The Miss Jobless Chronicles: Burning Bridges

Ed. note: "The Miss Jobless Chronicles" is a weekly series written by Caitlin O'Toole. Read the rest in the series here. When it comes to being professional, everyone always says "don't burn any bridges." It's become a cliche. But I recently learned my lesson. The hard way. I worked for Matt Vincente at a popular tabloid in 2002. Let's call the magazine 'Slime'. He's hailed as a difficult man, and he is, but I don't think he's a bad guy. He's just an asshole. But kind of a likable asshole. There's something charming about his office brutality, his total disregard for people's feelings, and his snarkiness. Matt liked to make me feel like shit about my copy -- and being a Brit, did not understand why I changed his "Britishisms" to words Americans could understand. Like, in one article, he used the phrase "in a fortnight." "Matt," I said, "what does that mean? I'm not sure our readers will get it." "Oh, for Christ's sake," he barked. "Fucking Americans. It's TWO WEEKS." "Well, can I change it to that?" "Oh for fuck's sake, if you must." I also had to change minor things like time punctuation -- in England, they say 11.30 as opposed to 11:30. They also use Dr, Mr and Mrs -- without periods. Which is subtle, but needed to change. "Jesus, what next? You'll want me to change my briefs?" I always brushed his huffiness off as "Oh, that's just Matt," but I think after months of working for him it wore on me a bit. He frequently humiliated me (and others) in front of the rest of the staff. He'd go, "Oooh -- a breaking story -- let's unleash O'Toole." Which seemed like a compliment -- like, as if I was the only one who could cover the story properly. But was really code for "let's breathe down Caitlin's neck until she gets the story done." And breathe down my neck he would. He'd literally take a megaphone and stand by my desk a minute before my deadline and count backwards from 60 OUTLOUD as I maniacally typed, sweating. When I made deadline, I was a hero. If I missed by a millisecond, I was the whole reason our circulation was dropping. Little things that I didn't see when copyediting my own copy -- like commas or apostrophes or periods -- would prompt major public humiliation. "Where the fuck did you go to journalism school, O'Toole? Helen Keller University? There's only one period after that sentence; you put two. Fix it and get it to me yesterday." The key phrase is "copyediting my own copy." Why the hell was I expected to do that? Isn't that what magazines have copy editing departments for? Well, truth be told, the magazine was not doing well and people were doubling up on their duties -- writers were suddenly expected to copy edit, too, because they didn't want to hire any more staff. I laughed off my unpleasant run-ins with Matt -- thinking he must feel like shit about himself to treat others so poorly. This theory of mine, even if it was untrue, got me through all of my difficult times with him. I'd just think to myself, "Oh, he's just really unhappy -- and I'm lucky to have a job, anyway." And every week, when the issue hit the stands, we'd all go out for drinks and Matt would buy me beers, asking me about my life, acting like an old friend. I know, weird. Well, I left Slime on good terms -- the magazine was sold to Hearst and the staff was completely dismantled. Rather that continue on with such a shitty boss, I took my severance (which was generous) and left quietly. Matt was complimentary when we parted ways. "I'll probably be working for you one day," he said, smiling and patting my back. "You're a fucking work horse. Thanks for everything." Well, here comes the burning bridge part -- a very popular newspaper commissioned me to write an expose about the tabloid, and Matt. Hungry for the cash, I did it. I thought -- oh, no one will read it -- I'm totally safe. I totally tore him apart. I called him a "miserable, bipolar jackass" and the worst editor the publishing world has ever seen." Cut to: this week. I get a call from a woman at an executive search firm who's seen this blog. She loves my work, and she's offering me a chance at an $85K per year gig. I'm salivating. "It's at a very popular gossip web site," she goes, seeming to be evasive on purpose. "I see you worked at 'Slime'. What did you think of Matt Vincente?" "Love Matt. He's tough but he's great at what he does. A great editor and a great person." "So happy to hear you say that, because that's who you'll be working for. He's the editor in chief of the site." Gulp. I hope to god Matt has not seen my expose -- but when I don't hear form them for a while, I get nervous. So I check in with an email. Their response? "Matt has found someone more professional and with a better attitude for the job. Good luck in your search." I regret having burned the Matt bridge in more ways than one. First, I feel bad that called him the things that I did. He is, after all, human. Secondly, he's still a big player in media circles. But now, I'll never work for him or anyone he knows again. I wonder if McDonald's is hiring. Caitlin O'Toole is a New York City-based writer and editor. A native of Washington, D.C., she began her illustrious journalism career as a Washington Post paper girl. She has since written and edited for Sesame Workshop Digital, Star Magazine, The National Enquirer, Glamour, People.com, Parade.com and Washington's City Paper. Her work has also been featured on Fox News, ABC, MTV and VH1. She lives in Chelsea with her two cats, Lucy and Ethel. She can be reached for work at her LinkedIn page, and blogs at Shits and Giggles.

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The Miss Jobless Chronicles: Burning Bridges

Rachel Kaufman

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Rachel Kaufman