Faith treated her horribly."

Another warning sign came from the Editor in Chief of the magazine where I worked. When I mentioned I had found another job and would be leaving, he asked, "Where will you be working?"

"At Faith Popcorn's BrainReserve."

His sole comment: "You're brave."

I tried to purge these negatives from my mind and approach the job with my own fresh, clean slate. Yet try as I might I couldn't shake this feeling of impending doom.

I didn't know exactly where my desk was going to be, but I had a basic idea: somewhere in the Upper East Side brownstone I had visited for two of my three in-person interviews.

In the brownstone ("office"), numerous desk spaces had been set up throughout what was at one time a moderately-sized, two-bedroom apartment. As an apartment for a couple to live in it would have been quite luxe, but as an office for 14 people? We were packed in like sardines.

The larger (although not really that large) bedroom housed four desk spaces and the copy machine. The other bedroom, a small room by anyone's standards, had been set up to be the "conference room." In addition to serving as the conference room it also contained two desk spaces.

My desk area was situated in the hub of the action, a.k.a. the living room. Directly facing a wall, I was one in a row of four desks that were positioned flush next to each other comprising one long row. Each of us four had a desktop space approximately three and a half feet wide, that's it. This meant I had a person directly to my left and a person directly to my right. There was also a cluster of four behind me.

With my space came a three-drawer file cabinet to the left under the desktop. Below my desktop to the right sat my computer tower and a little trashcan. Combined, these items left me with a space about 20 inches wide for legroom, that's it. If I put a pair of shoes and my handbag in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet, there would be no room for any hanging files. I mean, who doesn't keep an extra pair of shoes at work? The monitor that came with my space was way too big for it, taking up about half of the precious desktop. The girl on my right had a far more practical flat-screen monitor. I gazed upon it with envy.

From the minute people sat down at their desks in the morning, no one made any attempt whatsoever to talk quietly, regardless if they were talking business or otherwise. The noise level from the numerous conversations going on all around reached -- and sustained -- incredible highs. Add to that a frequent buzzing sound, to notify us of visitors downstairs, and a front doorbell that also buzzed each time one of the many guests arrived. Think Grand Central Station.

Whenever any of the eight of us in the main room ate something everyone else knew about it, because we were crunched in so tight there was no escaping the smell of the food. Ah, yes -- may we now introduce the piquant aroma of freshly-microwaved spaghetti and meatballs on the left, and on the right, what have we there? Some leftover chicken chow mein? A delectable combo indeed!

Speaking of aroma and smell, one of the women who sat in the larger bedroom ("other room") made numerous trips to the terrace adjacent to the living room so she could smoke. Although technically she was outside, the smoke always wafted in. Totally annoying. And too bad for the girl who sat two desk spaces to my left -- the bathroom was directly behind her.

My hours, as it turned out, were 8:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. with no break for lunch. Allow me to do the math: that's a minimum of ten hours a day, and there was no overtime to cushion the blow of the extended workday. If you're a busy executive making big bucks, traveling here and there, attending business meetings, luncheons and such, I can see how a 10-hour workday would be fine, but if you're an assistant who's mostly at your desk, ten hours a day is a lot of time to be sittin' on yer butt, especially in such ridiculously cramped quarters.

My first day was spent getting acquainted with the office, its procedures, and Faith's way of the land. Of utmost importance was Faith's Master Calendar. Every last bit of information regarding each consultant's schedule was to be added to this calendar at the close of the day.

That meant for every car, train, plane, hotel, restaurant and/or meeting the assistants booked for whom we supported, we had to include the corresponding info into Faith's calendar as well (all reservations, confirmation numbers, phone numbers, exact pickup and drop-off times of who was going where and when and why and who they would be seeing). Not only that, but the information was to be entered in an exact format. Example: "Start the entry with the name of the car service, then the time, followed by a comma, then an arrow, then put a number sign, then an 'at' sign, followed by a parenthesis...." If there was a momentary lapse in Faith's Master Calendar and she didn't know any little something about anyone at any given millisecond, she had been known to go on a screaming bloody rampage, or so I was told.

On my second day, a co-worker and I stayed until 10:30 p.m. printing presentations for a client meeting the next day. As hour after evening hour passed, and I was still there, kneeling on the floor as I bound the presentations (there was nowhere else to put the machine), I became increasingly consumed with doubts. I had worked for years as an assistant, putting in my dues and hopefully rising up in the ranks, only to now be kneeling on the floor until 10:30 binding presentations? Granted, the company was far too small to have its own copy department, but couldn't we have at least sent this out to Kinko's?

I got home that night at 10:45. I chomped down some food and was in bed by 11:15. Even though I'd had a full night's sleep, when I woke up in the morning I was extremely lethargic. Perhaps I wasn't accustomed to a 16-hour workday? Skipping my usual morning exercise was a given.

Walking the brief ten-minute walk to work, I felt like I had a hangover even though I hadn't been drinking. It was one of those mornings when I really wanted -- and needed -- a little quiet time at my desk before the workday got going, you know? But of course, no such luck at the Popcorn Palace.

The minute I sat down, loud conversations were already zigzagging to the sides of me, behind me, and seemingly above and below me. Phones were ringing. Music was playing. Breakfasts of many varieties were being consumed. The doorbell buzzed for the many who arrived. The door clonked at closed for the many who departed. Be strong, Laura. Ignore it all and focus on your work.

