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If my calculations were correct, he had cut less than half. One person less. He must have changed his mind, or else I had miscounted. I shrugged it off and thought nothing more of it.
Four weeks had passed since the restructure results came out. Now, a palpable sense of emptiness filled the office. Everyone who had lost their job had left. The room was quiet, nothing but the sound of mouse clicks, keyboard taps, and the odd phone ring to fill the void. Empty desks lined the floor. I left my old desk and moved to a secluded corner spot, with a wall behind my back, where I could work in peace and privacy.
Trying to re-establish a sense of normalcy, I began my usual morning routine. I set up my desk, placing my diary, pens, phone, and notepad in their designated positions, and turned my computer on. With that done, I strolled to the break room to make a strong cup of coffee. These days I was okay with going into the break room, as long as I avoided looking at the window.
Only two other staff members occupied the room, one playing a game on his phone while waiting for tea to brew, and the other stashing her Tupperware-stored lunch in the fridge. I used the coffee machine.
When I returned to my desk, hot coffee mug in hand, I tried to open my emails, but a pop-up sign-in form blocked me from further action.
I frowned at the screen, wondering why it didn’t log me in automatically like it usually did. Something to do with the restructure? Maybe the system had been reset. I typed in my email address and password, thinking that would be the end of it. But it wasn’t. An error sound played, and a message appeared under the email address field. “Email ID not found.”
I tried again. Same error message.
No big deal. I’ll just flick a note to IT.
I opened the work chat, certain there would be a quick and easy fix to my dilemma. But there it was again—a bloody sign-in form. I had a funny feeling I wouldn’t be able to log in to this one either, and I was correct.
Now what do I do?
I scanned the room, hoping to see someone else who was having the same issue as me, but everyone seemed fine.
I asked around the office. “Is anyone else having trouble logging in to their accounts?”
No response except for a few people shaking their heads.
“No? I guess it’s only me then.”
A trip to the IT department was in order.
I took the stairs one floor down. Emerging through the glass fire-exit door, I arrived in the corridor between IT and HR and took the left passage.
In the office, rows of white cubicles stood on blue carpet with identical black, ergonomic chairs at each one. A large proportion of seats were empty. Most of the remaining workers wore headphones, and no one gave me so much as a glance.
A sign directed me to the help desk—a long counter at the side of the room, where a surly-looking man stared at the computer in front of him. I approached. “Hello,” I said, trying to get his attention.
He ignored me and continued whatever he was doing on the computer.
“Uh, excuse me.” I looked for a name tag, but he wasn’t wearing one.
He looked up. “How can I help you?” His bored voice was evidence that he had no actual interest in assisting me.
“I’m having trouble logging into my accounts.”
“Which accounts?”
“Email and chat. Probably others too, but that’s all I’ve checked.”
“We switched off the accounts of everyone who got made redundant last night.”
I gaped. “But I didn’t get made redundant.”
“Obviously. Or else you wouldn’t be here, would you? We must have shut yours down by mistake. What’s your name?”
“Amelia Cross.”
“Let’s see…” He typed away. “Everything looks fine on my end. Let’s try resetting your password.”
He typed some more, then wrote something down on a square of blue paper he pulled from the top of a memo cube. He passed it to me. “Here. This should work.”
