My Life as Bob the Bird

This past Tuesday, I found out the hard way that my company is restructuring.

The day started like any normal day: a strong cup of coffee, checking email, catching up on headlines. My first call was with my director. We usually speak over audio, but this time he turned on his camera. I didn’t think much of it – until he said, “Paul, we’re going to be joined by our human resources colleague in Washington, DC.”

Shit.

For anyone who’s been on either side of these conversations, I knew what was coming. We had a pleasant exchange and talked about next steps, severance packages, and what employment assistance was available. I was thanked for my contributions. I cherry-picked a couple of professional milestones and mentioned how grateful I was to have had a job that helped put my son through college and paid me during those crazy couple of years known as COVID.

We said our goodbyes, and the call ended with my colleagues’ faces disappearing into the digital ether. Twelve years of my life distilled into a few minutes discussing my exit strategy. As I sat at my home office desk, I felt strangely calm. I wasn’t pissed – just a bit shellshocked. When I told my wife what had happened, she said, “Am I speaking with my real husband?” I think she expected me to have gone postal.

That night, I had a vivid dream about an experience I had in high school. One of my art classmates, Audrey Niffenegger, had asked me to play a character in her senior English project. For those unfamiliar with Audrey’s work, she is an amazingly creative person – writer, artist, and academic. Her first novel, The Time Traveler’s Wife, was later made into a feature film.

When I arrived at the shoot, I quickly realized the location was a high school party at someone’s house. This wasn’t staged – it was a real 70s youth soirée. I found Audrey tucked away on the back porch, and she got me up to speed, describing my role in great detail. I was “playing” Bob the Bird – the star of the production. She also mentioned I had to wear a papier-mâché bird mask with a foot-long yellow beak throughout the evening.

“I simply will not survive this," was my first thought, followed closely by a cold, traitorous sweat.

The gist of the production was that Bob never had fun at parties – and of course, never met anyone. Until that evening. There was also another bird, Lidia, who was beautiful in a feathered, don’t-ask-questions kind of way. Two birds. One glance. Zero emotional self-control. Sparks flew immediately.

Over the next two hours, Audrey took shots of us in our bird masks with her 35-millimeter camera interacting with the rest of the party. It was quite surreal. The hand-colored enlargements were sensational. At the end of the evening, Bob and Lidia drove off together in a pink Cadillac.

I was giddy.

When we arrived back at the house, a varsity football player sauntered up and said, “Damn, bro, I could never have done that!” A popular girl told me, “You did a great job, Bob…you were so cute in that mask!” Minutes later, I chugged my first two high school beers and took the long way home in my mom’s Toyota Celica.

The years we spend feeling like we don’t belong can be paralyzing. I remember coming home after my first day at the firm and telling my wife, “I don’t think I’m good enough to work there.” Twelve years later, I know downsizing isn’t something to take personally – it’s business. We sometimes feel like Bob, completely out of place, but it often takes time to find our flock.

As news of my impending departure hit inboxes, I received heartfelt messages from Frankfurt, Singapore, Belfast, and countless other cities. I shared with my wider network in a farewell email that I was blessed to be part of such a diverse team. My first call was a cry-fest with my colleague Tyrone in Manila. I welled up on a few more with far-flung friends.

A view from 300 East Randolph last fall

Our differences are the very things that bring us closer when we let them. The reality is that being our authentic selves allows us to be grounded, mindful, and at peace. During stressful days at the office, I often stayed late to watch the sunset from 300 East Randolph. The bird’s-eye views from the top floors are stunning. Colleagues would saunter over, and we’d stare at the last few minutes of light in silence.

Today is my last day. I’ve packed up my PC and work phone in a FedEx box and will drop it off shortly. I’m looking forward to driving into the sunset with my wife this

weekend – just not in a pink Cadillac.

About Greenland Sharks

Greenland Sharks is a Chicago men's group who value friendship, experiences, and the long swim. Just a crew that shows up. No speeches. No name tags. No nonsense.

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