Suddenly four of us assistants got pulled aside -- one even showed up from the other office down the street -- and were led into the conference room to discuss a serious matter: something had been left off Faith's Master Calendar! Everything turned out okay, but there was indeed this moment in time when Faith wasn't sure of a certain something because a tidbit of information had been excluded from her Calendar. With a dire tone the powers that be reprimanded, "This is not good. How did this happen? This can't happen again. How can we be assured this won't ever happen again?"

When the reprimanding concluded we returned to our desks. Doubts swirled through my mind all the more. Some people can handle this type of environment, but I didn't think I was one of them.

Although my supervisor was sitting only ten feet behind me, I sent her an e-mail asking if we could talk in the conference room. She came over and we headed into the room.

My eyes welled up as I explained that I didn't think I could handle the work environment. She said she understood it "wasn't for everyone." She mentioned perhaps relocating my desk area to a quieter spot. I was told the only available location was this closet that had been converted into a workspace.

Yes. You read that right: a closet. And we weren't talking about a large walk-in closet. That I could see, maybe. But the closet she had in mind -- and I knew which one she was thinking of -- was itsy-bitsy tiny.

"Oh, yes," I imagined myself saying to friends and potential business associates, "I work in a closet. A small broom closet to be exact. You simply must stop by and see it sometime -- it's decorated positively sumptuously. Sorry in advance that I won't be able to invite you in. You see, there's only room enough for one person and a few brooms at a time...."

Dejected, I replied, "Thanks, but I don't think the closet space will be good for me."

As our conversation concluded my supervisor said, "Why don't you go back to your desk and think about it for a while? See how you feel at the end of the week. But if you decide this job isn't for you, I'll need to know soon so we can start looking for someone else."

I returned to my desk. I stared into my computer screen like a zombie, reminiscing about the movie Poltergeist. The noise was unrelenting. I glanced to my left. My co-worker's phone was over the crack of what separated her desk from mine, and it was resting several inches on my desk. Your phone is on my desk! Don't you realize that?

I glanced to my right. As nice as she was, my co-worker's papers were a few inches on my desk, extending onto my mousepad. Your papers are on my mousepad! My papers aren't on your mousepad, but why is it that yours are on mine?

Next I glanced down to my left. The co-worker with her phone on my desk had her pocketbook sitting in front of my file drawer. Now what if I want to open my bottom file drawer? I can't, because your pocketbook is in the way! Don't you see that???????

Oh, gosh. This reminded me of when I was a kid growing up in Woodstock. My brother and I shared a room. The room had separate cubby-like areas for sleeping, but the remaining space had an imaginary "divider line" that separated my side of the room from his. I was back to being twelve years old again!

I looked down the hall and saw that the conference room door was closed. I knew my supervisor and Elizabeth, one of the consultants I was hired to work for, were in there and I knew what they were talking about: me.

I started to pack my belongings. When the door opened ten minutes later I walked to where Elizabeth was sitting. "It's been nice working with you for the short time I have...."

"Oh, come here, come here," Elizabeth said, as she led me into the conference room and closed the door. She tried to console me as I choked back tears of defeat. "It's okay. It's okay. It's crazy here, I know. It's not for everyone."

We talked a bit and then I returned to my desk. I startled my co-workers when I up and said a final good-bye in the middle of the day. Before I left Elizabeth asked, "Do you want to take your flowers?" (They had bought me a pretty "Welcome" bouquet.) At first I didn't want to take them. But then I decided to, because leaving them behind would have left a tangible reminder of my pathetic plight.

Walking home, I must have been quite the sight: girl sniffling and crying, clutching a big vase of flowers as she haplessly made her way down the street. Good thing my apartment was only a few blocks away.

My boss at the magazine sent me off with well wishes for my new job, and a going away card that read, "I hope Faith Popcorn turns out to be a wonderful experience."

Um, yeah, it was an "experience" all right, but given what occurred, I think we may want to choose a different adjective to describe said experience. Agreed?

Parting Note of the Financial Variety:

We didn't discuss money when I walked out/quit/left that day. A week or so later a check for $500 arrived in the mail, covering two days of work. Although $500 is decent enough pay for two days of work, that didn't stop me from calling them, feigning dissatisfaction.

I worked two and a half days, thankyouverymuch. I should be paid for that half day.

They said they would review it. Three weeks later, no reply. So I called again. This second time they agreed to send an additional check for $125.

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From: [A writer at the magazine I used to work for]
To: Laura's NYC Tales <laura@laurasnyctales.com>

Subject: RE: New story, re: my job at FP

I just read your tale of working at that crazy crazy place. I can't say I quite got a kick out of it. I mean, it'd have been entertaining reading -
if I didn't know you. To answer your question, from where I sit, no worries on the libel front. Yes, truth is an ironclad defense. You describe
your experiences and you're on rock-solid ground. Journalists have to worry about "reckless disregard for the truth" but in this case, you're
a diarist writing about your own world. If you wrote that you thought the big cheese was always so busy because she was carrying out an affair
with Mayor Bloomberg, THEN you'd have to worry. But you don't.

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