The Art of Us

It's not like I wanted to get fired from my job. I did like it. 

Well, I liked the pay. The stability. The ability to put money away into a 401k and not think about it again until I reach the age where I can actually touch it. But I didn't like the work. Being an engineer was never the plan for me. When I went to college I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I was lost and decided to study one of my parent's professions: nursing or engineering. And, being that I faint at the sight of blood, puke, or, god forbid, any other bodily fluid that can possibly come out of someone, engineering it was. 

“So, to sum it up,” the HR rep says. 

I think his name was Aiden? Or Arthur? 

“We will unfortunately need to let you go. We’re so sorry to do this, Quinn. You know how the industry is, though. There are ebbs and flows, and right now we’re in an ebb.”

I nod, allowing Aiden to feel the satisfaction that I understand how the industry is even though, truth is, I don’t. How is there not something I could do? Isn’t New York City always evolving? 

Truth be told, we’ve been having layoffs on and off for the past year, so in retrospect, I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s now my turn. 

“Rest assured,” Arthur continues, digging through the top drawer of his desk, “If you ever need a recommendation, please don’t hesitate to reach out. And, if things turn around, we will surely contact you.” 

He slides his business card across the desk. 

Alan. 

I was close. 

“Surely,” I say and pick up the flimsy piece of plastic, already knowing this card will be put into the nearest trash can I can find. “I’m guessing I can leave my laptop at my desk?”

Alan’s computer dings with an incoming email message, which pulls his attention from me. 

“Oh, yes. Yeah, please leave it. You can do that now,” he says, effectively dismissing me while he types a reply.

Ignoring the urge to roll my eyes at the fact that he can’t even give me the dignity of looking at me for the entirety of my firing—which, by the way, lasted a whole five minutes—I stand, and make my way to my cubicle. 

I’m out the door, on the train, and staring idly at my tote bag, stuffed with the miscellaneous things in my desk drawers within the next twenty minutes. A scientific calculator I’ve had since college, a few pens I particularly like, my spare phone charger, and a half empty bottle of lotion I’ve had for almost the same amount of time as the calculator. 

I went to college, graduated with a degree, and spent my next five years at the same firm, working my ass off for a job I didn’t even like and all I have to show for it is a company branded pen and a plastic business card of someone who I met once, on my first day, and then never again. 

That is, until the company downsized, and I had the pleasure of re-meeting Alan.

The subway car rocks back and forth, my body falling forward and backwards along with it, as we pass by station after station. Not that I pay attention anymore, because the commute had been so ingrained in my brain that when my stop comes, I exit my train and walk on autopilot to my apartment, making it up the two flights of stairs, and successfully flopping on my bed—stinky subway clothes be damned—and pull out my phone to call Sam.

Sam and I have been friends since I transferred into her school system when we were eight. On the first day of school we sat next to each other. 

“Hi, I'm Sam,” the girl said with a big, toothless, smile. 

“I'm Quinn,” I replied, shyly. 

“I like your purple bows,” she said, pointing to my shoes. “Do you want to play princess with me at recess later?”

“Sure.”

And the next day, she asked if I wanted to go to her house after school to bake cookies with her. 

We've been inseparable ever since. 

“You should switch majors. You're not happy, Quinn.” She'd often say when I would give her a call after a particularly long week of classes. “I can tell when you're not fulfilled. Why don't you take an art class? Maybe you'll find that feeling you're chasing.”

That feeling she'd refer to more often than not was, when you break it down, happiness. Sam knew I loved art—drawing, painting, anything that I can get lost in, use my hands for, and quite frankly make a mess with, was one of my favorite things to do. I've been drawing and painting my entire life, having submitted sketches to little competitions in my school, making my friends art pieces, and even selling digital drawings to friends of friends once or twice. In my Junior year of college one of my murals was featured in the local newspaper. I’m still proud when I think about my first time reading the headline: Central’s Quinn Delphe (Junior) Paints New Sports Complex Mural Ahead of Grand Opening. Which is something I had the opportunity to do with an elective class that I did end up taking per Sam's suggestion, but I never decided to pursue it full time. 

I don't exactly know why I didn't. Whether it was because I didn't believe in myself or because it wasn't a typical job by my unreasonable standards, I'll never know. I believed that not having a typical nine-to-five would never pan out well, let alone needing the insurance, a 401k, and the benefits that a soul-eating corporate job would give you. Weighing my financially secure and medically insured future against my dreams left me sad. 

However, I always liked the version of me that was an artist better than the version of me that wasn’t. When I’d finish a piece, I’d feel a sort of pride. A moment of confidence in my life that was few and far in between. 

I often thought about how my life would have been if, five years ago, I decided to switch majors like Sam suggested. If I went into any sort of artistic major. Would I be happier now? 

Would I be happy now? 

"Woah, a call from Quinn in the late afternoon? What’s wrong?" Sam asks when she answers the call.

"I got fired," I muffle through my comforter.

"You—what? You got fired?" Sam nearly shouts. She pauses, then switches to her inside voice when I don't respond. "Oh, Q, I'm so sorry. Screw them. Where are you now?" 

"In my apartment. Lying down in my bed. Not feeling like I want to do anything."

"Which is exactly where you need to be. Let me finish up here and I'll be right over. I'll bring the goods."

After graduating with a degree in Business, and before heading into the hellscape that is the corporate world, Sam decided that she wanted to do something for herself: work at a bakery for the summer. Baking was her thing, her happiness. However, that summer came and went, and so did the following months, and now we’re five years later and she’s never left. 

Her bakery specializes in the most buttery, delicious, shortbread cookies on the planet, and she knows they’re my weakness. Sam claims providing me access to unlimited cookies, plus the unlimited access to their multiple ovens and overly-sized machines is worth working under Bianca, her boss. Sam is so talented and works so hard, and if there was such a thing as head chef at a bakery, Sam would certainly fit the bill. 

I always told her she should open her own bakery, often after eating my third or fourth shortbread cookie of the day, but she always shakes her head, smiles tenderly, and tells me I’m being crazy. 

This is what we do for each other: relentlessly beg the other to follow their dreams and don't follow the advice ourselves.