Posted on Tue, Jan. 23, 2007

Taking a layoff bullet for telecom after all these years

CHOICE OFFERED: MOVE TO FLORIDA (FOR NOW) OR LOSE JOB

By Jacqueline Levy

It was the Monday of the last pay period of the fiscal year. For the last five years in the wonderful world of telecom, this date has meant one thing: layoffs.

After 20 years with the same company (OK, so I do not embrace change), I wondered if my number was finally up. Last year, not only did I once more dodge a bullet, I dodged multiple rounds from an automatic weapon when half the remaining engineers in my Silicon Valley software shop were ``restructured'' right out the door.

The otherwise sunny morning began with a vague but ominous e-mail appointment notice to the entire department. ``Please attend a meeting to discuss end-of-year plans.'' Probably not the holiday party, we mused.

At the appointed time, we filed into the auditorium. Actually, it was a deserted lab space, the only space big enough for 37 people, its emptiness perhaps just a tad prescient of the upcoming announcement. Standing up front was a very bad sign: our boss's boss's boss, flown in unannounced from his Florida office. Moreover, he was sweating bullets (or were they AK-47 rounds?) in a deliciously cool room. He was taking repeated swigs from a plastic water bottle. Later I found out he had left the weekly post-golf beer bash in order to catch his flight to San Jose, thereby alerting all our Florida colleagues that some portentous event was afoot.

The clincher, however, was the Unknown Woman sitting at the front, unsuccessfully using her briefcase to shield -- what? A stack of envelopes? No doubt our long-awaited bonuses, I'm sure.

Big Boss wasted no time, being practically out of clear liquid. ``Due only to financial considerations, we are consolidating United States development of this product to Florida. Each of you may relocate within six weeks. If you do not choose to relocate, you will be given a severance package.'' I was not particularly surprised, so since I was not busy gasping for air, I had time to fill in more information in my head: ``Due only to financial considerations, we are consolidating United States development of this product to Florida, until we can consolidate worldwide to China, where we are hiring faster than you can say `one-eighth the cost.' Each of you may relocate within six weeks, which we are counting on as highly unlikely since your children just started a new school year. Besides, when we shut down the Florida site in a couple of years, you could never afford to move back to Silicon Valley and you will have to get jobs as smarmy dance partners for elderly snowbirds. If you do not choose to relocate, you will be given a severance package, and thus the company absolves itself of all guilt. Amen.''

Actually, with 20 years of servitude -- um, I mean service -- my package is quite generous. Shall I take Door Number One or Door Number Two? ``Door Number Two! Door Number Two!,'' screamed the studio audience. Also, I could not help but wonder if there is hidden meaning when my company wants to move me to Florida during the height of hurricane season. Of the 37 engineers and managers, only three choose relocation, two because they are within striking range of the retirement benefits.

Big Boss turned the meeting over to Unknown Woman, soon identified as Human Resources Lady, also flown in from Florida. She briefly ran through the logistics of both ``options'' with all the warmth of the curdled Half & Half in the department fridge. Not wishing to overwhelm us with too much information, she essentially told us nothing. Afterward, she handed the envelopes to the managers, who got to hand these fabulous parting gifts out to their staff as well as to themselves. Each letter's personal salutation, ``Attention: John Smith,'' struck me as redundant. I think they already had our attention.

Co-workers in the few remaining local departments, as well as our compatriots in Florida, heard the news with such speed that a whole new branch of physics was discovered. Decently, we were not walked out of the premises, but were told we could leave once we transitioned our work to our managers' satisfaction. Since all the managers and their manager were terribly busy adding up their severance packages plus remaining vacation days, they were easily satisfied.

We spent a couple of days hanging out together and packing our cubicles. I certainly could not part with my tattered copy of ``The C Programming Language'' or my slightly less referenced 1967 vintage edition of ``Telephone Switching Systems,'' both of which followed me to this job so long ago. Nor could I throw out my chipped mug with its permanent coffee stains and the secret code name of some project from the hazy past. But a co-worker removed my 20th anniversary congratulatory letter from my trash can. ``You can't throw this out,'' she chided me. ``This is your life.'' ``No,'' I said, ``It is just part of my life. And the best is yet to come.'' Besides, I already have the wristwatch at home.

JACQUELINE LEVY is a Sunnyvale resident. She wrote this article for the Mercury News.