All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(30)

I brought the tape back to the edit suite and started combing through the footage. I got pushback from Tim, an editor at the site, about my outline, and I asked him for a meeting. He moved up the time and said we needed to talk right away. I had met Tim before. He was handsome in a bookish way, but also a John Hughes–style jerk—the kind of guy who did push-ups while reading The New Yorker and bragged about it offhand. A real caricature but someone who was above me in the pecking order. We didn’t exactly get along.

I walked in and took a seat on the couch. He stood, stared at me, and said, “I don’t think you should go on the next shoot. I think you should focus on what is in front of you.”

“I can do both.”

“Yeah, well, this is not a suggestion. I am unsure about your ability to manage your time and basically your work ethic overall.” He started to check emails on his phone as he added that he was unsure how long I would be staying at this job.

I was shocked. Sure, you could question my intelligence or storytelling ability, but my work ethic? No way. It was as if he had pinpointed the thing that would throw me the most off-balance. “I am sorry you feel that way. But I’ll be fine.” I turned and left the room, narrowly escaping before the tears arrived.

I sent an email to my dad.


To: David Carr

From: Erin Lee Carr

Date: 09/10/2013

Subject: Ran into some serious trouble at work





I drafted an outline of the soldier doc and I kept feeling intense and harsh criticism of the draft from the features editor (written editor) of the site. He called a meeting today to discuss and get it out in the open and see how I could fix the problem.

He told me he is worried about the piece and ultimately my work at the site and that if past videos are any indication of what my work looks like i wont last long. he is not my boss and is only one person. I spoke with Stephen and he said we had to call a meeting. that i was brought in to do my version of video and this guy is actively causing me to not be able to do that.

How to proceed?



My dad told me to call him at his desk and he talked me down off the ledge. The next day I received this email:


My money, smart money at that, is on you, this week and always.

Making great content is hard. Making change is harder still

Dad



I didn’t go out on any shoots and instead stayed in New York and worked on the documentary. I knew this one needed to be strong for me to hold on to my job. We finished the piece. My gut told me it was good. I slept for what felt like the first time in a week, crawling into bed after sending the link to the powers that be with the finished film and crashing for nine hours. When I woke up there was a text on my phone from Tim, asking to meet to discuss the piece.

I went into the meeting feeling confident. Tim sat across from me at the conference table and looked down at his notes with his Weezer-style glasses: “One note. It lacks depth.” The piece would need to be overhauled. I disagreed vehemently with his review but could see that the writing was already on the wall. My future looked even more uncertain a few days later when the head honcho requested a one-on-one meeting with me. I once again sent my dad a flare. He told me to meet him at the Times and to bring a notebook.

I saw him from a block away, smoking a cig and pacing back and forth.

“Hi, Dolly, how are you?”

“Not good.”

“Listen, they are not going to ax you; it’s far too early for that, but if they do this is what you say.”

I took a deep breath, realizing that what he was about to tell me was going to come from his firmly established middle-aged perspective and not that of a twenty-five-year-old fuck-up. But I knew he had been a fuck-up himself, so I didn’t interrupt him.

“You better think about what you are about to do before it is too late. You brought me here from a competing organization, a job where I was doing well, and you took me out of there. You put me in an organization that had no room for me, one that didn’t even know I was coming. You set me up to fail. You need to give me a second chance, and we can work from there.”

I looked up at him, his eyes so serious and filled with intent. I wondered if I could deliver such a speech and believe it.

“I’m scared.”

“Yep, that’s normal. Do not let them fuck you here, though. And above all else, do not cry. The criers get nothing.”

I nodded while scribbling it all down.

“I am on deadline right now, but I feel certain that it’ll be okay. Call me the second you get out of that meeting.” He kissed me on top of my head, like he used to do when I was little, and said, “Go. Get ’em.”

I walked back to the building with my head held high, propped up by my new plan. Tim smiled at me as I entered what I would later learn was my firing meeting. It took them an hour and a half to let me go. At the end I repeated my dad’s words and added some of my own. Fifteen minutes later, the editor of the site turned to his number two and asked if they could keep me. Number two shook his head incredulously. “No, this is her firing meeting.” We shook hands as I headed out of the conference room. I knew it had to end politely if severance was going to factor in.

I picked up the five blazers I had piled at my desk along with the rest of my shit, put it in a box, and headed to nearby Bryant Park. I called my dad. This time I was sobbing. He told me to come to Jersey, but I told him I needed to go back to my apartment to have access to my computer to strategize next steps. I called him once I got home and we talked for hours that night, drafting an email to my now-former boss with a plea for severance.